Page 5 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 5

E gon watched Lyric march to her door before stopping to glare back at him. His heart hammered against his ribs. The offer of shelter—her shelter—felt like more than he deserved.

“I can make camp,” he said awkwardly. “The woods are?—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She cut him off, her voice sharp but with an undercurrent of something softer. “It’s going to rain tonight. I can smell it in the air.”

He glanced up at the darkening sky. No clouds yet, but the air did have that heavy stillness that preceded a storm. Still, he hesitated. It would hardly be the first time he’d spent a night in the rain.

He shifted his weight, acutely aware of his size, his otherness in this human village. “People might talk if they see?—”

“Let them.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve never cared what they think before, and I’m not about to start now.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re worried about your reputation?”

The absurdity of it—him, an orc warrior, concerned about village gossip—almost made him laugh. Almost.

“Come on.” She turned and opened the door to her cottage. “I have questions, and you’re going to answer them. All of them.”

He took a deep breath and followed. Each step felt like crossing a boundary he’d convinced himself would remain forever closed. The cottage was small by any standard, but well-kept with flowers lining a neat stone path and drying herbs hanging from the eaves.

She paused and looked back at him. For a moment, her expression softened, and he caught a glimpse of the girl he’d once known.

“You’ll have to duck,” she warned as she stepped inside.

He bent his head and stepped across the threshold, immediately conscious of how his big body dominated the small space. His shoulders nearly brushed the doorframe on both sides, and he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams. He shouldn’t be here—every instinct told him so—yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn away.

The cottage was warm, inviting in a way that he’d never achieved in his own cottage. More dried herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with an earthy fragrance that mingled with honey and the faint scent of fresh bread. A small hearth glowed with embers in one corner, casting a gentle light across simple wooden furniture. Everything had its place—jars of preserves lined neatly on shelves, a small table with two chairs, a rocking chair beside the fire with a half-finished blanket draped over it.

“You can put your pack there,” she said, gesturing to a corner.

Egon carefully removed his weapons and travel pack, placing them gently against the wall, trying to make himself smaller somehow, less intrusive. His calloused fingers, built for battle, seemed too rough for this place of peace she’d created.

“It’s… nice,” he managed, the words inadequate. “Your home.”

She couldn’t quite hide her smile as she followed his gaze around the cottage.

“It suits me.”

She was right. Even after so long, everything felt intensely, intimately Lyric.

Turning away she stirred the fire to life and hung a kettle over the flames. Her movements were fluid, confident—she belonged here. He did not.

He remained standing, afraid to sit on furniture that might break under his weight, afraid to touch anything that might shatter in his hands. The domesticity of it all felt foreign, like a language he’d never learned to speak. This was a world of gentle things, of small comforts carefully tended. His world had always been one of survival, of blood and battle. Even after he’d come to live with his brothers, he’d never quite managed to achieve that level of quiet comfort.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she asked without turning from the fire.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t find the words.

With a sigh, she turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

He hesitated, then gingerly sat on the edge of a wooden chair, ready to leap to his feet if it showed any signs of buckling under his weight.

She shook her head, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re not a ghost. Stop hovering.”

The kettle whistled, and she busied herself preparing tea. He watched her, fascinated by her sure movements, the grace in her hands. She was so different from the waif he’d known before. He’d found her on the street, held down by two males three times her size and age. Despite that she’d been fighting with every ounce of strength in her small body. He’d pulled them off of her, sending one head first into the alley wall, the other smashing to the ground.

She’d looked up at him, green eyes wide, and he’d expected her to flee—even then he was big and scarred. Instead she’d smiled up at him.

“Thank you,” she said, as politely as any noble lady.

Then she’d held up her arms and he’d found himself picking her up and carrying her back to his hideaway. He’d spent the next six years protecting her—until he couldn’t protect her any longer. The painful memory made his shift uncomfortably and the chair gave an ominous creak.

Another hint of amusement crossed her face before she sliced a loaf of bread and ladled a fragrant stew from a pot that hung near the hearth.

“It’s mostly vegetables,” she explained, not meeting his eyes. “And the rabbit that tried to steal them.”

The normalcy of it all—this quiet domestic scene—felt surreal after years of blood and battle. His hands, scarred and calloused from wielding weapons, looked out of place against the worn wooden table.

“Thank you,” he said as she placed a bowl before him. The stew smelled rich with herbs and root vegetables. Simple fare, but his stomach growled appreciatively.

They ate in silence for several minutes, and he tried to remember the last time he’d shared a meal like this. He’d come close a few times—eating around the campfire with his brothers, or dining in Wulf’s private quarters with his brothers and their mates—but he’d always felt just a little bit on the outside. He’d never had just a quiet supper across from someone who knew him… or had known him, once.

“So,” she finally broke the silence, gazing at him across the table, “you disappeared.”

He swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“I heard you became a fighter.”

Her voice was absolutely neutral but he flinched nonetheless. How could he explain how that had happened, let alone explain the years that followed? The blood, the pain, the things he’d done to survive.

“At first,” he said cautiously.

“And after?”

“A lot of places, but eventually I headed north.” He hesitated again. “I found my brothers.”

Her neutral expression was replaced by shock.

“You have a family? How did you find them?”

“Accidentally. After I left my… job, I went to Norhaven to find out how other orcs lived. Wulf recognized my pendant.” It was the one thing he’d held onto since he was a child. “Both he and Lothar had a similar one.”

“Two brothers?” She shook her head. “I always assumed you were as alone as I was.”

“I was. Then.” It had been a shock to discover otherwise. Sometimes he still found it hard to believe, especially as most orcs were lucky to father one child, let alone three. “They said my father—our father—hadn’t known about me.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “And you believed them?”

“Yes.” Wulf and Lothar were good males. He chose to believe that his father had been as well. “My mother told me the same thing, even though she never gave me any details about him.”

“And you?” he asked, desperate to shift the focus. “How did you come to be here, with…” He gestured around the cottage. “All this?”

“I left Kel’Vara after…” She hesitated. “When I was eighteen. I ended up here and I wandered for a while. I met someone on the road—she bequeathed this place to me when she’d died. She’d been gone a long time. It needed a lot of work.”

He nodded, imagining her rebuilding, piece by piece. Creating something from ruins. He understood that, at least.

She broke off a piece of bread and he found himself studying her hands. They were strong hands, marked with the evidence of hard work—calluses from garden tools, a small burn scar on one thumb, fingernails kept practical and short. Not the soft hands of the noble ladies in Kel’Vara, but capable hands that had built this life for herself. Not perhaps what he had hoped for but she seemed content.

“It’s remarkable what you’ve created here,” he said, meaning it. “This whole village seems… peaceful.”

Something in her expression shifted, and she set down her spoon.

“It looks that way, doesn’t it? Peaceful. Simple. But things are never entirely what they seem.”

He frowned at her across the table, alert to the change in her tone. “What do you mean?”

“Lord Trevain,” she said, lowering her voice even though they were alone. “He controls these lands. At first, he seemed fair enough—collected reasonable taxes, kept bandits away. But lately…” She glanced toward the window, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “Things have changed.”

“How so?”

“New taxes. Stricter rules. Men in armor we’ve never seen before, coming and going from his keep.” Her fingers traced a pattern on the wooden table. “And there are rumors that he’s pledged allegiance to Lasseran, not King Aldran.”

He felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. This was exactly what he’d feared—Lasseran’s influence spreading beyond Velmora’s borders, into the Old Kingdom and perhaps elsewhere.

“Has anyone from Kel’Vara visited? Officials, soldiers?”

She nodded. “Twice in the past month. They came with sealed documents for Lord Trevain. No one knows what was in them, but after each visit, things got worse. More restrictions, more demands. The harvest festival next week—it used to be a celebration. Now a quarter of everything must go to the lord’s keep.”

“And no one resists?” he asked automatically, then winced. These people were not soldiers.

“With what? Pitchforks against trained soldiers?” she asked, confirming his assumption. “These are good people who simply want to live their lives.”

The familiar weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders. This was why he’d left Norhaven—to find evidence of Lasseran’s plans. He hadn’t expected to find it here, in this small village, with her.

She abruptly pushed back from the table and started picking up the dishes, gesturing at him to remain in place when he started to rise. After placing them in the sink, she pulled down a clay jug and two pottery mugs and brought them to the table. The cider caught the firelight, glowing like liquid gold as she poured it onto the mugs.

“From my own trees,” she said with a hint of pride. “Last autumn’s batch.”

The cider tasted of sunlight and crisp fall days—sweet with a tart finish that lingered pleasantly. So different from the harsh spirits warriors drank to forget battles. This was a drink meant to be savored, to celebrate life’s small victories.

“It’s excellent,” he said, surprised by how much he meant it.

She smiled, the first real smile he’d seen since their reunion. It transformed her face, softening the wariness that had settled there. For a heartbeat, he glimpsed the girl he’d known in Kel’Vara—before everything had changed.

“The orchard takes work,” she said, her smile fading as she gazed into her cup. “Everything does, really. The bees, the garden, keeping the cottage from falling apart again…” She sighed, rolling her shoulders as if to ease an ache. “Not that I mind. It’s mine. All of it.”

She said it with such fierce pride that he felt something stir within him—admiration, and something else he couldn’t name.

“You’ve done all this alone?” he asked.

“Who else would help me?” The question wasn’t bitter, just matter-of-fact.

He stared into his cup, his thoughts racing. He needed to learn more about Lasseran’s activities in the region. The village’s location—close enough to gather intelligence, far enough to avoid immediate detection—was ideal. And Lyric clearly knew the local situation.

But beneath these tactical considerations lay something deeper, something he was reluctant to examine too closely.

“I could help,” he said abruptly, surprising himself. “With your holding. Just for a while.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You?”

“I’m stronger than I look,” he said, trying to strike a humorous note.

“You look plenty strong,” she countered, studying him. “But why would you stay?”

“I would like to learn more about Lord Trevain’s connection to Lasseran. And…” He hesitated, then decided on honesty. “And I owe you. For leaving.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

“Just for a short time,” he added quickly. “In exchange for shelter.”

He watched her face as she considered his offer, noting the small furrow that appeared between her brows. Her eyes—those green eyes he remembered so clearly—searched his face. He did his best to keep his expression open, willing her to see the truth, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what that truth was anymore.

“Two weeks,” she finally said. “You can stay and help for two weeks. Then we’ll see.”

Relief flooded through him, although he couldn’t explain why it mattered so much that she’d agreed.

“Two weeks,” he echoed with a nod.

She rose from the table and moved to a small chest in the corner, pulling out a couple of folded blankets and what looked like a threadbare quilt.

“I don’t have a proper bed for you,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “But I can make a pallet here by the hearth. It should be comfortable enough, and you’ll stay warm.”

What am I doing here, he wondered again as he watched her create the pallet. This peaceful place, this woman with her garden and her bees—they belonged to a world he’d never known. A world he had no right to disturb.

Yet when she glanced up at him, something in her expression—a flicker of the past, perhaps—held him in place. He couldn’t leave. Not yet.

“It’s not much,” she said, giving the makeshift bed a rueful look.

“It’s more than enough,” he answered truthfully. After years of sleeping on rocky ground or in crude military barracks, the simple pallet looked like luxury.

She nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear—a familiar gesture that sent an unexpected pang through his chest. “We should get some rest. Dawn comes early on a farm.”

He knew he should walk away. Stay for the information he needed about Lasseran’s activities, then disappear again. That would be safest—for her, if not for him. But watching her prepare a place for him in her home, he realized he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Not tonight. Perhaps not for the full two weeks.

And that realization terrified him more than any battle ever had.