Sorrel woke slowly, his body luxuriating in the absence of muscle cramps, back aches, or neck pain. Sleeping in his truck had given him all three for over a week.
His eyes popped open when he realized he wasn't in his truck and didn't know where he was. The sight of a stone ceiling disconcerted him. He propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at his surroundings and found to some relief he wasn't in a prison cell. He was in a bedroom—a normal, if rustic bedroom. The combination of hand-carved wood furniture and fur rugs wouldn't have been out of place in a hunting lodge. The massive fireplace at the far end of the room only reinforced the impression.
A soft giggle drew his attention to the foot of the bed where a little boy peeked over the edge. The tiny horns on his forehead marked him as an ogre—and that was all Sorrel needed to remember the night before. Or, most of it, at least. Things were still a little foggy toward the end, but he remembered asking the ogre shaman for a bed. The guy must have followed through on his promise, even after Sorrel dropped from what he assumed was Thaumaturgical Fever.
He found it disturbing he hadn't seen any of the Fever's usual warning signs. He hadn't even broken a sweat. Calamities were his specialty and this one had been one of the simplest in a while. Sure, simple didn't always mean easy, but—
The little boy giggled again, distracting Sorrel from his thoughts, then ran out of the room. He returned a few moments later with a giant, long-haired ogre who had to duck to get through the doorway. Sorrel didn't even want to guess how tall he was, assuming he could focus long enough to speculate. His full attention diverted to the giant's bare chest. It was broad, muscular, and lightly furred. Sorrel had never been into that kind of thing, but damn if his heart didn't jump into high gear at the sight.
He barely noticed the little boy scurrying back out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
"I am Armin, Chief of the Maple Clan," the giant greeted in a deep tenor. The hesitance in his tone was endearing, even if Sorrel couldn't grasp why such a big man might feel nervous—and he was definitely nervous. He kept wiping his palms on the thighs of his low-hung denim jeans. Every time he did it, Sorrel traced the gesture with his eyes, then struggled to keep himself from drooling at the way the ogre's stomach muscles rippled with the movement.
Armin looked hot—and that was odd. Sorrel had always preferred slender, nearly androgynous men, not tough looking bikers with sun-weathered features. He wasn't at all handsome in the traditional sense. Why on earth would Sorrel feel such a pull—
"No," he whispered as it hit him.
"Yes," Armin replied. The surety in his voice made it clear he knew what Sorrel had realized. "Your former mate was a fool. His stupidity is my gain."
Sorrel opened his mouth to respond, but found himself unable to emit a sound. His mind refused to wrap around the idea that this... this ogre—not that he had anything against ogres—was saying they'd somehow mated. It was impossible. This was impossible. He had to still be asleep. It the only logical explanation for why he'd conjure such a wild fantasy.
Armin bowed slightly as if he'd once again read Sorrel's mind. "I'll give you some time to mull it over." He gestured to a curtained doorway on the side of the room. "There's a bathing chamber through there. Feel free to make yourself at home. When you're ready to eat, just poke your head out the door and whistle. One of the children will be happy to guide you wherever you want to go."
Sorrel finally found his voice. "And if I want to leave?"
He expected Armin to be upset by the question, but a content smile brightened Armin's face, almost as if hearing Sorrel's voice had answered his deepest wish. "Anything you want, dearest. I will do my best to give you space, if that is what you desire, but I can't promise more than a few hours before my instincts will get the better of me and I'll need to check on your welfare."
Sorrel didn't want to do it, but he automatically compared Armin to the mate who'd rejected him so many years ago. Allan had been born into entitlement, raised to embrace prejudice, and corrupted beyond saving before Sorrel ever met him. Of course, he'd tried to make it work anyway, but their brief affair had ended in under a month.
No one had known they were mates. Sorrel hadn't understood why Allan wanted it that way until after he overheard Allan trying to squash the rumors about them by telling everyone Sorrel was just a hireling. When Sorrel confronted him about it, the bastard explained in detail why he considered Sorrel to be an unsuitable mate and detailed his plan to marry a high-society witch who could bear his children.
Nothing Sorrel said got through to Allan. It'd been enough to make him suspect mind control, except every counter-spell and curse-breaking charm he tried had been completely ineffective. By the time Allan had married his wife—changing his name to Alabaster in the process—Sorrel had come to the conclusion there was no foul play at work except Alabaster's ego and ambition.
It'd been a relief for both of them when Sorrel finally gave up and walked away.
"You'd come after me?" Sorrel asked, dragging himself out of the bitter memories.
Armin's eyes softened with sadness as he asked, "Do you have to ask?"
Sorrel shrugged. Armin sighed in sympathy. "Yes, my sweet mate. You are mine. I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, if necessary. If you allowed it, I'd spend every second by your side. I have no intention of hiding my claim on you, as I hope you'll eventually claim me in return."
"But you don't know me," Sorrel argued. "You might dislike—"
"You're my mate," he replied, as if that took care of everything.
"But—"
"You're my mate," he repeated. This time, Sorrel felt it in his bones. Mate. When was the last time Sorrel had held any awe at the word? How long since he'd believed a mate-bond could be anything more than a curse?
"It might take me some time to accept," Sorrel admitted.
"Take all the time you need." Armin turned and headed out the door, intending to give Sorrel his space.
Space was the last thing Sorrel needed. "I'll allow it," he called out.
Armin froze in the doorway, his conical horns brushing the top frame. His head tilted with confusion as he looked over his shoulder at Sorrel.
"You said you'd stay by my side if I allowed it," Sorrel said, feeling uncommonly shy. "Well, I'll allow it."
A slow smile spread across Armin's face as he pulled back into the room and closed the door once more. Sorrel didn't have time to wonder what he'd unleashed. He barely blinked and Armin was already across the room, one knee pressing down on the edge of the mattress as he leaned over to—
"Oh," Sorrel gasped as Armin pressed a firm kiss against his temple. The one small gesture was more intimate than anything Allan had offered in all the time they'd known each other.
"Thank you," Armin whispered, his warm breath caressing Sorrel's cheek. His arms wrapped around his waist and dragged him into a bear hug as if he weighed nothing. Sorrel remained tense at first, but relaxed as the hug continued. It almost felt like Armin didn't want to let him go.
"What are your plans for today?" Armin asked conversationally. Sorrel struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Would wonders never cease? Armin was obviously an Alpha, yet here he was assuming Sorrel would take the lead?
It took Sorrel a few moments to regain his wits after that particular shock, but he eventually answered, "I need to check in with my work. My boss is probably frantic since I didn't check in last night. I should go see my dad, too. I've never dropped from Thaumaturgical Fever before."
"Never?" Armin asked, his voice deepening with displeasure. "Viraz made it sound like a common occurrence among mages."
Sorrel shrugged. "I'm from hardier stock than most. But it's okay. My dad will be able to tell me what caused it, so I don't trigger it again." Sorrel hesitated before asking, "What time is it?"
"Seven, maybe eight," he said. "Breakfast time for ogres was hours ago."
"Holy crap!" Sorrel pulled out of Armin's embrace and stared up at him in disbelief. "When do you wake up, the ass crack of dawn?"
Armin snorted, then let loose with a booming laugh. "It seems like it, sometimes." His smile faded, but didn't disappear as he continued, "Unfortunately, it's ingrained in our species. Most prey are weakest at dawn."
"That doesn't sound ominous," Sorrel muttered sarcastically.
"I am an ogre, dearest." He gently rubbed his massive palm down Sorrel's back to soothe him. "If you believe the old tales, then we're all cannibals and baby-killers. Even in modern times, long after we've integrated ourselves into city life and proven ourselves as thinking beings, people remain wary and distrustful of us. Few bother to ask if the old tales were true."
"Are they?" Sorrel asked.
"Yes, and no. My people were created by the Horseman of Conquest. In the beginning, we were his soldiers—his army. I have no doubt some of my ancestors might have fallen to cannibalism to survive harsh winters of battle. But that doesn't mean we weren't bred with other aspects in mind." The heavy hand on Sorrel's back lightened to a soft, teasing caress of his fingertips. The touch communicated Armin's contentment in Sorrel's willingness to hearing him out.
"Ogres are natural farmers and herders, arborists and healers," he continued. "Once we were no longer needed as soldiers, it was our fate to tend to the fields and pens of the conquered, repairing any damage from battle and securing a steady food supply. So you can probably imagine how it'd benefit us to wake up with the dawn like roosters."
Sorrel wrinkled his nose. "That seems kind of ignoble, the way you say it. It almost sounds as if you were meant to be beasts of burden yourselves."
Armin laughed. "Yes, but I have no doubt it would have been heaven to the ogre soldiers who'd lived through hell on the battlefield."
"Then I suppose it's a good thing Conquest hadn't been feeling particularly ambitious this millenia. I'd hate..." Sorrel trailed off, not knowing how he wanted to finish that particular sentence. He barely knew Armin, yet the idea of him bloodied from war—he shivered.
Armin cleared his throat. "This conversation became heavier than I intended. Why don't you take a shower and relax, then you can tell me about your father over breakfast since you already know about mine?"
Sorrel didn't feel a need to argue. He rolled away from Armin and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He blushed as he had to hop off the edge and drop several inch before his feet ever touched the ground.
Armin's comment hit him at the same time he reached the bathroom door. He spun around and gaped. "You're Conquest's son?"
"Adopted," Armin said without fanfare. "After my parents returned to the earth prematurely, he watched over me until I was ready to take root as Chieftain. It's nothing special. He'd do it for any ogre orphan—not that we have many. Ogres are blessed with a hardiness to rival most species."
"Yes, but—"
"It's Conquest," Armin supplied knowingly. "He's very impressive specimen for a demigod, but you needn't worry. He reveres Fate. I have no doubt he'll become your champion as soon as he learns of Her blessings on us."
"I hope so," Sorrel mumbled, mostly to himself. Despite Armin's reassurances, he was still in shock. It wasn't every day a lowly Warlock—a perpetual outcast of modern magical society—learned he was mated to the son of one of the most influential beings in the earthbound world.
There was no telling whether his life was about to get very good or very bad, but he did know it was about to get very, very messy.