Page 55 of Secret Twins for the Orc

***

We ate what was left of the spaghetti after the kids were done, plus the two whole charcoal grilled chickens I’d brought from down the road—one and a half for myself, since I wasn’t that hungry tonight, and a thigh for her. Then we cleaned the kitchen together and put the kids to bed.

She’d told them to “kiss daddy goodnight,” without any warning, without preamble or explanation, and they’d complied without hesitation and gone to sleep with smiles.

Then she’d laughed at my shocked face, and I’d nearly pushed her against the wall in that very moment, kids or no kids in the room.

I didn’t want to leave, so I pulled out the bottle of red I’d also bought, poured us both a glass, and now we sit on the couch together as she finishes her wine and I realize how late it’s getting. I still don’t want to go. I never want to leave her side again.

“Well, anyway, it’s getting late,” she says as she puts her empty glass on the coffee table and turns a mischievous smile my way. “Get out of my house.”

I snort and raise my brows. I have half a mind to just say no and see what she’ll do, but instead I rest my elbow on the back of the couch and give her a considering look.

We’re both sitting on the opposite side of her longest couch, turned to face each other, me with my ankle resting on my knee and her with shoes off and both feet tucked under her. I’m a little larger than the average human her furniture is designed for, so despite it being a three-seater, my knee almost brushes against hers.

“Before I go,” I say, as I consider the small space between us, “I have a question. I want you to promise to be both honest, and open minded.”

“No butt stuff,” she says without skipping a beat, and I have to hold my breath for half a second to control the way my brain immediately wants to spiral.

“Ella,” I growl, and now my eyes are raking over her every curve without my consent.

She laughs, stretching back against the couch as she shifts her feet to tuck her toes under my thigh. “Sorry, sorry, noany of that stuff, of course. That’s what I meant to say.”

She’s teasing me. She knows it, I know it, and she knows I know it.

I drop a hand to rest over her bare ankle, curling my fingers possessively. A million suggestive responses—or better yet, a command for her to come and sit on my lap—run through my mind, but I take a slow breath and clear them away.

“This is important to me,” I say instead, and her expression softens.

“Alright, sorry.”

“Do you believe in Fate?”

Her smile turns confused, and she tilts her head, her shiny brown locks brushing gently against her shoulders right where my lips want to run. “How do you mean?”

“Are you aware of the fae understanding of Fate, as a higher power?”

Her brows crease, and she nods. “Vaguely. It’s a sort of deity, right?”

“Sort of.” Her toes shift beneath me, and I begin to circle my thumb against her warm skin. “Each race has their own belief system, with distinct deities and cultures. But The Fates are above them all, a sort of unifying power, indistinct but stronger than all the rest. Even those who don’t believe in the old gods anymore know that Fate, or The Fates—however you want to think about it—are real on the deepest level. It’s where our magic comes from. It’s the moving pieces of the universe, the power behind everything. Are you still with me?”

“Yes,” she says quietly, and her eyes are warm and content as she listens.

“Have you heard of Fated Mates?” My heart beats steadily against my chest as I watch her watching me. “Fated Matches?”

“No,” she says slowly, “but I can guess what that means.”

“Matches that were always Fated to be. Two people who have come together by design.”

Her scent changes as she remains silent, shifting minutely from her baseline towards the slightly acrid twang of fear, although nothing shows on her face. As if she knows already where I’m heading with my speech.

When she withdraws her foot from me, I ache to reach out to her again, but force myself to remain still. Calm and relaxed against the couch.

She clears her throat and looks away, dropping her feet and leaning forward to fiddle with her empty wine glass. “What was your question?”

“I want to know what you felt when you first met me,” I say quietly. “In your body, what did you feel? What do you feel, even now?”

From her profile I see her brows scrunch.

---