Page 121 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

Amanda’s crown went full red. She leaped from the windowsill, landed on Fred’s back, and pointed her stick at Nix.

The kitchen had become a battlefield.

I stood at the counter, covered in flour, watching a grumbletoad, a thornsprig, and a fizzling face off over cookies.

“This is my life now,” I said to no one.

This was the life I’d built with Traig, and I wouldn’t give it up easily.

Except it might not be my life for much longer.

In a short time, the Council would tell us whether Traig stayed or went back to the kingdom without me. We had mating marks. What better proof did they need than that?

I pushed the thought away and focused on rolling dough into balls, placing them on the baking sheet in rows. Each one perfect. When I did this, I didn’t have to think about how few days like this we might have left.

I’d reorganized his utensil drawer last week. Moved the spatulas closer to the stove because it made more sense.

He’d only nodded in approval.

Then I’d rearranged the spice cabinet, grouping them by frequency of use instead of alphabetical order.

He’d made one adjustment, moving the salt back to the front row, which, I supposed, did make sense.

It felt like the most intimate thing we’d done since the mating marks appeared.

I slid the tray into the oven and set the timer.

Voices drifted in from outside.

“—telling you, the hearthmaw juvenile is ready for placement. He’s calm now. No more head-butting the fence.”

Drogar, louder than necessary, like always.

“You said that last week,” Traig said. “Then he charged the gate when I walked past.”

“That was him showing affection.”

“No, that was him showing aggression.”

I smiled and wiped my hands on a towel.

He was here. Safe. Still mine. For now.

They stepped inside, Traig carrying his tablet, Drogar grinning like he’d won an argument he definitely hadn’t.

“Willa.” Drogar’s gaze landed on the oven. “Are you baking?”

“I am.”

“What kind?”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

His face lit up. “My favorite.”

“You said that about the last three kinds I made.”

“Because they were all my favorite.” He stepped over to the counter and leaned against it, watching the oven. “How long?”