I want to askhowimportant. Want to demand if I'm important enough to claim, to mate, to protect from the wolves circling. But fear strangles the questions before they form.
"I know," I whisper instead. "I know."
He kisses my forehead and pulls me closer, and I let myself pretend that's enough. That love unspoken is the same as love declared. That wanting someone is the same as keeping them.
I fall asleep in his arms, refusing to acknowledge the growing dread that whispers this can't last. That happiness like this isn't meant for someone like me.
That sooner or later, the price will come due.
11
RAKK
The Stone Fang delegation arrives with all the ceremony Dad insisted upon. Drums pound a welcome rhythm. Warriors line up in formal ranks. I stand beside Dad at the front, wearing ceremonial leather and a smile that feels carved from stone.
The Stone Fang Chieftain is a massive male named Groth, his tusks decorated with silver rings. His daughter walks beside him—Kira, if I remember correctly. She's tall for an orc female, built strong with dark green skin and elaborate braids woven through her black hair. Pretty by any objective standard.
I feel absolutely nothing looking at her.
"Rakk," Dad murmurs under his breath. "Smile like you mean it."
I widen my grin to something more genuine-looking while everything inside me screams to bolt. To find Serah by the river and disappear into that safe bubble where nothing else matters.
"Chieftain Thorne." Groth clasps Dad's forearm in greeting. "Your hospitality honors us."
"The honor is ours. May I present my son, Rakk."
I step forward, going through the motions of formal greeting. Kira offers her hand. I take it, keeping the contact brief and impersonal. Her fingers linger against mine a fraction too long.
"Your father speaks highly of you," she says, voice pitched low and inviting.
"He exaggerates." I pull my hand back. "Welcome to Bone Warrior territory."
The formalities drag on forever. Groth and Dad discuss politics and territorial boundaries while I'm expected to make conversation with Kira. She touches my arm frequently—casual little contacts that set my teeth on edge. Nothing improper, nothing I can object to without seeming rude. Just constant reminders that she's here for evaluation, that I'm meant to consider her as a potential mate.
All I can think about is Serah. Whether she's working in the healing chambers or by the river. Whether she's thinking about me the way I'm thinking about her—constantly, obsessively, like she's the only solid thing in a world that won't stop spinning.
"—the northern territories?"
I blink, realizing Kira asked me something. "Sorry, what?"
Her smile dims slightly. "I asked about the northern territories. Your patrols."
"Oh. Right." I force myself to focus. "We rotate border watches. Dark elf activity has increased lately, so we've doubled our presence."
She nods, clearly trying to find common ground. She's not unkind or unpleasant. Just wrong. Not Serah.
The realization hits me with uncomfortable clarity: no one will ever be Serah. No amount of political advantage or clan alliances will change that fundamental truth.
I'm so fucked.
Dad insistsI escort Kira through the settlement, showing her our training grounds and explaining our defensive positions. She asks intelligent questions, demonstrates genuine interest in combat strategy. Under different circumstances, I might actually enjoy the conversation.
Instead, I'm scanning every passing face for brown hair and amber eyes.
We're near the healing chambers when I finally spot her. Serah is walking with Lola toward the festival grounds, wearing a clean tunic that actually fits her properly. Her hair is braided back from her face, and she's laughing at something Lola said—that rare, unguarded smile that makes my chest tight.
I stop mid-sentence, whatever I was saying to Kira evaporating.
