Page 8 of Tusks And Conditions

The book is thick, well-worn, its spine cracked from multiple readings, and I lose myself in the familiar story of a humble farmer's son who discovers he's destined to save the world from an ancient evil. It's not great literature by any standard, but there's something comforting about the predictability of it, the way the hero always triumphs and good always conquers evil and everyone gets their happy ending. In my line of work, happy endings are rare commodities, and I've learned to find them wherever I can, even if it's just in the pages of a dog-eared paperback.

Night falls, and Sabine emerges from her bedroom only long enough to inform me that I'll be sleeping on the couch and that Meatball is absolutely not allowed on any of the furniture. She looks exhausted, dark circles forming beneath her eyes, and I feel a pang of guilt for disrupting her carefully ordered life with my chaos and my weapons and my overly affectionate Snarbo.

The couch is far too small for me, of course. My legs hang off one end and my shoulders bunch awkwardly against the armrest, but I've slept in far worse conditions during my years as a bounty hunter, so I settle in as best I can and let Meatball curl up on the floor beside me, his tentacles wrapping around one of my arms like a child clinging to a security blanket.

I don't sleep much. Instead, I lie in the darkness of Sabine's immaculate living room, surrounded by beige and soft textures and the scent of lavender, and think about the woman sleeping just a few rooms away. My accidental mate. My legally binding responsibility. My potential path to a decade of supernatural prison if I do anything to jeopardize this arrangement.

I should be panicking. I should be furious at the bureaucratic nightmare that has upended my entire existence. But instead, I find myself thinking about the way Sabine's hand felt in mine, the way her eyes flashed with stubborn determination even when she was clearly terrified, the way she created that ridiculous list of rules with color designations as if organization could somehow tame the chaos of our situation. She's nothing like the women I usually encounter in my line of work, hardened criminals and desperate fugitives and calculating opportunists. She's soft where they are sharp, careful where they are reckless, and there's something about her that makes me want to protect her from every danger in the world, including myself.

The tattooed runes on my arms begin to glow faintly in the darkness, responding to the intensity of my emotions, and I force myself to take deep breaths until they dim again. This is not the time for feelings. This is the time for survival, for getting through the next ninety days without incident, for maintaining enough distance that we can both walk away from this mistake without lasting damage.

I repeat this to myself until the words lose all meaning, and eventually, I drift into an uneasy sleep.

Morning arrives with pale sunlight filtering through Sabine's tasteful curtains, and I'm awake before dawn, my internal clock calibrated by years of early-morning hunts and overnight stakeouts. Meatball stirs at my movement, his tentacles uncurling as he blinks his many eyes in the direction of the kitchen, and I recognize the thought process of being very serious about breakfast.

The thought sparks an idea, one that seems brilliant in the soft light of early morning and which I will later recognize as a terrible miscalculation in cultural compatibility.

Among my people, a newly bonded mate demonstrates their worth through the providing of food. It's an ancient tradition, one that dates back to the days when Orcish tribes roamed the Broken Steppes and survival depended on a mate's ability to hunt and provide. My grandmother used to tell stories of my grandfather presenting her with the heart of a brick-bear on the morning after their bonding ceremony, still warm and dripping with blood, and how she'd known in that moment that he would keep her fed and protected for the rest of their lives.

I don't have access to a brick-bear, obviously. But I do have the supplies I packed in my duffel bag, traditional Orcish provisions that I always carry when I'm traveling for a job, and surely the principle is the same even if the execution is somewhat less impressive.

I move quietly into Sabine's small kitchen, Meatball padding along behind me with curious interest, and begin unpacking my supplies onto her pristine white countertops. The meat comes first, thick slabs of cured beast-flank that I'd been saving for trail rations, their surface dark with spices and still faintly damp with the blood that's been drawn out during the curing process. Then the marrow bones, heavy and dense, meant to be cracked open and eaten raw for their rich, nourishing fat. Then the blood sausages, coiled in neat spirals and glistening with a deep crimson sheen that seems almost jewel-like in the morning light.

It occurs to me, as I arrange these items into an artful display, that I should perhaps prepare them in some way rather than presenting them in their current state. But traditional Orcish breakfast is meant to be eaten raw, the nutrients and enzymes preserved in their most natural form, and cooking the meat would be an insult to the animal that provided it and to the mate receiving the gift.

The spread looks magnificent, if I do say so myself. A bounty of protein and sustenance, arranged with care on Sabine's elegant countertops, the deep reds and browns of the meat creating a striking contrast against the white marble surface. Meatball makes an appreciative gurgling sound from his position near my feet, his tentacles twitching toward the nearest blood sausage, and I push him gently away with one foot.

"Not for you."

He gurgles again, more mournfully this time, but settles back onto his haunches to wait.

I hear Sabine's bedroom door open about twenty minutes later, followed by the sound of soft footsteps padding toward the kitchen, and I straighten my posture, squaring my shoulders and trying to look like the kind of provider who would be worthy of a mate like her. My arms have started to glow again, faintly, responding to my nervous anticipation, and I force them to dim through sheer willpower as Sabine rounds the corner and stops dead in her tracks.

The sound she makes is not quite a scream. It's more of a strangled gasp, high-pitched and horrified, and her face goes through a series of expressions that I can't quite parse, from shock to disgust to something that might be fear and then back to disgust again. Her hand flies to her mouth, and she takes several rapid steps backward, nearly tripping over Meatball, who has moved to greet her with his usual enthusiasm.

"What," she says through her fingers, "is that?"

"Breakfast." I gesture at the spread with what I hope is welcoming pride. "Traditional Orcish morning meal. The beast-flank is especially good—it's been cured with salt and bloodroot spices for optimal flavor, and the marrow bones are fresh from a cave-ox I traded for last month. Very nutritious."

Sabine's eyes move slowly across the countertop, taking in the raw meat, the blood sausages, the faint red stains that have begun to seep into the white marble surface.

"There's blood. On my counters. There's blood on my counters, Jagger."

"The sausages leaked a little during transport. I can clean it up."

"There's raw meat. In my kitchen. On my counters. At seven in the morning."

"Among my people, a mate provides sustenance for⁠—"

"I can't." Sabine holds up one hand, cutting me off, and takes another step backward. "I can't do this. I can't have raw meat and blood and organs on my countertops. I have a system. I have routines. I eat oatmeal for breakfast, Jagger. Oatmeal. With exactly two tablespoons of brown sugar and a quarter cup of fresh berries and a precise splash of oat milk that I measure using a designated measuring cup."

I look at her, trying to process this information. "You... measure your oat milk?"

"Yes. Every morning. Because that's what normal people do. Normal people don't wake up to find animal carcasses spread across their kitchen like some kind of sacrificial altar."

"It's not a carcass, it's cured beast-flank⁠—"

"I don't care what it's called! I care that there's blood soaking into my marble countertops, which cost me three months' salary, and I care that my kitchen smells like a butcher shop, and I care that I'm going to have to bleach everything at least four times before I can even consider preparing food in here again!"