Page 3 of Saved By the Mountain Man Orc (The Men of Orc Mountain #1)

Jasmine

I should be terrified.

That's the normal human response, right? Wake up in a stranger's bed—an orc's bed, no less—with your ankle professionally bandaged and your body cocooned in what feels like the world's most expensive fur?

Definitely time to have a complete breakdown.

But instead, I just stare.

He's sitting across the room in a chair that looks hand-carved from a single piece of oak, every line of it built to accommodate his massive frame.

The firelight plays across skin the color of forest moss, highlighting the network of scars that tells stories I can't even imagine.

His shoulders are broad enough to block out half the room, and his arms rest on his knees like he's fighting the urge to move closer.

He's enormous. Imposing. But completely still, watching me with golden eyes that seem to see straight through me.

He hasn't spoken since I woke up. Hasn't moved.

I don't know how long I've been unconscious, but I feel like I've been sleeping for hours. My ankle throbs with a dull, manageable ache instead of the sharp agony from earlier.

I swallow, my throat dry as dust. "You're real..."

It's all I can manage. All my brain can process.

He tilts his head slightly, and those tusks—curved and sharp and white—catch the firelight. When he speaks, his voice is deep and rough, like gravel tumbling down a mountainside.

"You're safe," he says. Each word is carefully measured, as if he's unused to speaking. "You fell. You were hurt. But you’re okay now."

There's an accent there I can't place—something that suggests English isn't his first language, though he speaks it perfectly.

My throat tightens with emotion. "You helped me."

"I had to." A pause, and something flickers in those golden eyes. "Couldn't leave you."

There's weight in his words. More meaning than the simple statement should carry. His voice has a gentleness that doesn't match his size, like he's used to people being afraid and is trying not to make it worse.

"What are you?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

His brow furrows, and I catch a glimpse of something almost vulnerable in his expression. "Not human," he says simply. "But not what they say, either."

I push myself up to sitting, the fur blanket pooling around my waist. I'm still wearing my clothes—hiking pants and thermal shirt—but he has removed my boots and jacket. The bandage around my ankle is neat and professional, wrapped with what looks like hand-woven cloth.

"What do they say?" I ask.

He studies my face for a long moment. "That we're monsters. Killers. That we steal women and eat children." His mouth twists in something that might be a bitter smile. "Some of it's true. Most of it isn't."

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, testing my weight. Pain shoots up from my ankle, sharp enough to make me gasp.

He's across the room before I can blink, moving with a speed that shouldn't be possible for something his size. One moment he's in the chair, the next he's kneeling beside the bed, his large hands hovering near my leg.

"Don't," he rumbles. "You're not ready to walk."

I freeze. He's so close now I can smell him—woodsmoke and pine, something wild and clean that makes my pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. His hands are enormous, scarred and calloused, but they shake slightly as he hovers them over my injured ankle.

"I bound it the best I could," he says, golden eyes focused on the bandage. "It's not broken. But it needs rest."

"Thank you,” I say softly.

He exhales like he's been holding his breath since I woke up. The sound is shaky, almost vulnerable.

"What's your name?" I ask.

He hesitates, as if he’s unsure he wants to share it with me. "Drak."

"Drak." I test the sound on my tongue. It fits him. "I'm Jasmine."

He nods once, then slowly rises to his full height, towering over me like a mountain. "You're safe here, Jasmine. I won't hurt you."

The way he says my name—careful, almost reverent—sends an unexpected warmth spreading through my chest.

I believe him. Which should terrify me more than anything else that's happened today.

The hours that follow pass in a haze of quiet domesticity that feels surreal.

Drak moves around the cabin with surprising grace for a creature his size, tending to a fire that fills the space with dancing light, checking a pot of something that smells like herbs and meat simmering on a wood-burning stove.

Everything in the cabin is handmade, from the furniture to the dishes. It's beautiful in its simplicity, functional without being sparse. Furs and woven blankets add warmth and color, and shelves line the walls holding jars of dried herbs, carved wooden bowls, and what looks like hand-bound books.

He doesn't talk much, but he's constantly aware of me. Every few minutes, his eyes flick in my direction, checking to make sure I'm still there, still breathing, still real.

He checks the soup again, nods with satisfaction, and ladles some into a bowl.

He gives it to me, along with a cup of tea.

I gratefully take a bite, surprised at how hungry I suddenly am.

The stew is rich and hearty, with tender chunks of meat swimming in a broth flavored with fresh herbs.

I have no idea what it is, but it's the best thing I've ever tasted.

"Keep eating," he says, settling back into his chair. "You need strength."

I do as I’m told, acutely aware of how he watches every spoonful enter my mouth. Not hungry or predatory. Protective. Like he's making sure I'm taking care of myself.

"The tea helps with pain," he adds when I reach for the cup.

The brew is bitter but soothing, warming me from the inside out. Whatever's in it, it makes the throbbing in my ankle fade to a distant ache.

After a long silence, I work up the courage to ask, "Are there more of you?"

He pauses in the act of banking the fire. "A few."

"Do they know I'm here?"

He doesn't answer that, which is an answer in itself.

My heart thumps irregularly. "Am I in danger?"

His jaw tightens, tendons standing out in his neck. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher. "Not with me."

That's not exactly reassuring, but something in his tone makes me believe it's the most honesty I'm going to get.

Later, when the fire has burned down to glowing embers and exhaustion starts to pull at me again, I shift restlessly under the fur blanket.

My body is healing, but my mind is spinning with everything that's happened.

I need to move, to prove to myself that I'm still capable, still in control of my own fate.

I push the blanket aside and test my weight on my good foot. The injured ankle protests, but it's bearable.

I limp slowly toward the cabin door, using the wall for support.

"You shouldn't be up." His voice comes from behind me, but he doesn't try to stop me.

"I'm fine." I reach for the wooden door handle, hand trembling slightly. "I just need air."

He appears between me and the door with that impossible speed, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"I said you're not ready."

Something in his tone—not quite commanding but close—makes me bristle. I glare up at him, craning my neck to meet his eyes.

"Am I your prisoner?"

His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. Golden eyes search my face, and I see something flicker there—conflict, desire, something darker that makes my stomach clench.

"No," he says softly. "You're not."

But he doesn't move.

The space between us crackles with tension. He's close enough that I can see the individual scars that map his skin, the way his dark hair has escaped its leather tie to frame his face. Close enough to smell that wild, clean scent that seems to be uniquely his.

His hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, hovering near my face. When I don't pull away, his fingertips brush against my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with infinite care.

My skin tingles where he touches me. My breath catches.

It's like he's touching something sacred. Like he's holding back every instinct he has with nothing but sheer willpower.

When his tusks catch the edge of his lower lip, something low in my belly tightens with want.

I don't move away.

Neither does he.

And in that charged silence, something unspoken sparks between us, dangerous and electric and impossible to ignore.

Something I don't have words for.

Yet.