Page 103 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

The scribe’s pen moved across the page.

My stomach dropped. We’d been careful. The coffee, the butter, Fred and Amanda. We’d performed being bonded well enough to almost believe it ourselves. But I could feel it in the way the scribe’s expression didn’t change, in how his pen kept moving long after he should’ve stopped writing.

“What does she write in her notebook?” the scribe asked, not looking up.

Traig swallowed, and it seemed to take a long time to go down.

“That’s her personal journal,” he said.

“But surely you’ve read some of it. You’re bonded.”

“He has,” I said.

Traig’s chin lifted. “She writes about good things. Things that happened during the day that matter to her.”

The scribe frowned at me. “Is this true?”

“Yes.”

His attention returned to Traig. “Can you give an example?”

Traig’s jaw tightened.

“Before we were mated, she wrote, Traig brought me coffee before I arrived,” he said.

His hand found mine under the table.

Those were my exact words. Not a guess.

My words but not the ones I’d written while he watched yesterday.

Which meant he’d…

I looked at the notebook still sitting on the table where I’d left it last night.

My pulse kicked up, but not in panic. In something that felt like vulnerability and exposure and⁠—

He’d read the parts I’d shown him, but now it looked like he’d gone farther. How much had he read?

“Last night,” he said, so quietly only I could hear. “After you fell asleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you might’ve written. What you saw that I missed.” His thumb brushed across my knuckles. “I shouldn’t have looked. Not without asking.”

The admission settled between us.

I’d pretty much invited him to read it. I’d used it to show how we could build our story for the scribe. But I’d never said, read the whole thing whenever you want.

And he knew that.

“How much did you read?” I whispered.

“Enough to know you’ve been thinking about me too.” He lifted his voice, speaking to the scribe. “Willa makes amazing cookies. I love them. Have you tried them?”

The scribe frowned. “I don’t know what cookies are.”

As much as I wanted to quiz him further, we needed the distraction.

I rose and grabbed the container full of cookies I’d brought over from my apartment yesterday, setting it on the table between us, opening the lid.

“These are ginger cookies,” I said. “Try one.”