Page 1 of Resisting the Wicked Orc (Silvermist Mates #4)

CHAPTER ONE

RAVA

I squinted at the thin gold band between my fingers, turning it under the morning light. My tail twitched in irritation. Cheap brass with a tarnished finish, guaranteed to turn fingers green. Worth maybe fifteen bucks, tops. Lydia had it tagged at two hundred and labeled ‘Authentic Victorian Mourning Ring.’

“Authentic my ass,” I muttered, resisting the urge to melt it between my fingers.

“What was that, darling?” Lydia’s voice carried from behind the clothing rack.

“Nothing. Just admiring the craftsmanship.” I set the ring back in the velvet-lined tray with the other fakes.

Three weeks working undercover at Vintage Baby, and I’d already confirmed Kadhan clan suspicions: half the merchandise was fake, the provenance stories were complete bullshit, and Lydia George was definitely running something shady on the side.

But an honest-to-hell lead on literally anything? A glimpse of an unaccounted for opal or glint of stolen gold? Kaz would’ve had this wrapped up in days. Malak would’ve charmed the information out of Lydia over drinks. But here I was, sorting costume jewelry at a farmer’s market, still playing shopgirl.

Mist & Market hummed with weekend activity. Humans and monsters mingled under canopy tents that lined the riverbank, haggling over produce and handcrafts. The perpetual mist from the falls that gave Silvermist its name hung in the air, giving everything a dreamy quality that the tourists ate up.

Not home, but not terrible either.

Behind me, Lydia’s phone rang. She fished the device from her purse, made an irritated sound, and disappeared behind the canvas partition without a word. Just like that—customers, merchandise, and me, all abandoned without a second thought. Typical.

“Tell Francis I intend to be there tonight.” Lydia’s voice drifted from behind the curtain. “The Harrington pieces, however, won’t. They need to be authenticated first.”

I straightened another row of rings, my tail flicking with agitation. Francis? Harrington? Neither of those were on the schedule I maintained for Lydia.

“Fourteen for the entire set is insulting,” Lydia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “One alone is worth twenty.”

I froze, fingers still on the fake rings. Twenty what? Hundred? Thousand? The most expensive item in our inventory was a vintage Chanel jacket priced at three hundred dollars. I tilted my head, straining to hear more without being obvious.

“It’s the real deal. Pre-Revelation ceremonial. You’ll see the fire marks yourself.”

Fire marks. My heart rate spiked. Fire marks meant ifrit craftsmanship, ancient and powerful beyond measure. The kind of relics that could reshape destinies… or erase unbreakable vows.

If I could recover even one piece, Kaz would have to see me as more than just his baby sister who needed protection. He’d be furious I’d gone off-grid, of course, but bringing back what ifrit had been hunting since demons were locked on this side of the infernal plane? Prince Javed would be forced to grant me any boon within his considerable power, and that was worth a lifetime of lectures on recklessness.

“Those would look better on your finger than in that box.”

I spun toward the deep voice, and my tail accidentally caught the edge of the brooch display. The antique pins rattled against their thin velvet backing, while the plastic case teetered dangerously over the table’s edge.

A large green hand shot out, steadying the display before the brooches could scatter across the ground. Another hand caught my shoulder, preventing me from stumbling backward.

“Easy there, Red.”

I looked up into the most irritatingly handsome face I’d seen since arriving in Silvermist Falls. An orc stood before me, all broad shoulders and smoldering dark eyes. He’d clipped his hair short on the sides of his head, but the top looked professionally messy. His tusks framed a crooked smile that somehow managed to look both predatory and playful.

Lydia’s head appeared through the partition, eyes narrowing at the disturbance. She took in the orc, the slightly askew display, and my flustered expression with a single disapproving glance before disappearing back behind the curtain.

Great. More evidence of my supposed incompetence for Lydia to document.

My skin flushed hot where his fingers still gripped my shoulder. I yanked out of his grasp and put as many inches as the crowded booth would allow between us.

“We’re not open yet.” I turned back to the rings, straining to hear Lydia’s conversation.

Instead of leaving, he leaned against the booth’s support pole, crossing his arms. The movement highlighted the defined muscles of his forearms and the intricate tattoos that disappeared under his rolled sleeves. Clan markings, from the little I could read clearly. Feats of honor and accomplishment, and oh-so- not what I needed to distract me.

“Market opened twenty minutes ago. Shieldthorn. Zral Shieldthorn.” He introduced himself like a spy from a movie, those dark eyes crinkling at the corners. “And you are…?”

“Busy.” I moved to step around him, but he shifted with me, his broad shoulders taking up too much space in my small booth.

“That’s an unusual name.”

I glanced up, narrowing my eyes. “Are you always this annoying, or is today special?”

“I save my best material for beautiful women.” He picked up one of the rings I’d been cataloging, then slid the ring onto his pinky—the only finger it would fit—and struck a pose. “What do you think? My color?”

“Put that down before you break it.” I snatched the ring from his finger, my tail lashing behind me. Lydia’s voice had dropped to a murmur, and I couldn’t make out the words anymore. Dammit.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He leaned against the table, watching me with those too-observant eyes. “Your name?”

“Rava,” I said shortly, tilting my head toward the partition. If I could just hear what Lydia was saying...

“Rava.” He rolled my name around his mouth like he was tasting it. “You’re new to Silvermist.”

“Not a question.” I edged closer to the curtain, straining to catch Lydia’s words. Something about ‘authentication papers’ and ‘private collector.’

Zral picked up a gaudy emerald brooch. “My mother would love this. Green’s her favorite color.” He held it up to the light with exaggerated interest. “What’s the story behind it?”

“Victorian, paste gems, completely ordinary.” I plucked it from his fingers and set it down, gritting my teeth. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Not particularly.” Another crooked grin curled around those tusks. “I’m enjoying the view right here.”

“Well, admire it elsewhere. I have work to do.” I rolled my eyes, but felt my cheeks warm. A flicker of heat sparked in my fingertips. I curled my fingers into my palm, smothering the flame before it could manifest. Not now. Not over an irritating inconvenience.

Lydia’s voice rose slightly: “—then he should make himself available as we agreed.”

The orc raised a brow, amusement dancing in his eyes. “What would you recommend for a male who seems to be striking out at every turn?”

He leaned closer, and that scent . Blackberries and woodsmoke. Rich and wild. The combination stirred something in me, making my pulse jump and that dangerous heat flicker again beneath my skin.

I took a half-step back and began forcefully threading scarves through their hangers. “A personality transplant.”

He laughed again, and I hated how the sound tugged at something inside me. I needed to focus. Lydia’s phone call was my first real lead in weeks, and this orc was ruining everything.

“Have a drink with me tonight,” he said. “To welcome you to town.”

“I’m not interested.” I flicked another hanger aside, ignoring the sizzle in my palms.

He ran a finger along the end of the rack, uncomfortably close to my hand. “In drinks or in me?”

Unholy hell. I couldn’t remember the last time someone had flirted with me so directly and lived to tell the tale. Kaz would have had him buried in a shallow grave from the first look, which was why Kaz was under the impression I’d abstained from all the best sins during my college years.

But I hadn’t escaped one cage just to build another, no matter how tempting.

“Both.”

“Fair enough.” I heard the smile in his voice. “But if you change your mind, I’m at the Sombra booth every weekend.” He turned to leave, then paused. “By the way, Red, your boss is watching.”

Fuck. I knew I was in trouble the second the cloth burst into flames.

The vintage silk scarf curled and blackened under my fingertips, orange embers racing along the delicate fabric. Shit. I clenched my fists and willed the fire to recede, but the damage was done. A perfect hand-shaped burn mark scarred what had been—according to Lydia’s dramatically inflated price tag—a ‘rare 1950s Hermès original.’

“What the hell are you doing?” Lydia’s voice cut through the market chatter. She yanked the ruined scarf from my hands, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my wrist.

“Static electricity,” I lied. This never happened to me. I had perfect control—had since I was a child. My brothers would allow nothing less from an ifrit of our line. “These synthetic blends are so unpredictable.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That was pure silk, Rava.”

“Polyester,” I corrected under my breath as she stormed to the back of our booth. I’d been around enough luxury fabrics to know the difference.

Lydia whirled back, her sleek ponytail slicing through the air. “That’s coming out of your pay, Rava. I took a chance hiring someone with your qualities. If you can’t keep your shit together around the merchandise, don’t bother coming back.”

The threat hung between us. My cover depended on this job, on staying close to Lydia and her shady dealings. Three weeks of careful observation, cultivating her trust, learning her patterns—all of it would be wasted if she fired me now. I couldn’t go back to Kaz empty-handed, not when I’d finally found a solid lead.

I swallowed my pride and nodded, ignoring the way my tail wanted to lash behind me. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” She turned away, muttering about insurance and liability.

The rest of the day crawled by. I smiled at customers, wrapped purchases, and picked over Lydia’s phone conversation in my mind. Francis. Harrington pieces. Authentication. Fire marks. Each word a potential link to the missing ifrit relics, while my skin still tingled with the lingering heat of my magic’s betrayal.

By closing time, my nerves were shot to hell. Lydia had checked her watch every fifteen minutes since five o’clock, her impatience growing with each glance. Customers had thinned out, leaving only stragglers picking through the dregs of what the market had to offer. I’d started breaking down the displays, carefully wrapping the more delicate pieces in tissue paper.

“Leave it.” Lydia’s voice cut through my concentration. “I need someone with actual competence to handle the breakdown tonight.”

My tail twitched. I gripped the edge of the folding table, willing the heat in my palms to stay dormant. “I can finish?—”

“You’ve done enough.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Go home. We’ll discuss your future with Vintage Baby on Monday.”

I nodded, not pushing my luck after the scarf incident. The abrupt dismissal was unusual—not because Lydia had any capability for kindness. She typically squeezed every minute of labor from her employees, and my shift didn’t end until the merchandise was behind locked doors.

I made a show of gathering my things, shoulders slumped for the benefit of anyone watching. But once I’d disappeared into the thinning crowd, I circled back through a row of food stalls and found a spot to watch from the shadows.

Lydia moved with efficiency, packing jewelry into cases, folding scarves with crisp movements. No phone calls. No mysterious visitors. Just Lydia, acting like any other vendor hurrying to close shop.

I followed her to the parking lot, ducking behind a woodworking stall when she glanced back. She loaded everything into her black Audi, arranging the cargo with care in her trunk.

I expected her to leave then. To slide into the driver’s seat and disappear into the night with her secrets.

Instead, she reached deeper into the trunk and pulled out a small package wrapped in brown paper. She tucked it under her arm and walked back toward the now-empty market.

Jackpot.

I crept after her. The market grounds looked different without the crowds and canopies. Skeletal, almost, with just the permanent wooden stalls remaining. Lydia’s steps clicked on the cobblestones, the sound sharp in the evening quiet.

She rounded a corner near the river’s edge, where a cluster of storage sheds housed equipment for the weekly market. A tall, thin man approached from the other direction, his back stiff with the kind of posture that screamed military or money. Human, from what I could tell—no visible markers of supernatural heritage.

My heart hammered against my ribs. This had to be it. Proof that Lydia was trafficking in artifacts, ifrit or otherwise. I shifted forward, trying to get a better view of the package.

A hand clamped around my wrist, yanking me sideways. I nearly yelped in surprise before another hand covered my mouth. My back hit wood, and I found myself face-to-face with the orc from earlier.

Zral’s finger pressed against his lips. No trace of that crooked smile remained on his face now. His eyes were sharp and focused, the playful flirt replaced by something far more dangerous. He nodded toward the sheds and pointed to our left.

I followed his gesture and froze. Twenty feet away, half-hidden behind a vendor’s cart, stood another watcher—a broad-shouldered man scanning the area with practiced care.

How had I missed him? Kaz would have my hide if he knew how spectacularly I’d fucked up. I’d been so fixated on Lydia and the freedom at the end of those damn relics. Now, thanks to my single-minded focus, I was trapped between a rock-hard orc and a potentially deadly situation.

So much for proving myself.