Page 48 of Bite Sized Bride
I look into her eyes, and I see my own reflection there. I see the orc, the warrior, the survivor. I no longer see the monster.
“I was a ghost,” I whisper, the words a raw, honest confession. “A hollow thing filled with the rage of another. You… you gave me back my name. You gave me back my soul. You are not just my mate, Mikana. You are my beginning. My everything.”
I finish wrapping our hands, the cord a tight, unbreakable bond between us. Now comes the part I have both dreaded and longed for. The silence.
“We wait now,” I say. “For the War God. To see if he objects to our union.”
We stand in the profound, absolute silence of the forest night. The only sounds are the gentle murmur of the stream and the frantic, beautiful beating of her heart against my own. It is a moment of supreme, terrifying vulnerability. We are offering our fragile, impossible love to the judgment of the old gods.
The silence stretches. A minute. An eternity.
And the War God is silent.
A breath I had no idea I was holding escapes my lips in a long, shuddering sigh. Relief, so potent it is a physical force, washes over me.
I complete the circle of salt around us, the white crystals a stark, protective ring in the moonlight. I mix in the last of the rirzed petals, their purple a splash of color against the white. We are bound. We are protected. We are one.
“The union is blessed,” I whisper, the ancient words a profound comfort. I lean down and press my lips to hers.
The kiss is not one of passion, but of a deep, abiding peace. It is the sealing of a vow, the end of a long, dark journey, and the beginning of a new one.
We are a clan of two.
25
MIKANA
The walk back to the cabin is a silent, sacred thing.
Our hands are still bound together by the cord Kael wove, the crushed herbs and flowers releasing a fragrant, earthy perfume with every small movement. The circle of salt and rirzed blossoms glows behind us in the moonlight, a temporary, magical sigil marking the place where our two broken souls were finally, irrevocably, made one.
Kael’s hand, his real hand, is a warm, solid weight in mine. There are no claws, no hardened, cursed plates of hide. There is only the calloused skin of a warrior, the strength of an orc, the gentle, possessive grip of my mate. He walks beside me, his massive form a comforting shadow in the silvered dark, his presence a quiet, steady hum of peace that resonates deep within my own chest.
He is no longer a storm I have to survive. He is the mountain that shelters me from the wind.
When we reach the door of our small, sturdy cabin, he stops. He turns to face me, his amber eyes, so clear and full of a light I never thought I would see, searching my face. The moonlight traces the harsh, handsome lines of his orcish features—thestrong jaw, the proud, straight nose, the full, healthy tusks that curve past his lips. He is a creature of breathtaking, brutal beauty. And he is mine.
“My mate,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through the soles of my feet. He says the words as if they are a prayer, a miracle he is still struggling to comprehend.
“My Kael,” I whisper back, my voice thick with an emotion so vast it has no name.
He lifts our bound hands and brings my knuckles to his lips. He presses a soft, reverent kiss to my skin, his gaze never leaving mine. Then, with a slow, deliberate care, he begins to unwind the cord. The herbs and flowers fall away, scattering on the ground at our feet like a final, fragrant offering.
When our hands are free, he does not let go. He simply holds my hand in his, his thumb stroking a slow, soothing circle over the back of my wrist, right over the faded, ugly brand of the serpent. He is erasing the mark of my past with the promise of our future.
He lifts me then, scooping me into his arms as if I weigh nothing. I don’t protest. I don’t fight. I wrap my arms around his neck, my head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, and I breathe him in. The clean, masculine scent of him, of pine and woodsmoke and the unique, earthy smell of his green skin. He carries me over the threshold of our home, a quiet, solemn act that feels more significant than any grand ceremony.
He does not carry me to the pallet of furs that has served as our bed for months. Instead, he walks to the hearth, where the fire has burned down to a bed of glowing, orange embers. He sits on the large, flat stone before it, settling me gently in his lap so that I am cradled against his chest, my back to the warmth of the dying fire.
We sit in a comfortable, profound silence for a long time. The only sounds are the soft sigh of the wind outside and the steady,strong beat of his heart against my back. This is peace. A feeling so foreign, so precious, that I am almost afraid to breathe, for fear of shattering it.
“I never thought…” he begins, his voice a low, hesitant rumble. He trails off, the words lost in the vastness of what he is trying to say.
“I know,” I whisper, my hand coming up to rest on his chest, over the great, swirling scar that is a permanent reminder of the Urog’s agony. “Me neither.”
He takes my hand, his fingers lacing with my own. He brings our joined hands before his face, studying them in the soft, orange light of the embers. He looks at my hand, so small, so pale, so human, resting in his own massive, green, and undeniably orcish one.
“I am… not what you are used to,” he says, the words a quiet statement of fact, but I can hear the faint, underlying tremor of an old insecurity.
