Page 24 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 24

L yric stood outside her cottage, watching as the morning light spilled across the garden she’d tended for years. The familiar shapes of her beehives, the weathered fence Egon had repaired, the twisted apple tree scarred by the fire but still alive—all of it painted gold by the sunrise. She traced her fingers along the rough-hewn door frame, feeling every nick and groove she knew by heart.

This place had been her sanctuary, her escape. Yet now it felt like just another stopping point on a longer journey.

“I never thought I’d leave,” she murmured to herself.

Behind her, Egon was packing the few belongings she decided to take, his movements careful and deliberate. He’d asked if she was certain about leaving, and she was—but certainty didn’t make it easy.

She knelt beside her herb garden, pinching a sprig of rosemary between her fingers. Its sharp scent filled her nostrils, familiar and comforting. How many mornings had she harvested these herbs? How many evenings had she sat on that worn bench, watching the sunset paint the sky?

“You don’t have to come,” he said, his deep voice carrying across the yard. He stood in the doorway, hesitant. “I could return for you.”

She shook her head. “We both know it’s not that easy.”

What remained unsaid hung between them. Lasseran’s forces were moving. The Beast warriors were real. The danger wouldn’t wait politely for him to return.

She turned to face him fully, this scarred, gentle warrior who’d stumbled back into her life. The morning light caught his amber eyes, making them glow like embers.

“This place was never truly home,” she admitted. “It was just… waiting. I didn’t know what for until you came back.”

He crossed to her, his big hand engulfing hers. “Norhaven isn’t perfect.”

“I don’t need perfect.” She leaned against him, drawing strength from his solid presence. “I just need to be where I can make a difference. Where we can make a difference.”

They stood together a moment longer, then she kissed him and headed down into the village.

She found Lina tending to the tiny vegetable patch outside their minuscule home—barely larger than Lyric’s chicken coop. The girl was on her knees, carefully pulling weeds from around the cabbage plants. Her hands were already rough from years of work, but her face still held a youthful softness that Samha shared.

“Hello, Lina.”

The girl looked up and smiled at her, brushing dirt from her palms.

“Miss Lyric!” Her eyes darted behind Lyric, likely searching for Egon. She’s already come by once to thank him again for saving her from the guards.

She knelt beside her, ignoring the damp soil soaking through her skirt. This was a conversation that needed closeness.

“I need to ask you something important,” she said, picking up a small trowel and working the soil to give her hands something to do. “Egon and I are leaving the village.”

Lina’s eyes widened. “But your bees—your garden?—”

“That’s why I’m here.” She took a deep breath. “Would you and Samha be willing to take over my holding? It would provide a good living for both of you, if you’re willing to work at it.”

The girl’s mouth fell open. Her eyes lit with excitement before uncertainty clouded them. “I—I don’t know if I could. I’m not sure what I’d need to do with everything. The bees especially…”

She squeezed Lina’s soil-stained hand, her throat tightening as she gave the girl a tremulous smile. “You’ve helped me from time to time. And Samha has learned more than you realize from Egon. He knows how to check the hives safely now, and what each of the plants need.”

“You’ve done a good job here,” she added, glancing around at the tidy rows of vegetables. “And don’t be afraid to ask for help. The village supported me when I first arrived, just as they’ll support you.”

Lina bit her lip, considering. “You’d trust us with your home? With everything you’ve built?”

She nodded, feeling a weight shift inside her chest. It wasn’t loss—it was the passing of something precious to hands that would cherish it.

“I would. I do.”

Lina burst into tears, but her smile was radiant as she thanked Lyric over and over. As she returned to the cottage, she felt lighter, happy with her decision.

Later that morning she was sorting through her herbs, deciding which to take and which to leave for Lina, when a knock sounded on the door, startling her. Egon tensed immediately, his hand moving to the knife at his belt, but she placed a calming hand on his arm.

“It’s just Elder Tomas,” she said, recognizing the distinctive three-tap pattern.

The old man stood on her threshold, his weathered hands clutching a small wooden box. His eyes, normally stern when conducting village business, were soft with something she couldn’t quite name.

“We heard you’re leaving,” he said without preamble. “The council wanted you to have this.”

Inside the box lay a small bronze medallion bearing the village symbol—a tree with roots stretching into flowing water.

“It’s tradition,” Elder Tomas explained, “for those who journey beyond our borders. So you remember your place among us.”

Her throat tightened as she accepted the gift. She’d always thought of herself as separate from the village, an outsider they merely tolerated despite their kindness. Yet here was proof that they considered her one of their own.

By midday, a steady stream of villagers had made their way to her cottage. Widow Merrin brought freshly baked journey bread wrapped in cloth. The blacksmith’s wife pressed a small knife into Lyric’s hands—“For protection,” she whispered. The children came too, led by Samha, presenting wildflower crowns and tearful hugs.

“I didn’t realize…” she murmured to Egon as they watched the baker’s family walk away after delivering a sack of dried fruits.

“What?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“That I belonged here.” She blinked back unexpected tears. “All this time, I thought I was just passing through, that no one would notice if I disappeared.”

Another knock at the door revealed Henna, the midwife who rarely left her home these days. She pressed a small pouch of healing herbs into Lyric’s hands.

“For the road,” she said. “And this—” she added a tiny vial of amber liquid, “—is for when you need courage. My grandmother’s recipe.”

As the sun began its descent, Lyric surveyed the pile of gifts—practical items for travel, tokens of protection, mementos to remember them by. Each one represented a connection she hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

“I never thought leaving would be so hard,” she admitted, leaning against him, grateful for his steady presence amid the emotional storm of farewells. The cottage that had once felt so spacious now seemed crowded with memories and gifts from villagers—people who cared for her more than she’d ever realized.

“I didn’t think it would hurt this much,” she whispered against his chest. “To leave a place I never truly called home.”

His hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his touch gentle despite his strength. “It became home when you weren’t looking,” he said, his voice rumbling through her.

She tilted her face up to him, finding his amber eyes soft with understanding. Without hesitation, he lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss meant to comfort. His lips were warm, the pressure tender as he sought to ease her sadness.

But something shifted between them—the same electricity that had sparked in the forest, that had ignited when they’d made love beneath the stars. The kiss deepened, Lyric rising onto her toes as Egon’s arms tightened around her. His tusks grazed her cheek, a reminder of his otherness that only made her want him more.

“Lyric,” he breathed against her mouth, the word half question, half plea.

“Please,” she answered, her fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt. She needed this—needed him—to anchor her amid the tumult of change.

He growled softly, lifting her easily and carrying her into the bedroom. The last rays of the sun illuminated the room as he stripped away her clothes, big hands caressing every inch of skin he revealed.

“Tell me if I’m too rough,” he growled, his eyes dark with desire.

“You won’t be,” she assured him, pushing him down to sit on the bed, then guiding his mouth to her breast.

He groaned, his mouth closing hungrily around her nipple as he pulled her closer. His tongue swirled around the sensitive flesh, his teeth scraping lightly as he suckled. She clutched his broad shoulders, her body arching into him, seeking more.

“Mine,” he rumbled against her skin, the single word sending heat coursing through her.

He was hers—this fierce, gentle orc. He’d saved her, protected her, loved her. And now she wanted to show him exactly how much she cherished him.

Lyric’s hands roamed over his scarred chest, tracing the lines of his strength. Her fingers found one nipple, then the other, circling and teasing until he shuddered with pleasure and lifted her onto his lap. His arousal pressed hard and hot between them, and she reached down to stroke him, teasing the wide head with her thumb. He groaned again, his hips jerking upward as he buried his face against her neck.

“You undo me, Lyric,” he murmured, his voice raw with need. “Everything I thought I knew—about myself, about the world—it’s all changed since I found you again.”

“Because we’re stronger together,” she whispered, guiding him to her entrance as he lifted her over him. “Stronger than any curse or threat we might face.”

Slowly, carefully, he lowered her onto his thick length, filling her until she thought she might burst with the intensity of it. The stretch of him inside her made her gasp, her body still adjusting to his size. But the slight discomfort quickly gave way to pleasure as he began to move, each thrust sending sparks of ecstasy through her. She wrapped her legs around him, urging him deeper, harder.

“More,” she breathed, nails raking his back. “I need more of you.”

He obeyed, pulling her down to meet each thrust, the bed creaking beneath them. The Beast was there, in the intensity of his gaze, the possessive grip of his hands—but she wasn’t afraid. She welcomed him, matched him stroke for stroke as they raced toward oblivion.er body stretched around him, adjusting to his girth. They fit together perfectly, two halves of a whole.

“Lyric.” Her name was a plea, a prayer.

“Egon,” she answered, her hands gripping his broad shoulders as she rose and fell above him.

Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, each giving and receiving in equal measure. His hands mapped the contours of her body, finding the places that made her shiver and gasp. She arched into his touch, losing herself in the sensations he evoked.

“Mine,” he growled again, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that left no doubt of his claim.

“Yours,” she agreed, surrendering fully to him, to the bond between them.

As their pleasure built, he rolled her beneath him, his hips snapping against hers with increasing urgency. His weight pressed her into the mattress, his scent surrounding her. There was no fear, no uncertainty—just the primal joy of being claimed by the male who held her heart.

When her release came, it crashed over her like a storm, washing away everything except the ecstasy of their joined bodies. She cried out, clinging to him as if he were her only anchor in a tempest. His climax followed hers, his powerful body shuddering with the force of it. His roar filled the room, drowning out the distant sounds of the village beyond as his knot expanded, locking them together.

Afterward, they lay entwined, their bodies still joined. Egon’s fingers traced lazy patterns along her spine as they caught their breath.

“I love you,” she whispered against his chest. “You’re the home I never knew I needed.”

“And I love you,” he echoed, his voice low and rough. “You’re the light that guides me.”

She snuggled happily against him as he drifted off to sleep. She watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, his face peaceful in a way she rarely saw when he was awake. She traced a finger lightly along the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw, marveling at how something that should have made him fearsome only made him more dear to her.

But sleep eluded her. Tomorrow they would leave this place, heading toward an uncertain future in Norhaven. She should have been anxious, but it felt more like… anticipation.

The air in the cottage shifted, growing inexplicably cooler. She sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders as the moonlight streaming through the window seemed to thicken, coalescing into a silvery mist that swirled at the foot of the bed.

Egon didn’t stir. His breathing remained deep and even, as though whatever was happening couldn’t reach him in his dreams.

The mist took shape—a woman of impossible beauty, her hair like spun gold, her eyes ancient and knowing. A crown of antlers adorned her head, and her gown seemed woven from starlight itself.

“Freja,” she whispered, not sure how she knew.

“Child of resilience,” the goddess’s voice came not from the apparition but from inside Lyric’s mind, musical and terrifying at once. “The threads of fate tighten around you.”

The mist-woman extended her hand, and flames danced across her palm, forming images—Beast warriors tearing through villages, a cruel-looking man standing before an ancient altar, blood running down stone steps.

“A storm gathers,” Freja continued. “The one who twists my gifts seeks to break the balance. The curse must end, but not through his methods.”

“What can I do?” Lyric asked, her voice barely audible.

“You carry the key, daughter of earth.” The goddess’s eyes fixed on Lyric’s abdomen. “Life calls to life. Protect what grows within. Together, you will find the answers.”

Flames danced across her palm again, forming the image of a pair of jagged mountain peaks. “The Fanged Gate.”

The goddess vanished, leaving nothing but moonlight in her wake.

She jolted awake, her heart hammering against her ribs. It had been a dream after all. Dawn light filtered through the cottage windows, painting the familiar walls in soft gold. She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to grasp the fragments of the vision before they slipped away entirely.

Freja. The goddess had come to her in the night.

Beside her, Egon still slept, his massive form curled protectively around her even in slumber.

The images remained vivid—Beast warriors, the man at the altar, blood on stone. And something about life. But clearest of all was the warning about their path.

“The Fanged Gate,” she whispered, the words feeling right on her tongue.

She’d heard of it in travelers’ tales—an ancient passage that led through the heart of the mountains into Norhaven, marked by two massive stone pillars carved to resemble tusks—but Lasseran had blocked it as part of his attempt to control Norhaven.

Egon stirred beside her, his eyes opening slowly.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was rough with sleep, but his gaze sharpened immediately, reading the tension in her body.

“We need to go to the Fanged Gate,” she said, as she sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders against the morning chill.

He frowned, pushing himself upright and wrapping an arm around her. “The Fanged Gate? That’s dangerous territory, Lyric. Why would we?—”

“Freja came to me last night,” she interrupted, watching his expression shift from confusion to surprise. “She showed me things… about Lasseran, about the curse. I’m not sure I understand what they meant, but that part was clear. We have to go to the Fanged Gate.”

He gave her a confused look. She understood his reaction—the Old Gods rarely revealed themselves so directly, even to those who served them. That Freja had come to her, a simple beekeeper with no special lineage or powers, felt both terrifying and strangely right.

“You’re certain it wasn’t just a dream?” he asked, his voice low and careful. He didn’t dismiss her outright, which warmed her heart.

“I’m sure it was real.” She reached for his hand, needing his warmth, his solidity to anchor her as the memory of the vision washed over her again. His fingers enveloped hers, huge and gentle. “I don’t know why we need to go to the Fanged Gate, but I’m certain that we do.”

He frowned, the scar along his temple whitening. “That route is treacherous even in good weather. If we get an early winter storm…”

“Freja wouldn’t have shown me if there was another way.”

She squeezed his hand and slipped from the bed, wrapping the blanket around herself as she moved to the window. Outside, the village was coming to life—smoke rising from chimneys, children carrying water from the well. Her garden waited, patient and familiar, for the new hands that would tend it.

Egon joined her, putting his arms around her and pulling her back against his chest. She leaned into him, drawing strength from his presence.

“If the goddess has marked our path,” he said against her hair, “then I suppose we must follow it.”