Page 2 of Saved By the Mountain Man Orc (The Men of Orc Mountain #1)

Drak

She smells like sunshine and wildflowers.

That's the first thing I notice as I crouch beside her crumpled form.

Not pine sap or the copper tang of blood from her scraped palms. Not the sharp bite of fear that usually clings to humans like smoke. Sunshine.

The second thing I notice is that she's broken.

Her injuries aren’t life-threatening. But she’s hurt enough to make it impossible for her to hike out on her own.

She's curled at the base of a moss-covered slope near the southern ridge, her ankle already swelling against the confines of her hiking boot. There's blood on her wrist where her skin scraped against the rocks, and her lower lip is split from her fall. Her backpack lies half-torn open beside her, and its contents are scattered across the forest floor. There’s trail mix, a water bottle, something that might be emergency flares, and the camera she’d been clutching.

I’ve never understood the point of cameras. I’ve often seen humans with them in the forest, always looking through them but never really seeing what’s around them.

But she saw something today…

She saw me .

Even if she could walk out of the woods on her injured ankle, I couldn’t let her go.

I study her face in the dying light, oval-shaped with high cheekbones and full lips.

Her hair is dark brown with threads of copper that catch the light, pulled back in a ponytail that's now half-undone from her tumble.

Even unconscious, there's a stubborn set to her jaw that tells me she's not the type to give up easily.

My fingers curl into fists as conflicting instincts war in my chest.

I should leave her here.

That's the rule that's kept my brothers and me alive for generations. No contact. No witnesses. No exceptions.

The last time one of us broke that rule, we had to burn Garruk's entire settlement and retreat deeper into the mountain range. The humans came with guns and cameras and fire, crawling over our territory like ants. We lost three good caves and a winter's worth of stored supplies.

But this is different.

Because the moment her scent hit my nose, something inside me snapped . Or maybe clicked into place like a puzzle piece I didn't know I was missing.

The others would call it madness. Rash. Dangerous.

But I know what this is.

Thurok'hai. The bonding.

She's mine.

I lift her carefully, sliding one arm beneath her knees and the other around her shoulders.

She's lighter than I expected, but she fits against my chest like she was made for this.

Because she was. Her head lolls against my shoulder, and that scent intensifies, flooding my senses until I have to clench my jaw to keep from burying my face in her hair.

She makes a soft sound as I stand—half whimper, half sigh—and her body instinctively curls closer to my warmth. Her hand fists in the leather of my vest, holding on even in unconsciousness.

I shouldn't like that.

But gods help me, I do.

The walk to my cabin takes longer than usual because I can't bring myself to rush.

Every step jostles her slightly, and each small sound she makes, whether of pain or unconscious contentment, sends protective instincts surging through me.

The forest seems to close around us as we move deeper into territory that no human has ever seen, following paths that exist only in the memory of my people.

My cabin sits in a clearing I carved from the wilderness myself, hidden behind a natural wall of pine and granite.

Every log was felled by my hands, every joint fitted with the patience of someone who had nothing but time.

I built it large enough for my size but cozy enough for the solitude I’ve always preferred.

The windows are real glass—salvaged from an abandoned settlement years ago—and the stone chimney draws smoke so efficiently that it's nearly invisible from more than a few yards away.

I've never brought anyone here before.

Not even my brothers.

But I carry her inside without hesitation.

The main room is simple but functional. Rough-hewn furniture built to my scale, furs thrown over a massive bed in the corner, shelves lined with herbs and supplies.

A fire crackles in the stone hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

The air smells like smoke and the herbs I dry in bundles from the rafters.

I lower her onto the bed with the care, adjusting the pillows beneath her head. Her face is pale but peaceful, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks.

From the shelf beside the hearth, I retrieve a clay jar of healing salve. It’s a mixture of comfrey, willow bark, and mountain herbs that my grandfather taught me to make. It's thick and green, smelling faintly of crushed mint and earth.

Her hiking boot comes off easily enough, though she flinches in her sleep when I flex her ankle to test the damage. Not broken—I've seen enough injuries to know—but badly sprained. The joint is hot and swollen, the skin already darkening with bruises.

I work in silence, cleaning the scrapes on her palms with water warmed over the fire, applying salve to her cuts with fingers that dwarf her delicate bones.

Her skin is impossibly soft, unmarked by the kind of scars that tell stories of survival.

She's lived a protected life, this human, but there's strength in the lean muscle of her calves.

When I'm done, I wrap her ankle with strips of soft linen and cover her with the thickest fur I own—a wolf pelt from a hunt three winters past.

Then I retreat to the chair by the hearth and wait.

And watch.

Her face is more expressive in sleep than most orcs manage while awake. Her brow furrows occasionally, as if she's working through some problem. Her lips part slightly when she breathes, and I find myself wondering what her voice will sound like when she's not afraid.

The fire pops and settles, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside, night creatures begin their symphony—owls calling to each other across the valley, the distant howl of wolves that know better than to hunt in my territory.

I've never felt this before. This pull. This need to protect and possess in equal measure.

The others talk about it sometimes, usually after too much fermented honey wine around the fire. They speak of instincts older than memory, of bonds that transcend species, of the day they'll scent their mate and know that their solitary days are over.

I always thought it was just talk. Legends whispered by old orcs who missed the days when our kind was numerous enough for such luxuries.

Until now.

I hear her heartbeat change before her breathing shifts, the steady rhythm of deep sleep giving way to the flutter of waking. Her fingers curl against the fur blanket, and her head turns slightly on the pillow.

I lean forward as her eyes flutter open. She blinks slowly, taking in the rough log walls, the dancing shadows, and the warmth of the fire.

And then she sees me.

She goes completely still, every muscle tensing like a deer that's spotted a predator.

I don't speak. Not yet. I want her to look. Really look .

At the tusks that mark me as other. At the scars that map my history across green skin. At the sheer size of me that speaks to the violence I'm capable of.

I want her to know exactly what I am.

What she's woken up with.

But when our eyes meet across the firelit space, she doesn't scream.

She breathes in sharply, her voice barely a whisper. "You're real..."

And there's no fear in her tone.

Only wonder.