Lorien POV
Her answer still surprised me. “It’s been ages since we had a refugee cross the border,” she said, as if I were some oddity to be catalogued.
“I’m not a refugee. I’m with my mate.” I kept my voice steady.
“But you’re not marked.”
“Why does everyone keep asking that? It’s nobody’s business.” I wanted to snap that she wasn’t wearing a ring either though there was a faint, angry bruise at the base of her throat that looked suspiciously like a hickey. She wasn’t married, and I didn’t bear a mark. What difference did either make? The questions felt pointless; they had no right to pry.
“It means you’re unclaimed,” she said, lifting an eyebrow in a knowing smirk, like she held some private map I hadn’t been given.
“Alright, ladies. Line up.” A woman in black swept into the room,
