Page 51 of Tusks And Conditions

"Of course you did."

"It requires notarization. The nearest notary public is forty-two miles from here. I mapped it."

"Sabine."

"We'll need to bring two forms of identification and proof of the original bond filing. I have copies."

"Sabine."

The way he says my name stops my mouth. Not loud. Not sharp. Soft, actually. Like he's holding the syllables in his palm and being careful not to crush them.

I turn.

He is on one knee.

The old floorboards groan under him. His massive frame, condensed into this position, still takes up half the room. The firelight catches the silver piercings in his left tusk. The runic tattoos on his forearms pulse with a warm, steady amber, not the angry red-hot flare I saw at the warehouse. Something calmer. Something that matches the rhythm of the fire.

In his hand, a band of iron. Dark, heavy, thick as my ring finger is long. The surface is covered in engravings so intricate they seem to move in the flickering light. Not polished. Not pretty. Not the kind of ring that sits in a velvet box at a jewelry store under halogen spotlights. This ring was forged. Hammered. Made by hands that understood metal as a living thing.

"This was my grandmother's."

"It is the traditional Orcish mating band of my bloodline. Passed from the eldest to their chosen. Four generations of Ironjaw women wore it."

The iron catches the light. The engravings shift. Runes, I realize. The same language written on his skin.

My notebook slips from my fingers and hits the floor.

CHAPTER 18

JAGGER

The iron band weighs nothing in my hand. Four generations of Ironjaw women, and it weighs nothing. That's what certainty does. Strips the gravity right out of heavy things.

Sabine stands above me. Firelight paints half her face gold and leaves the other half in shadow. Her sharp bob is a mess. Dust on her sensible blouse from inspecting the crawl space. A cobweb clinging to her collar. She has never looked more like home.

"This band is not a ring the way humans understand rings. It is not a promise. It is not a symbol."

Her lips part. No sound.

"In my bloodline, when an Ironjaw gives this band, they are saying: I am done. My war is over. You are the land I choose to rest in."

Her chin trembles. Just once. She locks it down fast, the way she locks everything down. Jaw tight, posture straight, accountant armor snapping into place. But her eyes. Her eyes are full and bright and spilling over at the corners.

"Sabine Lin. Will you be my mate? Not because the DMI stamped a form. Not because blood-magic ink made a mistake. Because I am choosing you. Every morning, oatmeal instead of raw meat. Every evening, spreadsheets instead of bounty warrants. Every single day, you."

A tear tracks down her cheek and hits the dusty floor.

"You're kneeling on a nail."

"I know."

"Your knee is bleeding."

"I know."

She drops. Not elegantly. Not gracefully. Knees hitting the floor hard enough to make the boards bark. She grabs my face with both hands, palms flat against my jaw, fingers barely reaching past the ridge of my cheekbones. Small hands. Warm hands.

"Yes."