Page 38 of Orc's Pretend Mate

I move around the house gathering supplies. There isn’t much to take. Phoebe follows, helping as she can. Once I have what few supplies I can think to take in my satchel, I stop moving and stare at her.

“We ready?” she asks.

I have never before felt like I do now. Uncertainty that creates a nervous edge. I do not want to take her with me. What I am going to do is every bit as likely to get me killed and if that happens, they will take her too. If the Maulavi take her they will torture her for whatever reasons they have before they kill her.

I cannot let that happen.

I clear my throat and push the dark thoughts away. Leaving her here is an even worse option. At least if she is with me I can protect her, or have the best chance to. Steeling myself I take a breath and hold it.

“Yes,” I say, exhaling slowly. Putting my hand on my waist I realize I forgot my knife. “No. One moment.”

I walk over to the chest next to the door and undo the bindings. When I lift the lid my mudrosti is on top. Staring, I thought I’d put it away better, but there it lies. The carving of my dragoste face up, staring at me with admonishment.

Eyes open my dear fool. Look, don’t think.

A saying she used often. It’s as if she is here, whispering in my ear. My heart skips as pressure builds in my head. I run my finger over her as I inhale sharply.

“Are you okay?” Phoebe asks.

She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes. Memories threaten to flood over the now. I bow my head. Instead of resisting, I let them wash over. Memories of the good and the bad times pass through in between the beatings of my heart. When they are done, I am here, with Phoebe.

“Yes,” I say, my throat tight, making the word more growly then I intended.

She doesn’t pull back or startle. Instead she tightens her grip on my shoulder and kneels at my side. I worry about her looking at my mudrosti and seeing my mate. I don’t know what I expect but whatever I think it might be, it’s not what she does.

She leans a little closer, not too much, but there is no doubt she’s studying the carving of my mate on the mudrosti. She tilts her head and purses her lips.

“May I ask,” she says, speaking soft, moving her hand from my shoulder to rest on my thigh, “what this is? Is that okay?”

I close my eyes as too many conflicting emotions crash one into another. The fact she asked instead of demanding or assuming. Actually showing her my dragoste, whom she might or might not be, no matter how impossible it would seem. And exposing the feelings I have for her.

My dragoste or not, my feelings for her are as deep as they were for my former love. The storm doesn’t pass but it eases and through it she waits, patiently.

“It is okay,” I say, not opening my eyes.

Her hand on my thigh is warm. There is a weight to it far beyond what her tiny hand should have. Almost as if she is an anchor, pulling me from my melancholy acceptance and the loss of the past and into the now. Into the fight for not only her, but for the soul of my people.

I try to organize my thoughts but they are spinning too fast. The Maulavi, the mystery of if she is my dragoste returned, the overwhelming desire and need that was interrupted. All roiling over the swirling sands of time running out. How do I make this short, yet understandable?

All the while she waits. Patient as the mountain. Knowing it will come in time and putting no pressure or rush on making it happen. One more breath and I feel like I have it.

“Do you know what a mudrosti is?” I ask, motioning with one hand at the stick lying there.

“No,” she says.

I nod and for the first time I turn my head to look directly at her. She is so incredibly beautiful that my heart skips a beat and my throat is suddenly dry. She touches my face with her other hand, trailing her fingers across my cheek.

Resisting the urge to take her into my arms and kiss her, I make words happen, despite the betrayal of my tongue which only wants to taste her.

“When an Urr’ki has his rite of passage, from child to adult, he is taken to the surface. It is the only time in our lives most of us will see where we came from. The young Urr’ki finds a branch that will be theirs. After the ritual is done they return to their home and from then on they carve the story of their lives into the mudrosti.”

“This is yours?” she asks, her eyes darting over and back.

“Yes,” I say.

“And that… woman…”

“Was my… dragoste.”

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