Page 45 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
"I do." The words emerge strong and clear, carrying no hesitation despite their life-altering implications. "I claim Rogar as my equal partner, accepting the responsibilities and joys that true partnership requires."
The ritual bonds circle our joined hands as Vezrik speaks the final words that will make our union official in the eyes of clan law and allied territories. The twisted cords feel warm against my skin, imbued with the blessings and good wishes ofeveryone who's witnessed our journey from suspicious tolerance to genuine acceptance.
"By the authority of clan tradition and the witness of allied peoples," Vezrik declares, "I pronounce you bound in partnership that extends beyond death itself. What has been joined in honor cannot be separated by circumstance."
The roar of approval that follows shakes dust from the canyon walls, echoing with the satisfaction of people who watched impossible changes turning into something real. Warriors who once questioned my presence now cheer my formal integration into their community. Refugees who fled hopeless circumstances celebrate proof that new beginnings remain possible even after devastating loss.
But it's Rogar's expression that holds my attention as the crowd surges around us with congratulations and well-wishes. His face bears the fierce satisfaction of someone who's achieved something he'd never dared hope for—not just personal happiness, but the systematic vindication of principles that guided his most controversial decisions.
"No regrets?" I ask as we're swept into the celebratory feast that will continue well into the night.
"Only that it took us this long to reach this moment," he replies, his massive hand finding mine with the ease of long practice.
The celebration flows around us like water around stones, carrying the joyous chaos that marks significant community events. Traditional foods blend with dishes the human refugees contributed, creating fusion cuisine that speaks of cultures learning to complement rather than merely coexist. Allied clan members share stories and songs that bridge linguistic barriers through shared musical traditions.
Children dart between the adults with the boundless energy of youth, their laughter providing counterpoint to moreserious conversations about trade agreements and defensive coordination. Even the diplomatic observers join the festivities, their formal reserve melting under the infectious enthusiasm that fills the evening air.
"Chieftain! Lady Zahra!" Thresh appears beside us with a horn of fermented honey wine, his young face glowing with celebration and possibly alcohol. "The allied representatives want to propose formal toasts to your union."
What follows is a series of diplomatic speeches that transform our personal ceremony into something approaching international recognition. Representatives from the Ironjaw, Bloodfang, and Greycliff territories offer formal acknowledgment of our partnership while announcing their own commitment to the cooperative principles our union represents.
"To partnerships that transcend traditional boundaries," declares Kazak Ironmane, raising his drinking horn high. "To leaders who prove that merit matters more than birthright, that courage creates opportunities where none existed before."
"To the proof that different peoples can find common cause," adds the Bloodfang representative. "That unity multiplies strength rather than dividing it."
The toasts continue as evening deepens into night, each speaker adding their own perspective on what our union represents for the broader political landscape. By the time the formal ceremonies conclude, our mating has been endorsed by every significant political entity in the region—recognition that carries weight far beyond ceremonial courtesy.
But as the crowd gradually disperses and the celebration winds toward its natural conclusion, I find myself eager for the private moments that will make our union real in ways that public ceremony cannot achieve.
"Come with me," Rogar says, his voice carrying new urgency as he guides me away from the lingering festivities toward the quarters that will now belong to both of us.
His tent has been transformed for the occasion, expanded and decorated according to traditions that mark the establishment of new family units within clan society. Fresh furs cover the sleeping area, while ceremonial weapons hang from the support posts in arrangements that symbolically protect our union from external threats.
But it's the privacy that feels most precious after hours of public scrutiny and formal speeches. Here, away from political implications and diplomatic observers, we can simply be two people who've chosen to bind their fates together despite every rational argument against such commitment.
"Alone at last," I murmur, beginning to remove the ceremonial armor that's served its symbolic purpose.
"Not quite alone," Rogar corrects, his hands working at his own armor fastenings. "There's still the matter of making this union official in ways that ceremony cannot accomplish."
Heat floods through my chest at the promise in his voice. The claiming words spoken during our ceremony carry legal and social weight, but the bonds they create require physical consummation to achieve their full significance. What we're about to share will transform symbolic partnership into reality that can't be broken by circumstance or opposition.
"Show me," I whisper, echoing the words I spoke during our first night together.
But this feels different—not the desperate passion of people facing uncertain futures, but the deep satisfaction of those who've found permanent haven in each other's arms. Each piece of armor that falls away reveals skin marked by recent battles and older scars, the accumulated history of two lives that have found completion through union.
When he lifts me in his arms, carrying me to the sleeping furs with reverent care, I'm struck by how perfectly we complement each other. His massive strength balanced by my strategic flexibility, his protective instincts matching my fierce independence, his steady leadership enhanced by my tactical innovation.
"My mate," he says, the words carrying weight that transcends mere affection. "My equal. My partner in whatever comes next."
"Yours," I agree, claiming his mouth in a kiss that tastes of honey wine and promises kept. "As you're mine, completely and irrevocably."
What follows transcends the physical joining we’ve shared before. It’s not the frantic, desperate hunger of uncertain futures or stolen moments on the eve of war. This—this is something else. Something sacred. Something unshakablyours.
Rogar kisses me like the world outside this tent no longer exists. Like he’s not the chieftain of a people watching his every move, or a battle-forged warrior feared across territories. In this moment, he’s just a man who loves me so deeply, it reverberates through every touch.
Each stroke of his calloused hand is deliberate, reverent. Fingers trail over my shoulder, across the soft underside of my breast, down the plane of my ribs until they settle at the dip of my waist. He memorizes me with his hands the way he does maps—except I know I’ll never bejust strategyto him.
“You’re trembling,” he murmurs against my lips.
