Page 3 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc

IVY

T he house groans like it remembers me—and isn’t happy about it.

Every step I take sends dust curling in the air, rising like smoke from a wound.

I walk slow through the hallway, fingers brushing along wallpaper that’s peeled like old scabs, patterns faded into something resembling ghosts.

The floorboards creak under my weight in a way that feels personal, like each noise is a protest.

I step into the study and it hits me like a punch—the smell. Tobacco and cedar and something faintly citrus, like the aftershave Dad used to wear. There’s an old flannel draped over the back of the leather armchair, sleeves rolled up like he just walked out to the porch and never came back.

The desk is a battlefield. Papers half-filed, folders open like wounded soldiers. I shuffle through them, not sure what I’m looking for until my fingers snag on the corner of a faded envelope, tucked under a dog-eared law textbook.

My name is on it. Just “Ivy.” Nothing else.

The handwriting makes my breath catch—slanted, impatient, undeniably his. I stare at it for a long minute before tearing it open with a thumb I pretend isn’t shaking.

Inside is a letter. Short. Blunt. Very Dad.

If you’re reading this, then I’m probably dead, and Garruk’s still too damn stubborn to leave. Don’t be too hard on him. I asked him to stay. You might not understand now, but one day you will. The orchard is older than both of us. Listen to it. Love, Dad.

I sit down hard on the edge of the desk, the air knocked from my lungs like a punch. Love, Dad. As if that covers everything. As if that erases years of silence and slammed doors and the way he looked at me like I was a stranger for wanting something different.

I crumple the letter but don’t throw it. Instead, I press it into the back of a drawer I don’t open often. I don’t need it glaring at me from the waste bin later.

The house groans again, louder this time. I glance toward the window, where the orchard sways in a breeze that doesn’t touch anything else. The leaves move in strange rhythms, and I swear, for a moment, they whisper.

Not in words. Not exactly. But there’s a sound—soft, rhythmic, like breath through hollow reeds. And my name. Always my name.

Ivy. Ivy. Ivy.

“Nope,” I mutter, pushing up from the desk. “We are not doing haunted house today.”

I grab a jacket and head outside, needing air, needing distance.

The barn looms at the edge of the property, half-swallowed by ivy and moss.

The paint’s peeled to bare boards, and the roof leans a little like it’s been drinking.

I make for it anyway, boots crunching against gravel as I stomp my way across the yard like I can walk fast enough to outpace whatever the hell just stirred in the orchard.

The barn door sticks before giving way with a complaining groan. I step inside and immediately stop short.

Garruk’s there—of course he is—shirtless and standing with his back to me, muscles flexing as he lifts something heavy onto the workbench.

There’s sweat glistening along his spine, tracing the ridges of old scars that disappear beneath the waistline of low-slung jeans.

The glyphs etched into his skin glow faintly in the slanting light, pulsing like embers.

I make a sound. Not a word—just something involuntary and very uncool. He turns, slow and deliberate, brow lifting like I’m a fly buzzing into his space.

“You knock?” he rumbles.

I clear my throat. “It’s a barn, not Buckingham Palace.”

He just grunts and wipes his hands on a rag, unfazed. “Didn’t realize you’d be touring the estate.”

“I needed air. The house is… loud.”

His eyes flick to mine, and there’s something unreadable in them. “You hear it, then.”

I cross my arms. “What, the trees staging their musical comeback?”

He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth twitches. Barely. “The land doesn’t like being ignored.”

“Neither do I.”

That gets him to turn fully, and I wish it didn’t affect me the way it does. He’s all sharp lines and raw power, the kind of strength that doesn’t just come from working wood and hauling timber. It’s old strength. Root-deep. And too damn close.

“Found a letter,” I say, trying to fill the silence. “From my father. Said you’re here because he asked you to stay.”

He nods once. “I gave my word.”

“You always keep your promises?” I ask, tilting my head.

His jaw tightens. “When they matter.”

I look away, uneasy with the weight of that. “Why you, Garruk? Why not Brody or one of the town elders or—I don’t know—someone who actually talks in complete sentences?”

He shrugs. “The orchard chose me.”

“That’s comforting.”

“You still don’t believe, do you?”

“I believe in gravity and bad decisions. Everything else is up for debate.”

He steps closer, and I don’t back up. Stubbornness wins out over instinct every time with me.

“You can feel it,” he says lowly. “You just don’t want to.”

I swallow hard. “Feeling something doesn’t make it real.”

“No. But it makes it dangerous to ignore.”

The air between us is thick with everything unsaid. I should walk away. I should turn around and slam the barn door and bury myself in anything other than this heat crawling under my skin.

But I don’t.

Because he’s standing there, shirtless and grim and glowing like the storm’s already inside him, and for all the bitterness I carry, some twisted part of me remembers the boy who used to carve animals from orchard bark and leave them on my windowsill.

“You should put a shirt on,” I mutter, voice uneven. “You’re not as distracting as you think.”

His mouth quirks. “You’re still terrible at lying.”

I walk out before I can say something stupid. Or honest.

Behind me, the wind stirs the trees, and the whisper comes again.

Ivy.

And this time, it sounds like it’s laughing.