19. Willa
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WILLA
We didn’t have mating marks. We’d never even discussed it.
“We haven’t completed the ritual yet,” Traig said, his voice steady despite the panic in his eyes.
“Why not?”
Silence crashed through the room.
“We’re waiting,” I said.
The scribe’s gaze pinned me in place. “Waiting for what?”
“Until we’re married.” The words tumbled out fast. “Humans have their own traditions. We—I wanted both. The orc bonding and a human ceremony. That’s quite common.”
The scribe didn’t comment, just picked up his pen and made another note.
Fred bumped into my shoulder, grumbling low in his throat. Amanda’s crown flickered between yellow and orange.
“This should be enough, though I’ll still observe you today,” the scribe said, closing his ledger, putting his pen in the pocket of his robe.
“I’ll be leaving Bramble Creek tonight and will return to the kingdom tomorrow.
The Council will think about this deeply.
You’ll have an answer within the turning of one moon. ”
“A month?” The words burst out. “We have to wait a month?”
“The Council does not rush choices about lineage and bonding.”
“Will Traig’s parents be part of the decision?” I asked.
The scribe stood, tucking the ledger under his arm. “The House of Valtresh initiated the inquiry. They will be consulted.”
Traig’s face went carefully blank, the same expression he wore when he was reorganizing supply rooms at two in the morning because his feelings were too big to name.
Everything we’d done might not matter. His parents may have already decided he’d failed. The scribe’s report might be words on paper that wouldn’t change anything.
But we couldn’t say that or accuse the Council of already knowing their answer.
So we nodded and thanked him and watched him gather his things.
“I’ll see you both at the facility soon, I assume,” he said at the door. He left, his footsteps fading outside. His truck roared to life, and he drove toward the rescue operation.
We still sat in Traig’s kitchen.
“A month,” I said.
Traig’s jaw worked. “Yes.”
“And your parents get to weigh in.”
“Yes.”
I turned to face him. “You need to explain some more about why you read my notebook. It’s just us here. No scribe to write things down and judge you.”
His jaw worked before he answered. “I saw it on the table after you fell asleep.”
“You could’ve waited. Asked me in the morning.”
“I could have.” He met my eyes. “But I was afraid of what you’d say if I asked. Whether you’d tell me it was all for show.”
The vulnerability in his admission made my chest crack open.
“How much did you read?” I asked, softer now.
“Only a few lines, but enough to know you’ve been thinking about me too.” He scraped his tusks across his lip. “You wrote about the coffee. The cookies. How I trusted you about the bloombacks.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Those were private thoughts.”
“They were.” He didn’t look away. “And I shouldn’t have read them without permission. But Willa—” His voice dropped. “I needed to know if you were only here because I needed you, or if you wanted to be here. I don’t want this to feel forced for either of us.”
My throat pulled tight. He’d given me pretty much the same answer in front of the scribe, but framed differently.
“And now you know,” I said.
“Now I know you’ve been falling too,” he said, it like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “But I took that from you instead of letting you give it.”
His shoulders curled forward.
“I violated your trust,” he said. “I read something private. Without asking. Without permission.”
I’d been so caught up in what he’d found that I hadn’t let myself feel what he’d done.
He’d gone through my things. Read my private thoughts. Learned about my feelings before I’d chosen to tell him.
“You did,” I said.
His hands twitched at his sides. “I’m sorry. Terribly sorry. I keep messing things up, don’t I?”
I wanted to stay angry. But the raw, afraid look on his face made it harder.
“I would’ve told you eventually,” I said quietly. “When I was ready.”
“I should’ve trusted that you’d share when you wanted to. Or not, if that was how you felt. I truly am sorry.”
The apology was real. He wasn’t defensive or deflecting. Just being honest.
“Why didn’t you ask?” I asked, curious now instead of upset.
“Because asking meant risking a no.” He nodded slowly. “And I’ve spent my entire life being told no in ways that didn’t require asking. My parents’ no was in their silence. In their absence. They held me to standards I couldn’t see and found me lacking before I’d even tried.”
Heat flushed my skin.
“So when I saw your notebook,” he said, “I took instead of asking. Because taking meant I’d know. And knowing meant I could stop pretending this was just for the scribe. That you were only here to help me pass.”
I studied his face. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands had curled at his sides like he was bracing for me to leave.
He’d violated my trust, yes. But he’d done it because he was terrified of losing something that mattered. That was different from Derek’s careless assumptions. Different from someone who’d never bothered to notice in the first place.
“My ex never asked either,” I said slowly, working through the distinction as I spoke.
“I want to be better than him. So much better. I promise not to take from you again. I’ll ask and I’ll wait for you to choose what you share.”
The honesty in his voice made my insides unravel.
“Derek just assumed I’d be fine with whatever he chose to do or say. I didn’t need anything because I never said I did. I let him control everything because at least being needed felt like being wanted.”
Traig’s expression cracked.
“But you’re not him,” I said. “You noticed before I asked. You paid attention to what I wanted, not just what I could do for you. Until you didn’t. How do I know the next time you’re scared or uncertain, you won’t go through my things to find answers instead of asking me?”
“You don’t.” The answer was honest. “You can’t know. Not for certain. But I’m asking you to trust me anyway. To let me prove I can wait. That I can ask instead of take.”
I waited until his eyes met mine. “I’m not saying no.”
His breath hitched.
“I’m still here,” I said. “My things sit beside yours all over this house. I’m still choosing you. I’m still falling for you. But I’m telling you now, out loud, because I want you to hear it from me. Not from words I wrote when I was alone.”
“I’m falling for you too,” he said.
The words settled between us. This wasn’t quite forgiveness but something close. An understanding that we were both learning how to choose each other instead of protecting ourselves.
He’d taken something he shouldn’t have. But he’d also been honest about why. And he’d listened when I told him it was wrong.
That counted.
The door opened, and the scribe stepped inside. “I’m waiting.”
Traig got up and took the dishes to the sink. We could wash them later.
We gathered our things. I grabbed my notebook from the kitchen table and stuffed it into my tote bag.
Fred and Amanda followed us to Traig’s truck.
I’d told him how his reading the notebook made me feel. He’d apologized without making excuses. We’d named the hurt and moved through it instead of around it. Maybe that was what real looked like. Not perfect or without mistakes. Just honest enough to face them together.
The drive to the main building took less than five minutes. Traig’s cottage sat on the property, close enough that we could have walked if not for the scribe’s vehicle trailing behind us like a dark shadow.
Fred had settled between us on the bench seat, Amanda still on his back. Her crown flickered between all sorts of colors, never settling on one.
I laid my notebook on my lap and turned to a blank page, writing quickly.
Traig read my notebook. He knows what I’ve written.
I paused.
I’m… alright with that because instead of destroying something between us, it built a bridge we can both cross when we’re ready.
I was worried he’d say this was a mistake, that pretending to be mated was easier than actually wanting someone who listed good things and wrote his name down in a notebook.
Now I know the truth.
He wants me as much as I do him.
It’s a start, and I suspect it will one day be wonderful.
No, it’s wonderful now.
I closed the notebook and tucked my pen into my pocket.
Traig’s hand found mine between us, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. This gesture wasn’t for the scribe. He couldn’t see us here. This was just Traig, choosing to touch me, to offer comfort when everything was uncertain.
When we arrived at the facility, we went inside.
The day stretched ahead like taffy.
The scribe observed how we moved around the reception desk. Who brought whose coffee or tea. The way Traig’s hand found my lower back when we walked through the building together.
Brovish caught my eye across the break room at lunch, his expression asking a question I couldn’t answer.
Laina squeezed my shoulder on her way past.
Drogar grinned like he knew something we didn’t.
By the time the scribe finally left, the sun was sinking toward the tree line, and my shoulders ached from holding myself together.
We left Fred and Amanda in the entryway and drove back to the cottage in silence.
Inside, Traig locked the door behind us. The cottage felt different after our talk. More open and clear.
“He’s gone,” I said, dropping my tote bag by the door, hanging up my jacket on the peg beside his.
“Yes.”
“We don’t have to keep pretending.”
His hands tightened at his sides. “Is that what we’ve been doing, or have we been testing to see if this could be real?”
I studied him, finding him holding himself carefully, stiff and with a touch of the stoicism I’d seen when we first met. His tusks kept scraping his upper lip.
He was guarding himself for…rejection.
“I’m not pretending,” I said. “I haven’t been pretending since the moment you moved that message pad back and smiled like you couldn’t help yourself.”
“Neither have I,” he said.
“I’m still hurt you read without asking,” I said. The honesty felt important. “But I understand why you did it, and I accept it.”
“That’s fair.” His hands came up slowly, giving me time to pull away. His palms cupped my face. “I’ll do better. In everything.”
“I know you will.” And I did know. Because he’d listened when I told him it mattered. Because he’d apologized without deflecting. Because everything about the way he touched me—careful and asking permission—proved he meant it.
“I’ve been falling since we met,” he said quietly. “I’m still finding the right words to say it.”
The confession undid me. All the hurt and uncertainty and fear dissolved into something warmer.
I pulled him down and kissed him.
His mouth opened, and one hand slid into my hair while the other pressed against my lower back, pulling me closer.
This wasn’t like the other kisses. Those had been careful, tentative, testing.
This felt like drowning. This was every cookie I’d baked at midnight.
Each coffee he’d made before I arrived. The labels in the supply room and the times I’d reorganized a drawer and he’d left it alone after.
Weeks of circling each other compressed into this moment where we finally stopped pretending we weren’t exactly where we wanted to be.
My fingers twisted in his hair, tugging the tie loose so his hair fell around his shoulders.
He turned and walked me backward until my shoulders hit the wall beside the door, his body pressing against mine.
“Willa,” he breathed against my mouth.
“Don’t stop,” I said. “I need you.”