The first thing the skin-changer does is stare at me.

Not polite staring. Not curious staring.

The kind of staring that feels like being sniffed by something with teeth.

I am halfway through accepting a mug of something hot when he stops mid-step and inhales. Actually inhales. Like a wolf testing the wind.

My shoulders stiffen.

That cannot possibly be good.

Beorn’s eyes narrow slightly. Not angry. Not surprised.

Knowing.

That is somehow worse.

“You’re marked,” he says.

Just like that.

The word lands on the table harder than any axe.

Around me the Company stills.

Bofur pauses mid-sip.

Kíli stops talking—which is impressive.

And Thorin slowly lifts his head.

I do not answer immediately because there are moments in life where silence feels like the only intelligent decision available.

Unfortunately, Beorn keeps looking at me like I’m a very interesting piece of meat.

“I smell it,” he continues, voice low and certain. “That scent follows you. Whatever it is… whatever she is… it follows you.”

Ah.

Well.

There it is.

Across the table Thorin’s eyes narrow into something sharp enough to shave stone.

“…Fíli.”

That tone is familiar.

That tone usually precedes either a lecture or a weapon.

Possibly both.

Kíli leans toward me with the enthusiasm of a man about to watch a very entertaining disaster unfold.

“What did you do?” he whispers.

I sigh.

Because the answer to that question is, unfortunately, extremely complicated.

And also technically impressive.

Thorin’s voice drops another octave.

“What,” he asks slowly, “did you do?”

Every pair of eyes in the room is now on me.

Even the animals outside have probably stopped moving.

I rub the back of my neck.

“Well,” I say carefully, “in my defense—”

“Fíli.”

Right.

Straight to the point then.

I draw a breath.

“So,” I begin, glancing briefly at Beorn, who is still watching me with that unsettling animal calm, “I may or may not be… bond-mated.”

Silence crashes into the room.

Kíli chokes on air.

Bofur lowers his mug very slowly.

Thorin does not move.

Not even a blink.

“…You are what?”

“Bond-mated,” I repeat.

Technically accurate.

Also technically a disaster.

Kíli slaps a hand over his mouth, which is extremely unhelpful because it does nothing to hide the look of delighted horror on his face.

“To who?” Bofur asks faintly.

I hesitate.

Because this is the part that really makes things interesting.

Across the room Beorn answers for me.

“The Marsh Huntress,” he says.

The words settle into the air like a thrown spear.

Thorin’s expression changes.

Not confusion.

Recognition.

“Oh no,” Kíli breathes.

I grimace.

“Yes,” I confirm.

Thorin leans forward slowly, every inch of him radiating the calm fury of a king who has just discovered his heir has done something profoundly reckless.

“You,” he says carefully, “bonded yourself… to the Avari huntress.”

“Well when you say it like that it sounds worse.”

Kíli makes a strangled noise.

Beorn’s gaze remains fixed on me.

“You didn’t bond her,” he says quietly.

That gets my attention.

“What?”

“You didn’t bond her,” he repeats. “She bonded you.”

A slow smile spreads across my face despite the situation.

Yes.

Yes she did.

Across the table Thorin pinches the bridge of his nose like a man reconsidering several life decisions.

“You were gone three days,” he says.

“That sounds about right.”

“And in those three days,” he continues, voice dangerously calm, “you somehow managed to mate-bond yourself to a feral Avari chieftainess who hunts Silvan patrols for sport.”

I consider that.

“…When you put it like that it sounds impressive.”

Kíli finally loses the battle and bursts out laughing.

Thorin does not.

Beorn, however, does something far worse.

He smiles.

Not warmly.

Knowingly.

“That scent,” he says again, watching me like a man watching a storm roll in, “does not fade.”

I lean back in my chair, completely unbothered.

“Good,” I say.

Because if Sávrë ever comes looking for me again—

I very much intend to be exactly where she can find me.

My Wild Thing

My Mate

My Sávrë