4. Jagger #2
Among my people, a newly bonded mate demonstrates their worth through the providing of food.
It's an ancient tradition, one that dates back to the days when Orcish tribes roamed the Broken Steppes and survival depended on a mate's ability to hunt and provide.
My grandmother used to tell stories of my grandfather presenting her with the heart of a brick-bear on the morning after their bonding ceremony, still warm and dripping with blood, and how she'd known in that moment that he would keep her fed and protected for the rest of their lives.
I don't have access to a brick-bear, obviously. But I do have the supplies I packed in my duffel bag, traditional Orcish provisions that I always carry when I'm traveling for a job, and surely the principle is the same even if the execution is somewhat less impressive.
I move quietly into Sabine's small kitchen, Meatball padding along behind me with curious interest, and begin unpacking my supplies onto her pristine white countertops.
The meat comes first, thick slabs of cured beast-flank that I'd been saving for trail rations, their surface dark with spices and still faintly damp with the blood that's been drawn out during the curing process.
Then the marrow bones, heavy and dense, meant to be cracked open and eaten raw for their rich, nourishing fat.
Then the blood sausages, coiled in neat spirals and glistening with a deep crimson sheen that seems almost jewel-like in the morning light.
It occurs to me, as I arrange these items into an artful display, that I should perhaps prepare them in some way rather than presenting them in their current state.
But traditional Orcish breakfast is meant to be eaten raw, the nutrients and enzymes preserved in their most natural form, and cooking the meat would be an insult to the animal that provided it and to the mate receiving the gift.
The spread looks magnificent, if I do say so myself.
A bounty of protein and sustenance, arranged with care on Sabine's elegant countertops, the deep reds and browns of the meat creating a striking contrast against the white marble surface.
Meatball makes an appreciative gurgling sound from his position near my feet, his tentacles twitching toward the nearest blood sausage, and I push him gently away with one foot.
"Not for you."
He gurgles again, more mournfully this time, but settles back onto his haunches to wait.
I hear Sabine's bedroom door open about twenty minutes later, followed by the sound of soft footsteps padding toward the kitchen, and I straighten my posture, squaring my shoulders and trying to look like the kind of provider who would be worthy of a mate like her.
My arms have started to glow again, faintly, responding to my nervous anticipation, and I force them to dim through sheer willpower as Sabine rounds the corner and stops dead in her tracks.
The sound she makes is not quite a scream.
It's more of a strangled gasp, high-pitched and horrified, and her face goes through a series of expressions that I can't quite parse, from shock to disgust to something that might be fear and then back to disgust again.
Her hand flies to her mouth, and she takes several rapid steps backward, nearly tripping over Meatball, who has moved to greet her with his usual enthusiasm.
"What," she says through her fingers, "is that?"
"Breakfast." I gesture at the spread with what I hope is welcoming pride. "Traditional Orcish morning meal. The beast-flank is especially good—it's been cured with salt and bloodroot spices for optimal flavor, and the marrow bones are fresh from a cave-ox I traded for last month. Very nutritious."
Sabine's eyes move slowly across the countertop, taking in the raw meat, the blood sausages, the faint red stains that have begun to seep into the white marble surface.
"There's blood. On my counters. There's blood on my counters, Jagger."
"The sausages leaked a little during transport. I can clean it up."
"There's raw meat. In my kitchen. On my counters. At seven in the morning."
"Among my people, a mate provides sustenance for—"
"I can't." Sabine holds up one hand, cutting me off, and takes another step backward.
"I can't do this. I can't have raw meat and blood and organs on my countertops.
I have a system. I have routines. I eat oatmeal for breakfast, Jagger.
Oatmeal. With exactly two tablespoons of brown sugar and a quarter cup of fresh berries and a precise splash of oat milk that I measure using a designated measuring cup. "
I look at her, trying to process this information. "You... measure your oat milk?"
"Yes. Every morning. Because that's what normal people do. Normal people don't wake up to find animal carcasses spread across their kitchen like some kind of sacrificial altar."
"It's not a carcass, it's cured beast-flank—"
"I don't care what it's called! I care that there's blood soaking into my marble countertops, which cost me three months' salary, and I care that my kitchen smells like a butcher shop, and I care that I'm going to have to bleach everything at least four times before I can even consider preparing food in here again! "
She's not impressed. She's not touched by my attempt to provide for her. She's horrified, disgusted, and possibly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and it's entirely my fault for failing to consider that humans might have different breakfast traditions than Orcs.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly, and I mean it more than I've meant anything in a long time.
"I didn't think. I just wanted to... I wanted to show you that I could take care of you.
That even though this situation is strange and unwanted, you wouldn't go hungry or be neglected while we're forced to live together. "
Sabine's expression shifts, the horror softening into something more complicated, and she lowers her hand from her mouth slowly.
Her eyes meet mine, and for a long moment, neither of us speaks.
Meatball peeks out from behind my legs, his tentacles still curled tight with anxiety, and the morning light catches the faint glow of my runes, betraying the depth of my embarrassment.
"That's..." Sabine pauses, seeming to struggle for words. "That's actually... surprisingly thoughtful. In a deeply horrifying and completely impractical way."
"I can learn to make oatmeal."
"Can you?"
"How hard can it be?"
She laughs, a short, startled sound that seems to surprise her as much as it surprises me.
"Okay. Okay, fine. You clean up the... the meat situation...
and I'll show you how to make oatmeal. We can compromise.
That's what people who are forced to live together for ninety days do, right? They compromise."
The relief that floods through me is almost embarrassing in its intensity. "I can compromise. I'm very good at adapting to new situations."
"The last twelve hours suggest otherwise, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt."
She moves past me to retrieve cleaning supplies from beneath the sink, and I begin carefully repacking the meat into its containers, trying to minimize the spread of blood across her precious countertops.
Meatball ventures out from behind my legs to investigate, his tentacles reaching toward the nearest blood sausage, and I push him away gently while Sabine isn't looking.
We work in silence for several minutes, her scrubbing at the marble with a focus and intensity that borders on obsessive, me wrapping the meat in fresh cloth and storing it in the back of her refrigerator where she hopefully won't have to look at it.
By the time the counters are clean—or at least clean enough to satisfy her standards—the kitchen smells of lemon cleaning solution rather than raw meat, and Sabine's shoulders have lost some of their rigid tension.
"Oatmeal," she says, pulling a container of oats from her carefully organized pantry. "Lesson one."
The next thirty minutes pass in something approaching domestic peace.
Sabine walks me through her precise oatmeal-making routine, explaining the importance of water temperature and stirring technique and the exact ratio of oats to liquid that produces optimal consistency.
I listen with a focus I usually reserve for tracking dangerous fugitives, committing every detail to memory, determined to get this right even if I fail at everything else.
Meatball curls up in the corner, watching us with his many eyes, and the morning sunlight fills the kitchen with warmth that seeps into my bones and makes me feel, for just a moment, like this might actually be okay.
The oatmeal turns out reasonably well, if slightly lumpy.
Sabine doesn't complain, though, just adds her precisely measured brown sugar and berries and oat milk, and we sit across from each other at her small dining table, eating in companionable silence while Meatball makes hopeful gurgling sounds at our feet.
It's peaceful. It's domestic. It's nothing like my usual mornings, which tend to involve cold rations eaten on the move and the constant vigilance of a man who has made many dangerous enemies.
Which is why I'm completely unprepared when the living room window explodes inward.
Glass showers across Sabine's beige carpet, and a figure tumbles through the shattered frame, massive and snarling and covered in familiar tattoos that mark him as a member of the Bloodfang Syndicate.
He hits the ground in a roll, coming up with a serrated blade in each hand and murder in his yellow eyes, and his gaze locks onto me with the intensity of a predator who has finally cornered his prey.
"Ironjaw," he growls. "You took my brother. Now I take your mate."