Page 30 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights

THORNAK

T he world’s turned to frost and hush again.

Late autumn slipped off with barely a whisper, and winter swept in right behind her, scattering thin blankets of white across the orchard like a careless maid shaking out table linens.

The old branches stand dark and bare under the weight of it, every twig etched in delicate crystal lines that glitter when the sun gets high enough to peek through.

I’ve always liked winter, if I’m honest. Quiet time.

Slower days. Gives me an excuse to linger by the hearth, mend my tools, carve little scraps of wood into things no one ever needs but everyone seems glad to have.

But this year, winter’s different. It hums under my skin, a bright, almost reckless sort of hope that keeps curling up around my ribs until I have to stop what I’m doing just to let it settle.

Because this year, she’s here. And so’s the little one growing right under her heart.

I stand back from the half-finished frame of the new bakery wing, arms crossed, breath misting out in long plumes that disappear quick in the sharp air.

It’s solid work—sturdy beams, roof sloped just right to shed the snow.

Maddie’s been dreaming of extra ovens and wide, bright windows for years.

I told her I’d build it come spring, but watching her now with her belly rounding out gentle and proud, I couldn’t wait.

Even if my joints bark at me every night for the extra hours. Even if she fusses something fierce whenever she catches me out here with my sleeves rolled up, hammering away in the dark like I’m twenty winters younger.

“Thornak Ironjaw,” she calls from the porch now, hands braced on her hips, her voice all stern brightness that doesn’t fool me for a second.

“Don’t you dare pretend you’re not planning to lift that whole support beam by yourself.

Wait for Garris to get here—he said he’d swing by after delivering flour. ”

I grunt without turning, just to rile her up. “Didn’t hear nothin’. Could’ve been the wind scolding me.”

“Ha!” Her laugh floats across the yard, bright and sharp as sleigh bells. “Biggest wind in this orchard’s standing right there with sawdust in his hair, trying to act innocent.”

I turn finally, just to catch the way her smile tugs a little shy when our eyes meet, like she still can’t quite believe we’re here. Together. Building this.

It does something to me every single time. Even now, with snow creeping under my collar and calluses split from cold.

She starts down the steps slow, one hand under her belly, the other trailing along the railing I built last month so she’d have something sturdy to cling to when the ground gets slick.

I meet her halfway, big hands bracing at her waist before she can pretend she doesn’t need the help.

She makes a little sound, half surprise, half delight, and tips her head up to brush her lips against my jaw.

“You’ve got sawdust in your beard,” she teases.

I grumble low, nipping her ear. “Keeps the frost from settling there. Practical, really.”

“Oh yes, you’re the very picture of practicality,” she sighs, pressing her forehead to my chest. “Building me a whole new bakery wing just because I offhandedly mentioned needing more shelves.”

“Didn’t build it for shelves,” I mutter, squeezing her close so careful, like she’s made of spun sugar. “Built it for you. So you can have room to chase every bright idea that pops into that head. And so our little one can grow up with the smell of cinnamon buns in every board.”

Her breath catches soft, and I feel her grin right against my neck. “You’re going to spoil us both absolutely rotten, you know that?”

“Plan to,” I say, rough and certain.

We stand there a minute longer, her hands idly stroking over my arms, my fingers tracing lazy circles across her spine. Then she pulls away just enough to arch a brow at me.

“I saw you sneaking one of the apple custard pies off the cooling rack this morning.”

I give her my best scowl, though it probably looks more like a half-smirk. “It was leaning too close to the edge. Could’ve fallen. Dangerous thing.”

“Uh-huh. Very noble of you, protecting the bakery from... pies.”

“Could’ve cracked the tiles,” I insist, deadpan. “I did it for flooring integrity.”

She snorts so hard she nearly doubles over. “Thornak Ironjaw: orchard savior, pie martyr.”

A light flurry starts up then, little flakes dancing around us, catching in her dark curls and melting along her lashes.

I reach up without thinking, brushing them away, my thumb lingering at her cheek.

She leans into it, eyes half-closing, and for a heartbeat the whole world narrows to just this—her breath misting into mine, her belly pressing soft against me, the promise of everything still to come shimmering between us.

“Love you,” she whispers, so quiet it’s nearly lost in the rustling branches.

It hits me square in the chest like it always does—every damned time she says it, it’s brand new. I swallow hard, duck my head so my forehead rests against hers.

“You’re my whole damn heart, Maddie Quinn. You and the little one. I’ll be carvin’ it into fence rails for years, just so the trees remember whose orchard this really is.”

She lets out this sweet, watery laugh, and suddenly we’re both grinning like fools.

Then I do the only thing that makes sense.

I pull her in and kiss her under the drifting snow, my hands splayed gentle around her waist, hers curled up in my beard like she can’t bear to let me pull back.

It’s slow and tender and so deep it feels like it roots right through my ribs.

The orchard sighs around us—branches shifting, a soft crack of frost underfoot, lanterns from the porch sending out little warm halos that blur the world at the edges.

When we finally break, she presses her lips once more to mine, then murmurs, “Promise me forever, Thornak.”

And I do, voice low and breaking right down the middle. “Forever’s too short. You’ve got me beyond that.”

We stand there long after the first snow has started to settle on our shoulders, the orchard breathing around us, the house behind glowing with promise. And I swear right then—under winter’s hush, with her tucked safe in my arms—there’s not a force in any realm that could tear me from this.

From her. From us.