Chapter Chantel
CHANTEL
Igander at the small velvet box in Faugh's massive hand, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it .
My brain immediately spirals into a hundred different directions at once because that is what my brain does when confronted with emotionally significant moments, and oh god, this is happening, this is actually happening right now in the middle of my paint-splattered studio on a random Thursday afternoon when I am wearing my rattiest overalls and haven't washed my hair in two days.
"Faugh," I manage to squeak out, my voice coming out approximately three octaves higher than normal. "Is that—are you—"
"Breathe, Chantel," he says gently, and there is something so tender in his expression that I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes. He takes another step closer, closing the distance between us, and carefully opens the box.
I blink down at it, my mind grinding to an absolute standstill as the initial shock of the moment collides with reality.
For a fraction of a second, maybe less, my scattered, overactive brain had conjured up the entire narrative: the proposal, the wedding, the carefully curated Pinterest board I definitely have not been secretly maintaining since month three of knowing Faugh.
But then clarity cuts through the haze of anticipation, and I realize what I'm actually looking at.
It is not a ring.
My eyes widen as they focus on the object nestled in the velvet, and a slightly delirious laugh bubbles up from my chest—part relief, part genuine confusion, part something else entirely that I cannot quite name.
The early afternoon light catches the surface, casting warm reflections across my paint-stained fingers.
It is a hair clip.
Not just any hair clip, but the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
It is forged from solid gold, shaped like delicate, interlocking claws that curve elegantly, and etched along each piece are intricate, flowing symbols that I do not recognize but that feel ancient and powerful.
The metalwork is stunning, clearly custom, and it catches the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, glowing warm and rich.
"Faugh," I breathe out, reaching toward it with trembling fingers, but not quite touching it yet. "What is this?"
"It is a claiming gift," he says quietly, his deep voice rumbling through the studio.
"In my clan, when an Orc chooses a mate, he commissions something that is uniquely suited to them.
Something that will be worn every day, that will mark them as his.
" He pauses, and swallows. "I had this made for you three weeks ago, the day after you came back to me from your friend's apartment.
The runes are Orcish. They translate to protection, devotion, and forever. "
I press my hand over my mouth, tears spilling freely down my cheeks now, because of course he did this.
Of course he saw me wrestling with my disaster of a hair clip every single morning, saw me constantly shoving stray curls out of my face while I painted, and thought, I will fix that for her.
I will give her something beautiful and strong that will hold her chaos together.
"The jeweler attempted to sell me a diamond ring," Faugh continues, his tone turning wry. "I explained to him that you would lose a ring within approximately four days, likely while elbow-deep in paint thinner or underneath the couch cushions. He found this extremely amusing."
A laugh bubbles out of me, watery and choked. "You're not wrong. I would absolutely lose a ring."
"I know." He reaches up with his free hand, gently brushing away the tears on my cheek with his thumb.
"So I had this made instead. Something practical.
Something you will use every day." His amber eyes lock onto mine, intense and unwavering.
"Something that will remind you, every single morning when you clip your hair back, that you are mine and I am yours. "
I let out a shaky breath, staring up at this enormous, terrifying, impossibly thoughtful Orc who somehow knows me better than I know myself. "It's perfect," I whisper. "Faugh, it's the most perfect thing anyone has ever given me."
"Then you accept it?" he asks, and there is a flicker of vulnerability in his expression that makes my heart clench. "You accept me, permanently, as your mate?"
"Yes," I say immediately, fiercely, reaching up to fist my hands in the front of his perfectly pressed henley and pull him down toward me.
"Yes, obviously yes, you giant ridiculous neat freak.
I love you. I am completely, hopelessly in love with you, and I want to spend the rest of my life making messes that you get to reorganize. "
The smile that breaks across his face is stunning, pure and unguarded, and he sets the box carefully on the cleanest corner of my worktable before scooping me up effortlessly, lifting me so we are eye level.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck, and kiss him with everything I have, pouring every ounce of love and gratitude and joy into it.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathless, he sets me gently back on my feet and retrieves the clip from the box. "May I?" he asks quietly.
I nod, turning around and pulling the current disaster of a plastic claw clip out of my hair, letting the tangled mess of curls tumble down my back.
I feel his fingers, impossibly careful despite their size, gather up the strands, smoothing them back with tenderness.
He twists my hair up into a neat, secure bun and slides the golden clip into place, adjusting it until it sits perfectly.
I reach up to touch it, feeling the cool metal and the slight weight of it, and turn back to face him. "How does it look?"
"Like you were always meant to wear it," he says simply, and the raw honesty in his voice makes me fall in love with him all over again.
Two months later, I stand in the kitchen of our apartment, surveying the absolute chaos with a mixture of pride and mild panic.
"Faugh!" I call out toward the living room. "I think we might have bought too much food!"
"We did not buy too much food," his deep voice rumbles back. "We bought the precise amount required to feed twelve adults for a three-hour dinner party, accounting for dietary restrictions and preferences."
"Babe, there are like four different cheese boards."
"Three cheese boards and one charcuterie board," he corrects, appearing in the kitchen doorway.
He is wearing dark slacks and a charcoal henley that stretches magnificently across his chest, and his hair is pulled back in a neat braid.
He surveys the kitchen with a critical eye, then moves immediately to adjust the arrangement of wine bottles on the counter.
"And the charcuterie board requires additional salami. "
I watch him, biting back a grin, as he meticulously rearranges the perfectly fine salami arrangement into something even more geometrically pleasing.
The golden claiming clip holds my hair back securely, and I touch it briefly, a habit I have developed over the past eight weeks.
Every time I do, I feel a little flutter of warmth .
Tonight is our first official dinner party as a couple, a deliberately chaotic mix of my artsy, disaster-prone human friends and a handful of Faugh's former bouncer colleagues.
I have been nervously excited about it for two weeks, while Faugh has been calmly, methodically preparing like he is orchestrating a military operation.
The apartment looks incredible. Faugh has spent the past three days deep-cleaning every surface until it gleams, and I contributed by hastily shoving all my art supplies into the studio and closing the door.
We compromised on the decor by mixing his preference for clean, minimalist lines with my love of colorful chaos, resulting in a space that somehow feels both sophisticated and warm.
"They're going to love you," I say, moving to stand beside him and bumping my hip against his leg. "You know that, right?"
"I am not concerned about whether they love me," Faugh says mildly, adjusting a cluster of grapes. "I am concerned about whether the brie reaches optimal room temperature before serving."
"You're absolutely ridiculous," I say, shaking my head with affectionate exasperation. "I can't believe you actually counted them."
"I did not merely count them, Chantel. I organized them. You purchased seventeen different varieties of crackers. Some featured herbs. Others were salted. A few were inexplicably sweet."
"They had different flavor profiles!" I protest, throwing my hands up in mock defensiveness. "I couldn't possibly choose between them! What if someone came who didn't like rosemary? Or what if someone else had a passionate opinion about sea salt? I was being considerate!"
"You were panicking in the grocery store," he observes mildly, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.
"That too," I admit, unable to suppress my smile. "But in my defense, hosting is stressful, and you were being very calm and organized about everything, which somehow made me more nervous, not less."
He glances down at me, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in that subtle, devastating almost-smile that I love. "I know. That is why I organized them by flavor profile and salt content."
I stretch up on my toes to kiss his jaw. "Have I mentioned today that I love you?"
"Twice," he says, wrapping one massive arm around my waist and pulling me against his side. "Once this morning when I brought you coffee, and once this afternoon when I removed the dried paint from your favorite brush."
"Well, third time's the charm. I love you."
"I love you as well, Chantel." He presses a kiss to the top of my head, careful not to disturb the clip. "Even when you panic-purchase seventeen boxes of crackers."