Page 18 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
GARRUK
I know she’s not ready to hear it—hell, I’m not ready to say it—but the orchard’s hum has turned to a growl underfoot, and I feel the weight of what I’ve buried press harder with every step I take toward the porch where she waits, arms folded tight across her chest like she’s already bracing for a blow she doesn’t understand yet.
The dusk is thick tonight, heavy with the kind of quiet that comes before something breaks.
The orchard’s whisper isn’t wind—it’s warning.
The glyphs down my spine itch like they've been summoned. My boots hit the wood with a finality that makes her lift her head, and I see it—right there in her eyes—that flash of hope she hasn’t let herself kill yet.
I almost choke on it.
“Ivy,” I say, low and deliberate, trying not to sound like the storm I feel gathering in my chest. “We need to talk.”
“You’re not the first man to say that like it’s a prelude to betrayal,” she mutters, but her voice wavers at the edges, sharp wrapped around soft. “Go on, then. Say what you came to say.”
I look at her—really look at her. She's got her mother’s set to the jaw, her father’s stubbornness, and something all her own that makes the orchard lean closer every time she breathes.
She belongs here more than anyone ever has, and the truth that’s rotted in my mouth for too long starts to rise, bitter as old ash.
“I knew,” I say finally. “Before you ever came back, before the will was opened—your father told me everything. About the land. About the bond. About you.”
She doesn’t move. Not even a blink. Just stands there like the roots are holding her steady because I’ve gone and ripped the ground out from under her.
“He asked me to stay,” I go on. “To guard the orchard. To protect the bloodline. To make sure, if anything happened, the land didn’t lose its anchor. And that meant… staying near you. Even if you never knew it.”
Her mouth opens, closes. She exhales sharp through her nose like it’ll cut through the rage building behind her eyes. “So all this time—you’ve just been what, babysitting me for a dead man?”
“No,” I say fast, stepping forward before she can bolt. “No. It wasn’t like that.”
“Then explain it, Garruk,” she snaps. “Explain how I’m supposed to believe anything that’s happened between us wasn’t just part of the damn plan.”
“It wasn’t,” I growl, jaw tight. “I stayed because I made a promise, yes—but I loved you before I ever knew what that promise meant.”
Wrong word. Too soon. Too much. I see it slice through her composure like a blade, and she recoils—not from the word, maybe, but from the weight of it. Her hands clench, her shoulders square, and when she speaks again, it’s ice on fire.
“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t say that now. Not when you’ve been walking around with half the truth for years. Not when you let me fall into this… this connection without telling me I was already bound to it.”
I try to close the distance again. She backs up.
“Ivy—”
“No,” she cuts me off, voice raw now. “You don’t get to say my name like it’s a spell after lying to me. After making me feel like all of this was real when you were keeping the blueprint in your back pocket the whole damn time.”
“It is real,” I say, louder than I mean to. The trees answer, rustling like thunder. “What I feel—what we’ve shared—that isn’t a trick. It’s not some planned performance. It’s blood and bark and breath, and I would give anything to take back the silence that made you doubt that.”
But she’s already shaking her head, already turning, already halfway down the porch steps with her boots striking the dirt too fast, too hard.
“Don’t follow me,” she throws over her shoulder.
And like a fool, I do.
The orchard groans around us as she storms into it—branches parting like they don’t want to stop her, roots curling back like they know she’s fire and won’t be held. I call her name once, twice, and then the shadows swallow her, and I curse myself for every step I didn’t take sooner.
I break into a run.
The path she’s cutting isn’t one I know.
It’s not a trail, not a familiar row. The trees blur, too many too fast, the air thickening with that charged magic that comes when something ancient wakes up angry.
The glyphs on my skin burn like iron. I can taste the orchard’s fear—its hunger—and it’s hers now too.
I find her at the heart.
The breath-stones are glowing again, pulsing like a wound ripped open, and she’s standing in the middle of them, arms limp, head tilted back as if listening to something only she can hear. Her eyes are glazed, face pale, mouth open in a silent cry.
The ground pulses.
The roots rise.
I don’t hesitate. I cross into the ring, grabbing her just as the earth opens a split of light and shadow beneath her feet.
Her body sags against mine, breath shallow, pulse racing too fast, and I feel the magic clawing at her like it wants to eat its way in.
It’s not claiming—it’s consuming. It’s trying to bind her before she’s ready, and the orchard’s in a frenzy, spiraling without her anchor to steady it.
“Come back,” I whisper, holding her close, pressing my palm to her chest like I can shield her with my body. “Come back to me, Ivy. Don’t you dare let it take you.”
She doesn’t answer. But her hand twitches.
I scoop her up in my arms, holding her close as I walk out of the circle, every step burning as if the orchard’s roots are fighting to pull her back.
My glyphs flare brighter, searing through shirt and skin alike, and the hum of the grove reaches a pitch that makes my ears bleed.
But I keep walking, teeth grit, arms locked.
By the time I reach the porch again, she’s breathing steady. Not calm. Not okay. But alive.
And when she wakes—eyes heavy, lips parted, hands fisting the front of my shirt—she looks at me like I’m the reason the storm started.
“I can’t do this,” she says, voice cracked down the middle. “Not when I don’t know who I am in it anymore.”
“Ivy—”
“I need space. I need to remember what parts of me aren’t made of orchard and you.”
Then she’s gone.
Back inside, bag already packed. No fight. No scene.
Just silence.
And the echo of the door closing behind her as she walks away from the only thing I was ever sworn to protect.