Page 139 of That’s My Orc, Tusk Off

I’d made coffee this morning, but I’d barely touched it. The mug sat on the counter, cold now, a ring of cream settled on the top.

Fred floated near the kitchen doorway, his grumbling pitched lower than usual. Amanda rode his back, her crown cycling between orange and yellow. She’d tossed aside her stick after stealing a letter opener from Drogar’s desk yesterday, sword-shaped, with a brass handle. She brandished it now, commanding her army of one. Two, I supposed when we counted Fred.

The vehicle pulled up outside, and the engine cut.

Traig didn’t move from the window.

“He’s here,” I said.

“Yes.”

The door of the vehicle opened. Scribe Kelthren exited, his dark robes settling around him as he straightened. He looked exactly the same as he had almost a month ago: formal and composed.

Traig stepped back from the window.

I took his hand, squeezing it tight. Would this be the last time we’d touch?

The scribe knocked on the door, and Traig opened it.

“Scribe Kelthren,” he said.

“Traig Valtresh. Willa Enford.” The scribe’s gaze swept past us, taking in my jacket beside Traig’s. My boots lined up next to his larger ones. All my things scattered across our home.

His eyes landed on Fred.

Fred grumbled, the sound dropping into a register I’d never heard before. Almost territorial. Amanda’s crown went bright orange. She lifted her tiny sword and pointed it at the scribe.

The male’s mouth tightened.

“May I enter?” he asked.

“Of course.” Traig stepped to the side, gesturing.

The scribe walked in, his robes brushing the doorframe. He stopped in the living room, his gaze moving around the room, taking in the blanket I’d left draped over the back of the couch. My notebook on the side table, open to a half-finished entry.

This wasn’t the cottage he’d assessed a month ago. It had been staged then. Now it looked lived-in. Ours. And he could tell.

“The Council has reached their determination,” he said, his gaze returning to us both.

My belly dropped.

Traig’s hand tightened around mine.

“The inquiry filed by the House of Valtresh has been reviewed,” the scribe said, his voice completely neutral. “The Council finds that the evidence presented—while thorough—does not override the family’s right to arrange suitable bonding for their lineage.”

The words landed like stones.

“Traig Valtresh, you are expected to return to the kingdom within one week to begin the bonding process with the mate your family has selected.”

Fred’s grumble went silent.

Amanda’s crown flared red.

I couldn’t breathe.

Traig’s face had gone completely blank, the expression he wore when he was sorting through something too big to process.

“One week,” he said.