Page 3 of Tusks And Conditions

The Director's smile hasn't wavered, that particular expression of bureaucratic satisfaction that tells me he knows exactly what leverage he holds. Behind me, the security guards shift their weight, hands resting on weapons that probably won't do much to an Orc of my size but will absolutely complicate my life in ways I don't need right now. I have three active bounties, a landlord who's been making increasingly pointed comments about the structural damage to my apartment building, and now, apparently, a fated mate who looks like she's approximately thirty seconds from either fainting or committing murder.

"Fine, I accept the ruling."

The woman beside me—Sabine, the clerk called her, Sabine Lin—makes a sound like a small animal being stepped on. I don't look at her yet because I'm afraid of what I'll see, afraid of the fear and disgust that humans always wear when they realize they're bound to something like me. Instead, I focus on Pemberton, on the predatory gleam in his eyes that tells me this man has climbed his way to power by exploiting exactly these kinds of situations.

"Excellent decision, Mr. Ironjaw." He produces a pen from his breast pocket, the kind of expensive instrument that costs more than most people make in a week, and begins marking something on his clipboard. "Your cooperation will be noted in your file. The Department appreciates individuals who understand the importance of working within the system."

Working within the system. As if I have any choice. As if the system hasn't been designed from the ground up to ensure that supernaturals like me never have any choice at all.

"What happens now?" She's holding herself together with the kind of iron control that speaks to either incredible discipline or complete dissociation from reality.

I turn my head, finally, and let myself see her properly.

She's small. Her hair is cut in a sharp line at her jaw, black and glossy in the harsh fluorescent light, and her eyes are dark brown, almost black, wide with shock but still somehow calculating. She's cataloging me the same way I'm cataloging her, taking in the tattoos that cover my arms and creep up my neck, the silver piercings through my left tusk, the scars that crosshatch my knuckles from decades of violence. Her nostrils flare slightly, and I know she's catching my scent, the leather and metal and gunpowder that clings to me like a second skin, and beneath that, something else entirely.

She's beautiful. Ancestors help me, she's beautiful, and she's terrified, and she belongs to me now in a way that neither of us chose.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. The protective instincts that have kept me alive through three decades of bounty hunting roar to life with a violence that steals my breath, and I have to physically stop myself from stepping between her and the rest of the room, from putting my body between her and every possible threat. She's not mine to protect. She doesn't want me anywhere near her. The way her fingers are trembling as she clutches her coffee-stained blouse tells me everything I need to know about how she feels about this situation.

But the bond doesn't care what either of us wants. It pulses beneath my skin like a second heartbeat, and when I breathe in, I can taste her fear on the back of my tongue, sweet and sharp and absolutely devastating.

"Now," Pemberton says, flipping to a new page on his clipboard with the casual efficiency of a man who has ruined hundreds of lives in this exact same way, "we discuss the cohabitation requirements."

Sabine's head snaps toward him so fast I'm surprised she doesn't give herself whiplash. "The what?"

"Cohabitation requirements. Standard procedure for all registered mating bonds, Miss Lin. The Department requires that bonded pairs reside together for a minimum of ninety days before any annulment petition can be filed." He pauses, as if consulting his notes, though I suspect he knows every word of this speech by heart. "This allows the bond to either fully integrate or begin the natural dissolution process. Attempting to separate before the ninety-day period has elapsed can result in severe magical backlash for both parties. Seizures, hallucinations, in some cases permanent neurological damage. The only legal bypass is a Penalized Severance, where one party surrenders to a decade in Supernatural Containment so the facility's dampening wards can absorb the magical fallout, leaving the other party completely free. Otherwise, the bond requires proximity to stabilize."

"Ninety days. You're telling me I have to live with a stranger for ninety days."

"Not just any stranger." Pemberton's smile takes on an edge that makes me want to put my fist through his face. "Your fated mate. The blood-magic bond is quite specific, Miss Lin. It doesn't form between incompatible individuals. Whatever the circumstances of its creation, the bond has determined that you and Mr. Ironjaw are fundamentally suited to one another."

"That's insane."

"That's magic." He shrugs, as if the distinction is meaningless. "The Department will provide weekly check-ins to monitor your progress. You'll both be required to submit to monthly bond-integrity assessments. Any attempt to circumvent the cohabitation requirement will be treated as bond-breaking and prosecuted accordingly."

This is a violation of my civil rights. You can't force two people to live together against their will."

"Actually, under the Supernatural Integration Act of 1952, we absolutely can." Pemberton tucks his pen back into his pocket.

"While blood-magic bonds have been recognized by the Department since 1847, the 1952 Act codified exactly how modern civil law manages them. It explicitly dictates that ancient magical necessity supersedes standard human civil liberties to prevent catastrophic magical fallout. It's all in the literature."

He gestures vaguely toward a rack of pamphlets by the door, most of them featuring smiling interspecies couples and titles like Your New Bonded Life: A Guide to Happiness! and When Magic Chooses: Embracing Your Fated Connection.

I've seen those pamphlets before. They're propaganda, designed to make humans feel better about the ways their government has systematically stripped supernaturals of autonomy since the Integration. The fact that they're being used to trap this woman in a bond she never agreed to makes my stomach turn.

"Where do you live, Mr. Ironjaw?" Pemberton's question pulls me back to the present, and I feel my jaw tighten.

"The Hollows. District Nine."

The effect is immediate. Sabine's eyes go wide, and Pemberton's smile finally falters for the first time since he entered the room. The Hollows are legendary, even among people who've never set foot in a supernatural neighborhood. It's where the monsters live, the creatures too dangerous or too poor or too stubborn to integrate into human society. The buildings are crumbling, the streets are controlled by rival clan territories, and the murder rate is approximately triple that of any human district in the city.

It's also the only place I've ever been able to afford on a bounty hunter's salary, but I don't mention that.

"I see." Pemberton's recovery is quick, but I catch the flicker of concern in his eyes. "That does present some challenges for Miss Lin's safety."

"I'm not going there. Absolutely not. I've seen the news reports. I've read the statistics. I am not setting foot in the Hollows."

"Miss Lin, the cohabitation requirement⁠—"