15. Willa
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WILLA
Drogar found me at my desk, Fred grumbling on my shoulder, Amanda’s crown flaring orange.
“The scribe is here,” he said. “In Traig’s office.”
I was moving before I’d decided to do so. Down the hallway. My shoes loud on the tile.
I heard Traig’s voice through the door.
“I don’t have—”
No.
I couldn’t let them do this to him.
I stomped inside and announced we were mated. There. Done. Just like that, I had a…husband? No, mate. Traig’s mate.
Now I stood beside him with my pulse doing crazy things. I couldn’t look at him, afraid I’d see regret or irritation on his face because I’d made a massive decision for both of us without asking.
But the alternative was worse.
My hand was still wrapped around his arm. His pulse under my palm was going faster than it should. Or maybe that was my pulse. I couldn’t tell.
They’d drag him back to the kingdom. He’d mate with someone his parents approved of, a person who’d never make him cookies or reorganize his filing systems or kiss him in an empty entryway while Fred grumbled overhead.
My stomach twisted at the thought.
The scribe’s dark robes rustled as he turned and looked me up and down, his expression unchanging. “I am Scribe Kelthren of the Third Registry.” He gestured to the chairs. “Both of you should sit.”
Traig stepped out into the hallway and brought back a second chair. He set it in front of his desk, and I lowered myself into the other.
The scribe settled into Traig’s desk chair and studied the ledger open on Traig’s desk.
“Tell me about your bond,” he said, lifting his pen over a blank page.
My mouth went dry.
Traig’s hand found mine, his palm warm. He laced his fingers through mine and held tight.
“We work together,” I said. “Here at the Creature Rescue League. I’m the office manager. Traig handles operations.”
The scribe made a note. “How did you meet?”
“During the interview process,” Traig said, his voice steady.
“And how long have you worked here?” the scribe asked me.
I couldn’t lie. This male probably had resources to discover information like this. We needed to be very careful.
“Almost three weeks,” I said, then added without thinking, “but we both knew from the moment we met. I felt like I’d been waiting for him.”
“I see.” The scribe frowned but wrote down the information. “What sign did you have that told you that you were mates?” His gaze moved between us.
My heart kicked against my ribs. If only we’d had a few minutes to come up with a shared story.
“I knew she was mine when she moved a message pad,” Traig said.
The scribe’s pen paused. “Explain.”
“I have a slight issue with being in control. When she moved the message pad and I moved it back and she didn’t comment on that fact, I knew we were meant to be together.” He sounded heartfelt and honest. He was either a very good actor or…
If anything, Traig was upfront and honest. He wasn’t a great liar.
His thumb brushed across my knuckles, making my skin tingle.
The scribe wrote everything down.
“Let’s discuss your daily routines,” the scribe said, not looking up from his ledger. “How do you share your days?”
We didn’t share days. Not the way bonded mates did. We shared coffee he made before I arrived. Meetings. Cookies I baked in my apartment while thinking about him.
“Traig has been very patient with me since I took this new job,” I said. “He explains everything, which means we spend a lot of time at my desk together.”
“How about your evenings?” the scribe asked.
“We talk about the creatures,” I said, improvising. “Their progress. Which ones are ready for placement. How the adoptions went. Our lives. Hopes and dreams. That sort of stuff.”
“We cook and eat together,” Traig said. Not quite a lie. We had cooked and eaten together in the break room.
The scribe set his pen down and placed his folded hands on top of the ledger.
“Let me ask something a little more…personal.” His eyes shifted between us. “When did you first share a bed?”
My stomach dropped.
Traig’s hand tightened on mine.
“The night we decided we were mated,” Traig said, his voice steady despite the lie.
“And before that?”
I swallowed hard. “Before that, we were—”
“Colleagues,” the scribe said. “Yes. You said that already.” He leaned forward.
“So you’ve worked together for weeks. Alone in this facility.
Late hours, I assume. Shared meals. Regular meetings.
” His gaze pinned me in place. “And you never shared intimacy until the exact moment you decided you were mates?”
Skepticism dripped from every word.
“That’s correct,” Traig said.
“Orcs know immediately,” the scribe said. “The moment we meet our mate, we know. Yet you both worked here for weeks without acknowledging this bond?” He tilted his head. “Why the delay?”
My pulse throbbed in my throat.
“Because I was afraid,” I said.
Traig turned toward me, his eyes a bit wide.
“Afraid of what?” the scribe asked.
“Of wanting someone this much when I’d just started a new job. This was a new life. I’d moved here to start over and then I met him and—” My voice cracked. “I knew if I let myself want him, I’d never be able to stop.”
“And you?” he asked Traig. “Were you also afraid?”
Traig ground his teeth together. “Yes.”
“Of what?”
“Of needing her.” The words rasped through the room.
“I’ve spent my life not needing anyone. I’ve never been comfortable relying on others.
Then she walked in and reorganized a file cabinet drawer and I—” He glanced down at the floor before looking right at the other male.
“I couldn’t go back to how it was before. ”
The scribe’s pen moved across the page. His gaze shifted to me. “You say you feared wanting him. But wanting is not the same as having. What did you fear would happen if you let yourself have him?”
My throat tightened. Traig’s thumb stilled on my knuckles.
The scribe was right. Wanting was safe. Wanting was something I did from a distance, in my notebook, in batches of cookies I could pretend meant nothing.
“I was afraid he’d notice me the way I noticed him,” I said. The words came slowly. “That he’d see all the things I needed and decide I was too much work.”
Traig’s hand tightened around mine, but I couldn’t look at him.
“I’ve spent my life making myself useful,” I said.
“Making myself easy to get along with. If I could anticipate what someone needed before they asked, they wouldn’t have to think about what I needed.
And if they never thought about what I needed, then I’d never have to find out I wasn’t worth the effort. ”
The scribe’s expression didn’t change.
“But Traig noticed anyway,” I said. “He made my coffee before I arrived. He brought Fred to my desk because he knew I’d been charmed.
He remembers everything about me.” I finally looked at Traig.
His eyes were dark and steady on mine. “And I was terrified, because if he really saw me and then decided I wasn’t enough… ”
The scribe set down his pen. “You feared abandonment.”
“I feared confirmation,” I said. “That I’d been right all along.”
The room went very quiet.
“What does she take in her tea?” the scribe finally asked.
“She drinks her tea without anything in it,” Traig said.
“But she prefers coffee.” The corner of his mouth twitched upward before smoothing.
“With two creams. No sweet dust—sweetener. She drinks it from a blue mug if it’s available.
She likes it slightly cooler than most humans. Adds ice if she’s let it sit too long.”
“What does he do when he’s stressed?” the scribe asked me.
“He labels things that don’t need labels,” I said. “He reorganizes supply rooms at two in the morning. His tusks scrape across his upper lip when he’s thinking or worried. And when he’s really overwhelmed, he makes lists on his tablet that he never uses. He just needs to see the structure.”
“How does he sleep?” he asked me.
I blinked. “What?”
“His sleeping position. If you share a bed, you’d know this.”
My mouth went dry.
I had no idea how Traig slept. I’d never seen him sleep. We’d kissed twice and disagreed about filing systems, but I’d never watched him sleep.
Traig’s thumb moved across my knuckles in what could be reassurance or warning.
“On his back,” I said, because it felt right. “Very still. Like even in sleep he’s trying not to take up too much space.”
Traig’s breath hitched.
The scribe’s pen paused. “And does this bother you?”
“Yes,” I said. “Because I want him to take up space. I want him to sprawl and steal blankets and wake me up at odd hours because he can’t sleep. I want proof he’s there and real and mine.”
The words spilled out before I could stop them.
Traig’s hand trembled in mine.
The scribe closed his ledger and looked up.
“I must see where you live. I’ll continue my assessment tonight and tomorrow morning,” he said. “I want to document your shared living patterns.”