Page 47 of Ironling
His ears heated, and his instinct was to drop his gaze—but he couldn’t afford to, not when the conversation darted faster thanhummingbirds between flowers.
The maids and the potters began to debate better marital options, Fia arguing that none but a prince of the realm would do for Lady Aislinn. Hakon listened on, his chest tightening with every name they suggested and a growl building. Finally, it slipped past his lips.
He patted Wülf’s head, pretending it was him who made the sound when those nearest him looked up.
Hakon swallowed his growls and grumbles, shoving them deep down where he was trying to contain his ever-growing interest in the Darrow heiress.
She isn’t for you,he reminded himself. Not for the first time that day.
Still, he couldn’t help it when the conversation lulled and, without a mouth to watch, his gaze strayed to the high table.
Hakon’s heart kicked against his ribs when he found Lady Aislinn looking out across the hall—at him. She was as far away as she could be within the hall, all the way at the high table with her father and Baron Bayard, and yet, Hakon clearly saw the unhappy strain in her gaze.
She blinked, a blush overcoming her cheeks when she realized he looked back at her. Her gaze shifted away, back to the baron, who leaned nearly halfway across the table toward her, obviously trying to snare her attention.
The beast’s roar inside him was so loud, Hakon couldn’t hear anything else.
His eyes fixed on the baron, jealous rage incinerating his good sense. He could feel the growl rumbling in his chest, a bestial language older than words that meant but one thing—
Mate. Mine.
“Hakon?” A hand covered his.
His attention snapped like ice on a lake, disturbing his quiet, frigid focus.
He stared at the small female hand on his fist, willing away his no doubt murderous glare at the baron. By the time he looked upon Brigitt, he hoped at least he didn’t resemble the beast he felt raging just beneath the surface.
The maids and potters were all looking at him expectantly—Fia stared, something too close to understanding glinting in her eyes, but it was Brigitt who’d touched him and said his name. She smiled at him, though the expression had gone tight.
“Forgive me,” he hurried to say. “What did you ask?”
Brigitt smiled wider, leaning forward until her breasts pressed together atop the table.
“I just asked if orcish courtship is anything like that.”
Ears burning, Hakon cleared his throat to buy time. Her hand was still on his, her smile and breasts right there.
A female’s flirting with me.He’d grown a little more used to it over his weeks in the castle, although most of the women, and a few men, had soon looked elsewhere when he fell into work, leaving little time to flirt back or show anyone else any attention.
Her fingertips ran in circles over his hand, and her eyes had gone sultry. What he’d at first found thrilling, Hakon now didn’t know what to do with.
Words didn’t immediately come to him, and it was an awkwardly long time before he finally forced himself into an explanation of orcish customs. He told himself to look only at Brigitt, to turn his hand over so her palm would fall into his.
Explore this. Let your head be turned.
He told them of how an interested orc in Kaldebrak would often start with gifts, showing off their skill to catch the eye of their desired partner. Orcish courtship emphasized performative acts of interest; declarations were all well and good, but orcesses in particular were won over with consistent action to prove a potential mate’s devotion, commitment, and passion.
These acts were meant to foster a mate-bond, to help the potential partners decide if they would carry through with the final act of intertwining their lives, their hearts, their very souls. He left this part out, though—the mate-bond was a closely kept secret amongst orcs. It was their greatest strength, yet also their greatest vulnerability. Mated orcs were highly prized as warriors, for the need to protect a mate could quickly trigger a berserker rage, the likes of which were immortalized in the sagas.
He also didn’t tell them the old way of orcish courtship—when males would take their desired partner over their shoulder and disappear into the wilderness, sequestering away until a strong mate-bond formed. Partners were supposed to be willing, but the tradition fell out of favor when a few too many weren’t. In Kaldebrak, such a thing would be considered barbaric now, and Hakon figured the humans would see it that way, too.
What he did say seemed to please Brigitt, as her smile only grew. “And what sorts of gifts wouldyougive someone?” she asked.
Tooled silver quills. A gold torque the very same hue as her hair.
A whittled rose.
Fia coughed into her napkin.
