Page 26 of The Orc Chief’s Baker (Orc Mates Of Faeda #4)

Chapter

Sixteen

brOVDIR

B rovdir could not decide if he was elated or terrified.

Trinia walked quietly beside him, her form completely concealed under Sythcol’s large cloak. It smelled of the conjurer. Salt and floral herbs. He wanted to rip the thing off her and toss it into the woods before it tainted her.

But the instinct to keep her warm and content was stronger than the basal need for her to smell like him.

“Does your throat hurt?”

He blinked at the question. His throat was in agony. Even taking a deep breath was painful, but that was nothing new. He hadn’t expected her to notice.

“You keep rubbing it and grimacing.” She tapped her smooth neck with her perfect finger, leaving a little splotch of mud behind.

He needed to get her into his tub.

“Do you have honey?”

Honey? He did... somewhere. He didn’t much care for sweets, so if he did, it had gotten shoved to the back of a cabinet.

“After I bathe, I can make you something. You do have a bath, right?”

She wanted to make him something? What? He couldn’t wait.

“Please don’t tell me you bathe in the iced springs or something crazy like that.”

He grinned.

“You better be teasing me!”

He shrugged, and his sly smile widened.

“Brovdir, I’m not taking a bath in the cold. I’ll walk right back home first.”

Oh, he couldn’t have that. He quickly shook his head. “Have one.”

“Good.” Her eyes narrowed but a small smile still played at her lips. Then she looked around. “This home of yours is on the outskirts, isn’t it?”

He nodded and her brow furrowed as she asked, “But you’re the chief. Shouldn’t you have a home that’s central to the clan?”

He didn’t see why that would matter much. “Took what Sythcol gave.”

She was quiet a moment before saying, “I noticed you default to Sythcol quite a bit. My sister mentioned you’ve let him take control almost completely.”

He shrugged. “He knows Rove better.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have your own opinions. That you shouldn’t get involved,” she said firmly. “You’re a chief too, Brovdir. Though I suppose its habit for you to take orders, isn’t it? Does your brother give you a lot of orders too?”

“He is Warlord.”

“Does it get annoying? Having to obey all the time?” She searched his face, and he was surprised at how good it felt for her to be giving him her full attention.

He shook his head.

“Really? My sister’s demands always get on my last nerve.” Her voice was tinged with wry mirth.

“Not demands. Orders.”

“What’s the difference?”

He paused to consider. “Consent.”

“W-what?” Trinia blinked as his brows rose at the sight of her heated cheeks. Why was she embarrassed?

“Difference is consent.”

“So... you think demands are nonconsensual but orders are?”

“Orders are given to willing followers,” he said. “Demands are made of those who are not willing.”

“Ah, I get it.” She tapped her finger against her plump lips, drawing him to distraction. “That does make sense. Still, you don’t have to follow my orders. It’s not like you’re my follower.”

“Trinia.”

She met his eyes and longing clenched in his gut.

“I’d follow you anywhere,” he said.

He was rewarded by her cheeks heating up. She pushed back her hair and averted her eyes, but there was not a hint of displeasure on her face.

Then her eyes turned forward. “Is this it?”

The realization that he’d stopped them in front of his home jolted him, and now, Trinia was looking up at him with equal parts concern and confusion.

He quickly guided her up the rest of the path to the disheveled oak tree he lived within.

Its leaves had already fallen by the time he’d moved in, so he’d never seen it looking anything but entirely dead.

He hadn’t bothered to shovel the snow, so the path was mushy and slick.

The door was crooked and stuck, so he had to yank hard to get it open.

The bottom step creaked so loudly when she stepped upon it, she flinched.

And then she entered his home. Her face was illuminated by the fire in the hearth and the three torches lining the walls. Her expression was flat as she looked around, and his guts twisted up with worry. What if she hated it and insisted he take her to Iytier instead?

He liked that male. He did not want to have to beat him to a bloody pulp.

“This is...” Trinia tapped her cheek as she looked around at the old furniture and gritty surfaces. His bed sat to the left under a window, his couch was a few steps away in front of the fire. There was a row of storage cabinets next to them that ended with a tiny two-person table.

He’d been satisfied with his tree dwelling so far, though it had taken a long time to get it fixed up. The trunk walls were incredibly thick, so it was quiet and warm within. It had all the amenities he needed. He was used to sleeping in a tent, for Fades’ sake.

But Trinia wasn’t. His stomach twisted as she crossed the room to the only door aside from the entry. “Is this a bathroom?”

He nodded, very grateful that it had been the first room he had renovated. She opened it and peered inside. A few candles that stayed lit by magic dimly illuminated the space, and her silence made his chest tighten.

“At least it’s functional.” She looked at the floor. “Could do with a sweep.”

He nodded and went to the wall, where he kept a broom and dustpan.

“Oh, not now!” She held up her hands to ward him off. “That wasn’t a command. Just a remark. Sorry... I...”

Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen area. They lingered on the tiny stove sitting against the opposite wall. Her eyes grew misty and her throat worked in a gulp and Brovdir felt like he was drowning.

She was about to cry. Why was she crying? What had he done?

“I suppose that you orcs don’t have big stoves, do you? Since you take all your meals in the hall.”

Her voice warbled and fuck , what could he have done to cause this? Over the years, he’d gotten very good at figuring out what made women cry, but not this time.

“Brovdir, I—” She broke off and took a shuddering breath before she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, her expression was steadfast and confident, but he could still see the storm brewing. “I... want to broker a trade with you.”

Oh fuck, fuck .

This was about the pans she needed. About the kiss .

He dropped his head and looked down at the floor, shoulders slumped in defeat. “Can’t.” The single word felt like daggers.

“You... you can’t trade with me? But why? Did I do something wrong?”

Her voice was a bit high, and fuck , she was about to cry again. That fact made his muscles clench with agony. His mind reeled. What to do... what to do ?

But he’d already gone through every possible avenue. Every scrap of metal in this clan was accounted for. Every piece had value to the one who held it. And Karthoc had taken all the weapons with him when he’d gone.

“There’s no metal here.” He forced himself to admit as his body drooped. “No scraps. Not even a forge. Cannot even pay you back for the kiss.”

There was a stretch of silence in which he felt like he was sinking into the deepest, darkest hole.

“Don’t deserve to be in your presence,” he said mournfully. He’d taken advantage of her. Gotten her hopes up only to dash them. Stolen a kiss from her and now she’d never forgive him.

“Is that... really the only reason you’ve been avoiding me?”

He finally looked up and blinked in the face of her obvious confusion. No anger or disappointment, just...

He nodded slowly.

And then she began to laugh.

It wasn’t a happy laugh. It was a little too high, a little too shrill. It made his skin feel clammy and his chest tightened to the point he couldn’t get enough air.

“Oh, biscuits and jam, that would be the reason, wouldn’t it? And you know what? If you’d told me before dinner this evening, I would have been upset.” Her laughter turned hysterical as her eyes became misty. “I would have been devastated because you really were my last hope.”

Her last hope.

He felt like a monster.

“But it doesn’t matter anymore, Brovdir. The pans don’t matter anymore. Because my mother’s bakery is gone .”