Page 3 of Bewitching the Orc Chief (Silvermist Mates #1)

CHAPTER THREE

MIRANDA

A rough tongue dragged across my nose. I swatted blindly, grumbling as I burrowed deeper into the blanket. My head felt stuffed with cotton, limbs heavy with well-fucked bliss. Sleep could keep me a little longer.

“Not now, Gus,” I groaned.

Another lick and an insistent meow finally forced my eyes open. The sight of stone walls bolted me upright, clutching furs to my chest.

This wasn’t my bedroom. Hell, this wasn’t even my house .

“Where the hell am I?” I hissed at Gus, who simply blinked at me, tail swishing lazily. The bastard looked far too comfortable sprawled across unfamiliar pelts.

I closed my eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Think, Miranda. What would Lisabet do?

The thought of my former mentor sent a pang through my chest. She’d tell me to assess the situation. Gather information. Plan three steps ahead. Then bring unholy fire down on their heads.

Right. Okay. First things first: where the fuck was I?

The room was bigger than mine, but cozy. Thick furs covered a massive bed that could easily fit three people. Intricately carved wooden furniture lined the walls, each piece a work of art. A fire crackled merrily in a stone hearth, chasing away the chill that seeped through the rock.

“Grimstone,” I breathed. Had to be. The rough-hewn stone walls matched what I knew of the insular village Osen now led. Who else would have taken me from my bed and—I peeled back the blanket, frowning—dressed me in a tunic? Which meant…

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and there he was. All six-something feet of chiseled green muscle wrapped in flannel and jeans. Memories of last night—goddess, was it only last night?—flashed through my mind. Lips trailing down my neck, tusks dragging across my skin. His massive hands pinning my wrists as he?—

I shoved those thoughts aside. Now was not the time to get distracted by how good he looked or how badly I wanted to climb him like a tree. Again.

“Thank the ancestors! You’re awake.” His shoulders sagged with visible relief, and he crossed the room in three long strides. “I was worried last night when you wouldn’t stir, no matter what I tried. I thought... I thought something was wrong.”

Thank you, dark baptism, I thought bitterly. The demon-forged pact granted me knowledge and power, but it also untethered my soul. And what newly freed entity would willingly stay locked away in a sleeping body when an endless sea of dreams begged to be explored?

Thus, a witch’s need for a familiar to guard her while she slept like the dead.

“Then this beast showed up while you rested. Must have followed us all the way from town.” Osen flicked a guilty look at me. “I swear to you, he was inside when we left.”

My familiar—the little traitor—began to purr loudly as Osen scratched behind his ears. I shot Gus a betrayed look. So much for being my protector.

I inhaled deeply, gearing up for an apparently ally-less war. “So, you decided kidnapping was the logical next step?”

Osen’s head tilted to the side, reminding me of a puzzled puppy. If puppies were built like tanks and could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

“Kidnapped?” He tested the word like it was foreign on his tongue. “But you are neither a kid, nor did I nap you.”

If the situation played out on the screen and not in my actual fucking reality, I might have laughed at the genuine bewilderment in his voice. As it was, I could only gape at him.

“Are you serious right now?” I gestured wildly at the room. “You took me from my home without my consent. That’s the literal definition of kidnapping!”

“But you are my mate,” he said, as if that explained everything. His frown deepened. “Your place will always be at my side.”

I blinked, then blinked again. Mates? As in fated mates? I’d heard of mate bonds before—who hadn’t? But I’d always assumed they were myths. Romantic stories to give lonely hearts hope.

Part of me wanted to deny it. To scream that he was delusional. But I couldn’t ignore the way my magic had responded to him from the moment we met. The instant connection, the overwhelming need...

Fuck.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. “Osen. Even if that’s true—and I’m not saying it is—you can’t just... take people.”

“I thought the shaman could help.” Frustration roughened his tone. The bed dipped surprisingly little as he sank to sit at my side. “But the useless old goat isn’t even in town—called away to some emergency in the southern caves.”

Thank every god, goddess, and dark demon for small favors. The last thing I needed was some shaman poking around my aura.

“I’m fine.” I forced a smile. “Just a really heavy sleeper.”

Osen’s eyes narrowed. “No one sleeps that deeply, naturally.”

“Clearly I do.” I met his gaze steadily, years of practice keeping my expression neutral. Half-truths came as naturally as breathing these days.

The door banged open, making me jump. A younger orc burst in, collapsing dramatically into a nearby chair.

“Brother, you won’t believe what that ass Galan did to my latest commission. He’s taking over the entire shared space with those gaudy weapon racks and—” He broke off mid-rant, dark eyes going wide as they landed on me.

I squeaked—actually squeaked —and yanked the furs higher. The stranger’s mouth formed a perfect “o” of surprise.

A growl vibrated through Osen’s chest, and the shiver down my spine had nothing to do with fear. His shoulders went rigid as he shifted to block the intruder’s view. “Out. Now.”

“But—”

“ Torain. ” The name carried unmistakable warning.

I peeked around Osen’s broad back. The younger orc—Torain—scrambled from the chair and looked between us with a mix of confusion and curiosity. His face split into a shit-eating grin.

“So, this is the mysterious woman you met last night.” He waggled his eyebrows. “No wonder you missed the morning council?—”

“ Out. ”

The command crackled with authority. Torain threw up his hands in surrender, backing toward the door. “Fine, fine. But we need to discuss Galan attempting to transmute himself into the world’s biggest dick!”

The door clicked shut behind him. Osen’s shoulders stayed tense until his brother’s footsteps faded.

I drew in a shaky breath, trying to process... everything. The mate bond. Being whisked away to a hidden orc village. Meeting the chief’s family while wearing nothing but his tunic.

Osen’s shoulders remained taut, fists clenched at his sides as he glared at the closed door. Protectiveness radiated off him in waves.

Part of me wanted to roll my eyes at the display. I wasn’t some damsel who needed rescuing. Not from bedroom-bargers or stumbling drunks. And certainly not from perfectly unnatural side effects of magic.

But a smaller, troubling part of me, that same part who nearly fell over herself to invite the orc back to her place… kind of liked it. Which was even more ridiculous in the light of day and without any honey ale sloshing around my insides.

And yet...

Gus stretched his legs long, then curled into a tight croissant shape. My familiar had excellent instincts about people—better than mine, if I was honest. That he’d seemed utterly unbothered by Osen from the very first sniff spoke volumes.

“You really brought me here because you were worried?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“Of course I was worried.” Osen’s posture softened as he turned back to me. His hand settled on my knee through the blanket, and electricity crackled along my nerves. “You are mine to protect and care for. What kind of mate would I be if I left you vulnerable?”

Mate.

There it was again. The word sent tingles through my body, my magic humming in response. What did it mean to be mated to an orc? To be tied to their clan chief, no less? Everything I knew about orcs came from outsider perspectives or sanitized history books.

I should be terrified. Should be plotting my escape from the mountain stronghold and the chief who’d claimed me.

But even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew I wouldn’t. Curiosity had always been my downfall. And if I was honest… I wanted to know more about the orc who’d turned my world upside down in a single night.

His thumb traced maddening circles on my skin, and I gritted my teeth against the surge of desire. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” Osen’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. “But you’re also mine. And I intend to prove it.”

Goddess help me, I wanted him to try.

Osen’s gaze flicked to the door, and a hint of regret slumped his shoulders. “I should deal with whatever drama is unfolding in the workshop before they come to blows. As much as I’d rather stay here with you.”

The loss of his touch left me cold. I pulled the furs tighter, trying to ignore the sting of rejection. Stupid. Of course he had responsibilities. He was a damn clan chief! And space was good. I’d have a chance to think clearly, to plan my next move. Maybe devise an escape plan or ten.

“You’re welcome to join me,” he added, hope clear in his voice. “If you’re feeling up to it. Our woodworking is something of a point of pride.”

I found myself smiling back, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. Not rejection, then—inclusion.

“I’d like that.” I bit my lip and peeked under the blanket at my—his—tunic. Not a problem under normal circumstances, but I hesitated to use a glamour in mixed company. “But um, clothes?”

His entire face lit up, and something in my chest squeezed painfully. Unholy hell, he was adorable for someone who could bench press a car.

Ten minutes and multiple apologies for not thinking to grab any of my things later, we stepped out of Osen’s front door. My first step into Grimstone was focused on adjusting the hastily borrowed clothes I suspected belonged to someone’s child, but the second? The second spread a huge grin all through my body.

The remote orc village sprawled through a narrow valley, with winding paths worn by generations of feet connecting the buildings. The homes and shops were carved directly into the mountainside, with peaked porches and gardens marking the boundaries. Everywhere I looked, orcs went about their morning routines—sweeping shop porches, tending gardens, children racing and playing in the street.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

Osen’s chest puffed with pride. “Our ancestors chose well when they settled here.”

Curious eyes followed us as we made our way through the village. Some nodded respectfully to Osen. Others gawked at me, expressions ranging from suspicious to hostile. I lifted my chin, refusing to shrink under their scrutiny. I’d survived worse than dirty looks.

“Don’t be fooled,” Osen rumbled in my ear. “They are all dying to know who you are.”

“But who is doing the dying?” I muttered under my breath.

He chuckled and gave my waist a comforting squeeze. The protective gesture sparked a riot of butterflies in my belly.

The workshop occupied a large cave mouth near the valley’s heart. Warm light spilled from the entrance, along with a rich, earthy scent that mixed with oil and leather. Half-finished pieces dotted the room. Delicate carvings adorned chair backs and table legs—scenes of hunts and battles alongside flowing abstract patterns.

“Chief!” A muscular orc with elaborate braids waved from a workbench. His grin turned wolfish as he spotted me. “I see the rumors are true.”

“The mysterious lady emerges, fully clothed this time.” The younger orc from earlier—Torain—offered his hand to shake, then bent over and kissed the air just above my skin. “I’m Torain, by the way. Osen’s infinitely more charming brother.”

The wink only emphasized his point. As did Osen’s annoyed growl.

“Ignore this idiot.” The other orc smacked Torain’s shoulder, who winged out an elbow in retaliation. “I’m Zral. Welcome to our humble workspace.”

“Miranda,” I said, finding myself oddly charmed by their easy banter. It reminded me of... no. Best not to think about the coven right now. “Nice to meet you properly. Both of you.”

“Someone has to mind the etiquette around here.” Zral gestured at the chaos of tools and wood scraps littering one corner. “Speaking of which,” his attention turned to Osen, “Galan stepped out, but he should be back soon. Maybe you can talk some sense into him about proper tool storage.”

“That would require him listening to reason.” Torain rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that.”

The workshop door creaked open, and the temperature seemed to drop by ten degrees. Zral and Torain’s faces hardened, twin glares directed over my shoulder. I turned to find a new orc filling the doorway, his stance rigid with disapproval.

The newcomer’s eyes landed on me immediately, narrowing with suspicion. “What’s this human doing here?”

“Being shown proper hospitality,” Zral drawled. “You remember hospitality, don’t you? Or has your father’s obsession with tradition squeezed out everything else?”

Galan’s face darkened. “The workshop is for clan members only.”

“This human ,” Osen’s voice held a dangerous edge, “is my guest.”

I leaned against a workbench. The simmering tension in the room set my teeth on edge, and I was once again reminded of the coven. Of petty politics and ruthless posturing, where each encounter was a chess game of influence and social maneuvering.

Give me a simple dark ritual over family drama any day. Especially when I seemed to spike the punch by existing.

“Oh, just a guest then. A human guest, witnessing our trade secrets. After what they’ve done?” Galan stalked to his workbench. “But what do I know? I’m just an old-fashioned fool who thinks some things are worth preserving.”

“No one’s abandoning anything.” Torain’s cheerful mask slipped. “But maybe if you spent less time sulking and more time actually working?—”

“Are you implying I don’t pull my weight?” Galan slammed his tools down. “Rich, coming from someone who wastes good wood on frivolous trinkets.”

“My ‘frivolous trinkets’ bring in more coin than your weapon racks.” Torain’s voice rose. “Which might actually sell if we still raided other villages for?—”

“Raids?” Galan barked a harsh laugh. “Why bother raiding when we invite our enemies through the front gates?” His nostrils flared as he took an exaggerated sniff in my direction. “And into our beds.”

My shoulders went rigid. Oh, that’s how he wanted to play? My magic stirred under my skin, ready for an excuse to lash out.

“Enough.”

One word. Just one. But it rippled through the workshop like thunder. Osen didn’t raise his voice or resort to violence. He simply stepped forward, and even I wanted to shrink back from his imposing presence.

“The world changes.” Osen pinned Galan with an icy glare. “We adapt or die. My father understood that.”

“And look where that got him.” Galan’s lip curled into an ugly sneer. “Atop a burning pyre because he chose outsiders over his own people.”

The workshop exploded into motion. Torain lunged forward with a roar of rage, but Zral and Osen moved faster. They caught him mid-leap, muscles straining to hold back the younger orc’s fury.

“You bastard!” Torain thrashed against their grip. “How dare you?—”

But Galan had already stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the tools on their hooks. The echo faded into heavy silence, broken only by Torain’s ragged breathing.

My nails dug into my palms, and I forced my fingers to relax before frost could creep across the workbench. Dark magic pulsed beneath my skin, feeding on the tension and anger filling the room.

Not now, I ordered it silently. Stay down.

“He’s not worth it.” Zral’s grip on Torain loosened. “You know he’s just trying to get a rise out of you.”

The look he exchanged with Osen said otherwise.

Most of the world didn’t give a second thought to the otherness of the monster population. Orcs were just one of the bunches who’d stepped out of the shadows over a hundred years ago. Places like Silvermist Falls fought small-town prestige wars over who welcomed their non-human brethren first. Hell, our date happened because the last minotaur on Earth fiddled with some code, slapped a pretty wrapper on the interface, and upended the dating app scene.

But there were always idiots willing to hate first, ask questions never. And like the coven, it seemed the traditionalists here had teeth.

Torain shrugged them off, running shaky hands through his hair. “Sorry. I just... when he talks about Father like that...”

“I know.” Osen squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “But bloodying his nose won’t change his mind.”

Zral snorted. “At least it would be entertaining.”

Osen scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. The slight break in tension disappeared as his gaze found mine, concern darkening his eyes.

“You okay?” His voice dropped low enough that only I could hear.

I nodded, though my skin still hummed with restless magic. Hard to explain that Galan’s prejudice wasn’t the worst I’d faced—not when my own coven wanted me dead.

“Come on.” Osen’s hand found the small of my back. “We could all use a drink. The Limp Dagger’s got a fresh cask of barrel-aged ale.”

“Only because you just delivered it.” Zral tossed a handful of wood chips at him. “Months after promising to brew it, I might add.”

“Apologies,” Osen said smoothly. “I had to take charge of an unruly orc clan first.”

Torain snickered half-heartedly as we filed out the door. Zral kept up a string of complaints about delayed deliveries and bartered favors, but the tension around Osen’s eyes betrayed his carefully neutral expression.

I bit my lip and tried to ignore all the questions gathering in the back of my mind, but it was no use. There was a puzzle to solve, and I prodded at the edges like a healing bruise I couldn’t stop touching.

The same curiosity that had driven me to dig through the coven’s archives, to question every inconsistency until I discovered their horrific truth, now pulled at new loose threads. Osen’s recent rise to power after his father’s death. The clan’s conspicuous absence from Silvermist that even my trusted bartender Vanin had noted. The fresh scar I’d traced on Osen’s skin. Galan’s bitter warnings about outsiders being the death of tradition.

Something ugly had happened here. Something that left the clan divided and Osen walking a precarious line as their new chief.

A horn blasted through the valley, followed by excited shouts. Osen’s stride faltered as voices rose from the village center. We rounded the path’s bend to find a crowd gathering around two figures—one in elaborate ceremonial robes with a staff that radiated old magic, the other bearing Galan’s stern features aged by decades of disapproval.

Galan pushed through the throng to join them, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he bent to whisper in their ears. The shaman’s gaze locked onto me with such seething suspicion that my magic coiled defensively beneath my skin. Beside him, the older orc—who had to be Galan’s father—curled his lip in unmistakable disgust.

Well, shit. So much for that drink.