Her answer momentarily redirects my brain cells from fucking, thank Ulu. “Are you married to a Russian?”

My understanding of human politics isn’t the best, but I know this is one way a person might have dual citizenship—and it enrages me.

Something dangerous and possessive rears its head inside of me at the thought of her being beholden to another, even in something as trivial as human matrimony.

The verbal vows humans say to one another can never compare to the process of imprinting a piece of your soul onto your mate, as Ithaqua do.

“No, I’m not married.”

Relief courses through me. “Then how are you Russian but not?”

“I imagine I’m much like you. Do you consider yourself Russian?”

Her question throws me. “No, I’m an Ithaqua. I merely reside in Russia.”

“Exactly, and I’m a Tatar Jew. My father was a Siberian Tatar, and my mother was a Jewish Tatar. She moved to America, where I was born, but her family lived in Kazan. Both my parents spoke Russian, but I learned a little Sybyr, the Siberian Tatar language.”

“So you speak English, too?”

“Yep. How about you?”

“Russian and Ithaquan.”

Zhuliya hums, and I finally turn back to her, carrying various items that I didn’t consciously choose.

“Will you say something in Ithaquan?”

Her request takes me by surprise, but not as much as the words that come tumbling out of my mouth. “Min ere sangarabyn ulakhan makhtal.”

The ancient mating vow flows from me with more fluidity than rain pouring through an unclogged gutter. I stare at Zhuliya’s bare back in horror.

“How lovely sounding. What did you say?”

“Uh, congratulations on winning the contest,” I lie, still partially in shock.

“How do I say, ‘thank you’?”

Again, my mouth speaks without permission. “Mi’ere sin.”

“Mi’ere sin,” she repeats, and my hands tremble.

I’m yours.

Fuck, I never should’ve let Yuri leave. In less than five minutes alone with this woman, I’ve taken the first steps in solidifying an Ithaqua mating bond—my vow and her agreement.

It doesn’t matter that Zhuliya is clueless, or I wasn’t thinking. Once the words are spoken, it sets the wheel in motion.

With every fiber of my being, I meant what I said. This unsuspecting, gorgeous creature who showed up in my life by pure chance is mine, whether she realizes it or not.

And I am hers.

“Everything alright?”

Zhuliya’s request snaps me back to the reality that I emphatically cannot mate with this woman.

Not without her knowledge, not at all.

She’s not my type, doesn’t even live on this side of the world, is a fraction of my size, and likely isn’t even attracted to monsters with skulls for faces.

Is any human woman?

“Yep, just…getting in the right headspace.”

I rub at my brow. Everything inside my brain right now is fucked six ways to Sunday. I couldn’t get in the right mindset if I tried, but I have to.

Zhuliya is a client and this is her birthday gift to herself, not to mention a prize she won for her own amazing talent.

She wants something special—deserves something special—and I’m going to give it to her.

Blocking out my thoughts and emotions is like trying to stave off a blizzard with my two hands, but I force myself to focus.

Her back is small compared to the other monstrous forms I’ve inked over the years. The delicate knots of her spine bump up as she leans forward, getting more comfortable in the chair.

Only the tops of her shoulders have ink from her sleeves, but the rest of her skin is bare and unblemished.

Her flesh is light-colored, but not nearly as light as my fur, making her appear tanned in comparison. My own skin, though, is many shades darker and gray, like my horns.

Where my coloring is cool, Zhuliya’s is warm, and I marvel at the contrast as I run a claw down the curve of her spine.

A shudder wracks her body, and my stoyuk twitches. I’m worried that I might not actually be able to perform—for work, obviously, as I’m more than up for the task sexually—when an idea takes root in my mind.

I have no clue where it comes from, but the creative vision grips me with its beauty and intricacies, much like the woman before me.

After I prep Zhuliya’s back, I grab my irons and get to work. The tiny female doesn’t even so much as flinch when the needle starts tapping over her skin.

For all my fear of not being able to do this, I’m instantly lost in my craft. I’ve set aside all the colored tattoo pigments, choosing to do blackwork instead.

Time flies by, and I’m so immersed that it takes me a moment to register that Zhuliya cries out a little now and again.

Shaking out of my stupor a bit, I ask if she’s ok. Humans are more susceptible to pain than most of my other clients, and the bones of the spine are a sensitive area.

“Da,” she says in a low voice laced with an emotion that I can’t interpret.

Afraid that I might lose the vision sparking through my mind, I dive back in while making a conscious effort to ensure she’s comfortable.

Not once does she wiggle or fidget, like so many of my other clients—tested by the needle and for staying still for so long—but I do notice her hands clasped together, the knuckles white with strain.