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Still, I need to hear Ivar say it—to admit he was just using me all along. “Orcs can only get it up by concentrating on their dynasty and their goal of cranking out ogre babies?”
“Yes, it is true,” he confirms. “Orcs harbor no carnal desire and often have to focus on dynasty to give forth seed.”
“Well, Ivar…” My heart sinks as I bitterly rewrite every single thing that happened at our Orc version of a wedding. “You have exceptional focus.”
“This is also true.” Ivar fully removes the bracer. “I followed my Swan Stag for nearly one hundred rises of the moon in order to capture him and convince him to accept my reins and live out the remainder of his life in my stable.”
Swan Stags are the gigantic Quinnverse equivalent of a Pegasus, except instead of horse muzzles, they have beaks and a majestic set of antlers. And instead of carrying passengers on their backs, they magically ferry sleds across the sky, like Santa’s reindeer. Having a Swan Stag is the Middle Realm equivalent of driving a custom sports car in our world—something reserved for the incredibly rich and powerful.
My eyes widen. “You have a Swan Stag?”
“We have a Swan Stag,” he corrects. “Everything I possess now also belongs to you, Empress. Our Swan Stag is currently in the realm of the Southern Orc King, coupling with his Goose Doe for hopeful offspring. If you wish, after our ogre’s birth, our new family can take a trip there and return with him drawing us by sky sled.”
I can’t even begin to imagine seeing a Swan Stag, much less getting to fly through the air in a sky sled, which I’m already guessing is made of solid gold.
But then, my excitement dies when I realize, “You’re trying to bribe me into staying on for brood mare status with a Swan Stag trip.”
“I am hoping to paint a version of our future that might appeal to you.” Ivar shakes his head, a sad smile forming underneath his tusks.
“You believe you are merely a vessel to me. You truly think I could have chosen any other female in that line. As you said, you barely know me, so I cannot fault your reasoning. But…”
Ivar takes a step back, and a solemn hush seems to fall over the cave rotunda as he says his next words: “I have known you since the moment I lifted your face. And when it comes to you, Little Bride…”
He thrusts out the top of his right forearm with a closed fist to show me his tattoo. It has expanded since last night and now stretches from his wrist nearly to his elbow.
“I am in full thrall.”
Chapter 21
Star Thrall
“Idon’t understand.” I blink at the expanded artwork. “I mean, nice tattoo. But what does it have to do with me?”
“This is not an ink drawing rendered by a goblin versed in the skin arts.” Ivar bares his teeth, as if I’ve offended him. “It is a mark—one that was scored into my skin the moment I looked upon you. What we Orcs call Star Thrall.”
His gaze softens. “This mark only appears when we encounter our star-fated mate, and it will grow along with my caring for you over the next few centuries until it eventually covers my entire body. Everyone who looks upon me will know that I have a star-fated mate.”
Okay, there’s… there’s no way I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing. “And by star-fated, do you mean nice birthing hips?”
“No, Little Bride.” A small smile upturns his lips. “Though your soft curves please me much.”
He reaches for my waist, but I swat his hands away. “Then why weren’t you there when I woke up this morning?”
“Because my ever-burning desire for you is a battle I keep losing.” The smile fades. “In truth, everything about you pleases me too much. Orcs harbor no true carnal desire, unless they are struck by Star Thrall. That is what Grak should have said.… What he perhaps does not realize. It happens so rarely that even I believed it might be a fireside tale told to orclings until I myself was seized by Star Thrall and it scored itself onto my wrist.”
I try to wrap my head around all this new information. “So you’re saying you weren’t just pretending to like me?”
“Little Bride,” he whispers, “I more than like you. I am utterly enthralled. If I was pretending anything upon that throne, it was in service of cloaking the extent of my need for you. I did not wish to overwhelm you with the mania of my thrall.”
Ivar curls the fist with the Star Thrall tattoo and presses it into his chest. “It feels as if my mind has been taken by the bonfire of my thirst for you—a thirst that cannot easily be slaked. No matter how many times I claim you, it rises again with just a beholding of your beautiful face.”
He drops his head and averts his eyes. “Little Bride was seeded at first joining—Emperor could smell change in Little Bride’s scent. Yet Emperor extended ceremony to ancient version that has not been practiced in millennia, just so Emperor could claim Little Bride again and again.”
His voice harshens with his confession. “Even after needlessly extended ceremony, Ivar could not keep hands off Star-fated Bride. A few words from Little Bride’s sweet tongue last eve, and Emperor was lost to thrall again. Emperor went too far. Little Bride passed out upon Emperor’s sword because Emperor lost to endless hunger for sweet clench of Little Bride’s cunt.”
With a low rumble deep in his chest, he returns to the Common Tongue. “Even with my guilt over claiming you needlessly until you could no longer withstand it, my body remained in its fevered thrall. I could barely sleep beside you.”
His voice drops to a rasp. “This morning, I called a hunt and put Grak at your bedside to tend to you because I knew I would not be able to give you the time you need to rest unless I removed myself from your vicinity. But I could not concentrate on catching food, so I came here… to petition the Mother Goddess for the safe delivery of our ogres… and to protect you from me. But then, I caught your scent before I could open up my hand for my blood offering.”
