Page 1 of Saved By the Mountain Man Orc (The Men of Orc Mountain #1)

Jasmine

They say you're not supposed to hike alone. Especially not on a mountain with local legends about monsters, ghosts, and Bigfoot sightings.

But those people aren't trying to get the shot.

This could be the photo that lands me that NatGeo feature.

My fingers tighten around my camera, knuckles white against the cool metal.

I crouch low behind emerald ferns, their fronds still heavy with morning dew that soaks through my hiking pants.

There's a red fox just ahead, its russet coat blazing like fire against the moss-covered forest floor.

It paws delicately at the earth, black-tipped ears twitching at sounds I can't hear.

Perfect morning light filters through the canopy in golden shafts, illuminating the thin layer of mist that curls and dances over the carpet of pine needles and decay.

The camera's metal is cool against my palms, familiar and reassuring. I hold my breath—lungs burning with the effort—and press the shutter.

Click.

The sound cuts through the forest silence like a blade.

The fox jerks its head up, amber eyes locking onto mine for one heart-stopping moment. Time suspends between us—predator and prey, though I'm not entirely sure which is which.

Then it bolts, a streak of copper disappearing into the underbrush with barely a rustle.

I sigh and lower the camera, the weight of it suddenly heavier. Almost had it.

I'm about to push myself upright when the ground shifts beneath my boots in a soft, ominous slide of loose earth and pine needles.

The hillside gives way like a trapdoor opening.

One moment I'm crouched on solid ground, the next I'm tumbling, sliding down a steep slope that seems to go on forever.

Branches whip across my face, leaving stinging scratches.

My foot catches on a gnarled root and everything goes sideways. Literally.

Pain flashes white-hot through my ankle, bright and sharp as lightning.

When I finally stop rolling, I'm lying in a shallow gully lined with moss and fallen logs.

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath.

Every part of me aches, but my ankle screams loudest of all.

I push myself up on my elbows, wincing as rocks dig into my palms, and assess the damage.

My hands are scraped raw, and dirt is embedded under my nails.

Blood seeps through a tear in my jacket sleeve.

But my camera, by some miracle, lies in a soft bed of ferns a few feet away, lens cap intact.

My ankle, however, is not fine.

I try to put weight on it, and the world tilts dangerously. The pain is immediate and nauseating, radiating up my leg in pulsing waves.

"Shit," I whisper, the word echoing off the rocky walls. My ankle is already swelling, pressing tight against my hiking boot.

I fumble for my phone with shaking fingers, pulling it from the side pocket of my backpack. The screen shows no signal. Not even a flicker of a bar. Just the mocking "No Service" message that might as well read "You're Screwed."

Perfect… just perfect.

I lean back against a moss-covered log, the bark rough and damp through my jacket.

The forest around me is suddenly too quiet, as if every creature is holding its breath.

I try not to panic, focusing on my breathing.

In for four, hold for four, out for four.

I've done solo hikes before. I've camped in the Rockies during thunderstorms. I've photographed moose from twenty feet away while they glared at me with murder in their eyes. I can handle this.

Except... this isn't just any mountain. This is Orc Mountain .

That's what the locals call it. The official name is Mount Eagle View, but nobody in town calls it that. Not when they talk about it in hushed voices at the diner or when they cross themselves after mentioning it.

Because everyone knows you don't go up Orc Mountain.

"You want to photograph animals on that mountain? Didn’t you hear about the girl who went missing up there last year?

" the guy at the gas station had asked yesterday, right after hitting on me and right before pressing a small bottle of holy water into my palm like it was perfectly normal. "Never found so much as a shoe."

"Ghosts," the elderly woman behind him had muttered, her gnarled fingers wrapped around a pack of cigarettes. "Or worse."

I'd rolled my eyes and smiled politely, tucking the holy water into my pocket more out of politeness than belief. I figured the rumors were just Appalachian folklore. A mixture of old Cherokee legends and old wives’ tales. It's always the quiet towns that have the weirdest stories.

But now I'm injured and alone, and suddenly every rustle of leaves sounds like footsteps.

I hug my arms around myself, fingers digging into my jacket sleeves.

The light is changing, late afternoon settling in like a heavy blanket, filtered through thick pine branches that block out most of the sky.

Shadows stretch longer, reaching toward me with grasping fingers.

The temperature is dropping; I can feel it in the way the air bites at my exposed skin.

It's too quiet.

The silence presses against my eardrums until I want to scream just to break it. Even the insects have gone silent.

Then I hear it.

A sound behind me. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of sound that makes your prey instincts scream run , even when you can't.

Not a deer stepping carefully through the underbrush. Not a fox padding on silent paws. Not even a bear lumbering through the trees.

This is something else entirely.

I turn my head slowly, my neck muscles protesting every inch of movement. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Through the trees, I see a figure moving with purpose. Large. Broad. Covered in dark leather that looks hand-stitched, and... green?

My breath catches in my throat. My heart doesn't just skip. It stops entirely for a beat before slamming back to life.

I don't move. Can't move. All I can do is watch as the figure comes closer, stepping through the brush like it belongs here. Like it's as much a part of the forest as the ancient pines themselves.

It's shaped like a man. And it moves like one.

But it’s much bigger than a man. Wilder, too. And definitely not human.

Green skin stretches over muscles that look carved from stone.

His broad chest rises and falls with each measured breath.

And he has dark hair tied back with what looks like a strip of leather.

What stands out the most, though, are the tusks—pale, curved, and protruding from his bottom lip, catching the fading light.

No. No, this can't be real. This is shock. Blood loss. A concussion making me hallucinate.

I try to crawl backward, ignoring the screaming protest from my ankle, but pain lances up my leg like fire, and I cry out. The sharp, involuntary sound echoes through the trees.

The creature stops.

He turns toward me slowly, golden eyes scanning my crumpled form with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. His gaze lingers on my swollen ankle, and something flickers across his face. Concern? His nostrils flare slightly, as if he's scenting the air.

Then he looks up, and our eyes meet.

His eyes are golden, deep, and luminous. Not angry or threatening. Just... watchful. Knowing.

I open my mouth to speak—to scream, to plead, to say something—but my vision blurs at the edges. Black spots dance across my field of view like gnats.

"Help," I whisper, though I don't know if I mean it or if the word just fell out of my mouth.

Then everything goes dark.