Page 11 of Tusks And Conditions

"Safer." I look at the temporary barrier, then back at him, trying to reconcile the violence of five minutes ago with the careful craftsmanship I just witnessed. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

"I prefer to be useful." He shrugs, the movement rolling through his shoulders and across his back in a way that draws my attention right back to those damned tattoos. "A bounty hunter who can't adapt doesn't survive long."

Meatball emerges from beneath the couch, apparently deciding that the crisis has passed, and waddles over to investigate the unconscious Orc in the corner. His tentacles poke experimentally at the attacker's face, and I decide I don't want to know what he's doing.

"I need to clean up this glass before someone gets hurt," I say, grabbing onto the practical task like a lifeline. "And figure out what to do with the... the body. The person. The unconscious criminal in my living room."

"I'll handle Targash. You shouldn't have to deal with⁠—"

Three sharp knocks echo through the apartment, the sound so sudden and loud that I nearly jump out of my skin. Meatball freezes mid-tentacle-poke, and Jagger's entire body goes rigid, his runes flaring bright amber as his head swivels toward the door.

"Ms. Lin? Mr. Ironjaw? This is Inspector Delacroix with the Department of Magical Integration. We're here for your mandatory surprise cohabitation verification. Please open the door immediately."

CHAPTER 6

JAGGER

The knock comes again, sharper this time, and three things happen in the space of a single heartbeat. First, Meatball bolts from the unconscious body of Targash and scuttles beneath the kitchen island with a wet, panicked slap of tentacles on tile. Second, Sabine's face drains of every last ounce of color, her brown eyes going so wide I can see the whites all the way around. Third, my mind snaps into the cold clarity that has kept me alive through twelve years of hunting dangerous creatures in the supernatural underworld, and I understand exactly how catastrophic this situation looks.

An unconscious criminal sprawled on the floor. Shattered glass glittering in the carpet fibers. A hastily patched window. Weapons scattered across the living room. And two supposed fated mates standing six feet apart with the rigid body language of strangers forced into a shared elevator.

"Open up, please. I won't ask again."

Inspector Delacroix. I know the name. DMI compliance division, the branch specifically tasked with verifying that bonded pairs are honoring the cohabitation mandate. They have broad authority to enter, to inspect, to interrogate. And they have the power to recommend immediate dissolution proceedings—which sounds convenient until you learn that "dissolution" in the case of a blood-magic bond means supernatural incarceration for both parties while the bureaucrats untangle the enchantment. Ten years minimum. I did not claw my way out of the fighting pits of Lower Kragmoor to rot in a DMI holding cell because my living room looks like a crime scene.

I move fast. Two strides carry me to Targash's limp form, and I reach for the Orc by his belt and the scruff of his leather vest, hoisting the deadweight off the floor with a grunt. The coat closet by the front door is small, barely large enough for Sabine's collection of identical beige jackets, but I fold Targash's unconscious body into the space with the ruthless efficiency of someone who has stuffed many reluctant individuals into tight spaces for transport purposes. His legs don't quite fit. I bend his knees, shove his boots deeper, and force the door shut, hearing the latch catch with a satisfying click.

"Sabine. Come here."

"There is a man in my coat closet."

"Yes. Come here. Now."

"There is a criminal in my coat closet, and an inspector at my door, and glass in my carpet, and⁠—"

"Listen to me carefully," I murmur into her hair, which smells like something clean and floral that I cannot identify. "We are happy mates. We are comfortable with each other. This is our home, and we are not hiding anything."

"We are hiding literally everything."

"Details." I lay my palm flat against her lower back, feeling the tremor in her spine, and bend my head lower so my lips are near her ear. "Relax your shoulders. Lean into me. Pretend I am someone you trust."

"I don't trust anyone. I'm an accountant."

Despite everything—despite the DMI inspector about to kick down the door and the unconscious bounty in the closet and the shattered glass still catching light in the carpet—I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. This woman. This ridiculous, stubborn, terrified woman who organizes her spice rack alphabetically and makes color-coded spreadsheets for household rules and faces down every catastrophe I bring into her life with the indignant fury of someone who has been personally wronged by the universe's filing system.

"Trust me for the next twenty minutes," I say. "Then you can go back to not trusting anyone."

She takes one shuddering breath. Then another. And then, miracle of miracles, her shoulders drop half an inch and she lets some of her weight settle against me.

"Fine," she whispers. "Fine. Open the door."

I keep one arm around her as I reach for the deadbolt, arranging us so that when the door swings open, the inspector sees exactly what I want them to see. A bonded pair, comfortable in their domesticity, the large Orc mate holding his small human partner protectively against his side, slightly annoyed at the interruption.

The inspector standing in the hallway is a Fae. The compliance division recruits heavily from Fae populations because of their innate sensitivity to emotional resonance and magical bonds—which means faking anything in front of this woman will be exponentially harder than bluffing a human bureaucrat. She is tall and angular, with silver-white hair pulled into a severe chignon and pale blue eyes. She wears a charcoal suit with a DMI badge pinned precisely at the lapel, and she carries a leather-bound inspection portfolio that she holds like a weapon.

"Inspector Delacroix." I incline my head. "We weren't expecting a visit."

"That is rather the point of a surprise inspection, Mr. Ironjaw." Her gaze drops to Sabine tucked against my side, then rises to my face, then sweeps past us both into the apartment with the practiced precision of someone cataloguing every detail in a single glance. "May I come in?"