Page 6 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 6

L yric sat on the bench in front of her cottage, pretending to sort through her herb basket while stealing glances at Egon. His massive hands, which should have been clumsy, manipulated the wooden fence posts with unexpected precision. Sweat glistened on his green skin as he hammered a nail into place with one hard strike, muscles rippling beneath his tunic.

“You planning to fix that fence or murder it?” she called, immediately regretting the playfulness in her voice. She wasn’t supposed to be warming to him.

He looked up, a half-smile tugging at his scarred face. “The fence deserves what it gets. I think it’s been plotting against your chickens.”

The easy banter caught her off guard. Last night, after preparing his sleeping pallet in the main room, she’d retreated to her bedroom certain she wouldn’t sleep a wink. An orc warrior under her roof—the same one who’d vanished from her life years ago—should have kept her wide awake with anxiety. Instead, the steady rhythm of his breathing had lulled her into the deepest sleep she’d known in years.

She watched him straighten a crooked post with a single powerful push. The fence had been on her repair list for months, but she’d never found the time between tending bees, harvesting vegetables, and preserving food for the upcoming winter.

In spite of her resolution to keep her distance, she found herself dipping a bucket of water from her well and bringing him a cup.

“Would you like some water?”

He paused, wiping his brow before accepting it. As he did their fingers brushed, and she pulled back too quickly, sloshing water onto his hand.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“No harm done.” He drained the cup in one swallow.

The morning sun highlighted new scars she hadn’t noticed in the dim evening light. What battles had he fought? What horrors had he seen? Questions burned on her tongue, but she swallowed them down. Better to keep a distance between them.

“Sleep well?” he asked, returning to his work.

“Better than I expected.” She folded her arms. “You?”

“Your floor’s more comfortable than most places I’ve slept.”

She tried not to think about what that meant. The hardships he must have endured. The places he might have been while she was building her little sanctuary.

“I’ll bring you some breakfast,” she said abruptly, turning back toward the cottage. “It’s the least I can do for…” she gestured at the nearly-repaired fence.

“Lyric.” His voice stopped her. “Thank you. For letting me stay.”

She nodded without looking back, unable to trust her voice. The genuine gratitude in his tone threatened to crack something she’d carefully sealed inside herself long ago.

She returned with a basket of freshly baked bread and a small crock of honey butter. She set the basket on a nearby stump, taking a moment to appreciate the progress he’d made.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, breaking off a piece of bread and spreading it with honey butter before offering it to him.

He devoured it quickly, then nodded his thanks before reaching for the plank beside him. As he positioned it against the posts and hit it with the hammer, the weathered wood splintered with a sharp crack, breaking clean in two. The pieces clattered to the ground at his feet.

She tensed, instinctively bracing herself. The Egon she’d known years ago would have cursed, maybe even thrown the remaining piece in frustration. His temper had been quick then—never directed at her, but flaring hot against objects and circumstances that defied him.

Instead, he laughed. A deep, rumbling sound that caught her completely off guard.

“This wood has more fight in it than it looks,” he said, shaking his head. He crouched down, examining the broken pieces with careful fingers. “Too dry. It’s been out in the sun too long.”

He set the broken pieces aside and calmly reached for another plank, measuring it against the gap with the same patient precision as before.

She realized she was staring. This wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. The Egon in her memories would have taken the wood’s failure as a personal affront.

“You’ve changed,” she said before she could stop herself, and he tensed.

“Had to.” He resumed his work, not looking up. “Some lessons come harder than others.”

She watched him test the new plank, his movements deliberate and careful. The years had changed him in ways that went beyond the scars and increased muscle. There was a steadiness to him now, a measured patience she didn’t recognize.

She found herself wondering what experiences had tempered his rage into this calm determination. What had happened to the impulsive young male she’d once known?

Still puzzling over the changes in him, she picked up her beekeeping tools, planning to check the hives while he worked on the fence.

“What do you do with those?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice. “I’ve never seen it up close.”

“Would you like to see?” she asked before she had a chance to reconsider it.

When he nodded she handed him the spare veil, watching as he carefully fitted it over his massive head. His tusks made it sit awkwardly, and she bit back a smile.

“The trick is to move slowly,” she explained, lighting the smoker. “Bees don’t like sudden movements or loud noises. They’re sensitive to mood too—they can sense fear or aggression.”

He nodded solemnly. “Like most creatures worth knowing.”

She’d never thought of it that way, but he was right.

As they approached the hives, she expected him to hang back. Most visitors did, intimidated by the buzzing clouds. Instead, he followed close behind her, his footsteps deliberately measured.

“I’ll open this one,” she said, puffing smoke at the entrance of her oldest hive. “The smoke calms them, makes them focus on the honey rather than us.”

She worked the tool under the lid, prying it up carefully. Bees rose in a gentle cloud as she lifted the cover. To her surprise, Egon didn’t flinch or step back. He leaned forward slightly, eyes wide with interest behind the veil.

“They’re smaller than I imagined,” he murmured.

She pulled out a frame heavy with honey and brood. “See here? The queen lays eggs in these cells. The workers tend them until they hatch.”

His big hands, which had hammered with such force on the fence, now hovered with impossible gentleness near the frame. A single bee landed on his gloved finger, and he held perfectly still, watching it.

“You’re good with them,” she said, surprised. “Most people get nervous, make the bees agitated.”

“They’re just protecting their home. I can respect that.”

She studied him as he carefully observed the bee crawling across his glove. The intensity of his focus, the controlled stillness of his body—it revealed a patience she’d never associated with him before.

“Would you like to hold the frame?” she offered, extending it toward him.

He gently took the frame from her hands, handling it with exquisite care. The bees continued their work, undisturbed by the transition.

“They’re so calm. They must trust you.”

“We have an understanding.” She shrugged, but she found herself smiling despite her determination to keep her guard up. “I protect them, they provide for me. It’s simple.”

But nothing about this moment felt simple. Standing beside him in her apiary, watching him handle her bees with such reverence, stirred emotions she’d locked away years ago. The contrast between his intimidating exterior and the gentleness he displayed confused her carefully constructed defenses.

“How did you learn this?” he asked, carefully returning the frame when she reached for it.

She slid it back into place, grateful for the familiar task that gave her hands something to do. “After I was—after I left Kel’Vara, I wandered for a while. For a while I found work on a farm where the old woman kept bees. She saw something in me, I guess, and she taught me everything she knew.”

She closed the hive, remembering Matilda’s weathered hands guiding hers, the old woman’s patience as Lyric fought through her fear of the stinging insects.

“I had to move on when she died,” she continued, her throat tightening unexpectedly. Matilda’s son had lost no time in disposing of the bees. He’d made it clear that the only way she was welcome to remain was in his bed.

He remained silent, but she felt his eyes on her through the veil. She hadn’t meant to share that much—hadn’t talked about Matilda to anyone in the village. Something about his quiet attention drew words from her that she usually kept buried.

“The bees were my first real accomplishment,” she admitted, moving to the next hive. “Even before this cottage. They taught me that I could build something, protect something. That I had value beyond…” She trailed off, unwilling to venture into darker memories.

“Beyond what others saw in you,” he finished softly.

She looked up sharply, meeting his eyes through the mesh of their veils. He understood. Somehow, despite everything that had changed between them, he still understood.

As she closed the final hive, a familiar bleating sound caught her attention. She turned to see Barnabas, her neighbor’s goat, trotting determinedly toward her garden with mischief in his eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” she muttered, hastily setting down her smoker. “That’s the third time this week.”

Before she could move, Barnabas changed direction and charged straight for the newly repaired fence. The goat launched herself at Egon’s handiwork, front hooves landing on the top rail with a decisive thud. The wood creaked ominously.

“No!” she cried, but it was too late.

Barnabas’s weight sent the top plank crashing down. The startled goat bleated in alarm, then somehow tangled himself in Egon’s tool belt, which he’d left hanging on a post. In his panic, he dragged it through the mud, scattering nails and sending the hammer flying.

Once again she expected his temper to flare. Hours of careful work undone in seconds by a wayward goat would test anyone’s patience.

Instead, he looked at the destruction, then at the goat—now wearing his tool belt like some bizarre harness—and burst into laughter. The sound rumbled from deep in his chest, rich and unexpected.

“Your village has some strange warriors,” he said, still laughing.

The absurdity of it hit her then—this massive orc warrior brought low by a stubborn goat barely reaching his knee. A giggle escaped her, then another, until she was laughing alongside him, harder than she had in years.

“That’s Barnabas,” she managed between breaths. “Terror of gardens everywhere.”

He approached the goat with slow, deliberate movements. “Easy now, little warrior,” he murmured. “Let’s get you untangled.”

She expected Barnabas to bolt—the goat barely tolerated her touch on the best days. But something in Egon’s calm demeanor seemed to soothe the animal. He knelt beside him, his big hands gentle as he worked the leather strap free from his horns.

“You’ve caused quite enough trouble for one day,” he told the goat conversationally, as if they were old friends. Barnabas responded by butting his head against his palm.

She shook her head in disbelief. “He hates everyone. How did you do that?”

He shrugged, scratching behind Barnabas’s ears. “Animals know when you respect them. Even the troublemakers.”

Reaching for the goat’s frayed harness, she smiled at Egon. “I’ll take him home before he decides to fight any more fences.”

His laughter followed her out of the garden.

Late that night she tossed in her bed, the sheets tangling around her legs as the night deepened. The cottage creaked and settled, punctuated by Egon’s deep, steady breathing from the main room. She’d left her bedroom door cracked open—for safety, she told herself, though she knew the truth was more complicated.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling beams barely visible in the darkness. Why couldn’t she sleep? She’d worked even harder than usual today, and she should have been exhausted. Instead, her mind raced with images of Egon’s scarred hands gently cradling the honeycomb, his unexpected laughter when Barnabas destroyed his work, the way his eyes had softened when she mentioned Matilda.

This wasn’t the Egon she remembered. The young male who’d disappeared from her life had been volatile, passionate, unpredictable. This Egon moved with deliberate care, as if constantly aware of his own strength and the fragility of everything around him.

What had happened to him in those years between?

She turned onto her side, punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape. It shouldn’t matter. Whatever life had done to reshape him wasn’t her concern. He was just passing through, helping with repairs in exchange for shelter. Nothing more.

Yet she couldn’t stop remembering how it felt when their fingers brushed over the water cup. The strange sense of recognition that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with something deeper, more primal.

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending a brief glow through the crack in her door. In that momentary light, she caught a glimpse of his sleeping form. One massive arm was thrown above his head and his face was relaxed in sleep, vulnerable in a way that he kept carefully concealed in waking hours.

She closed her eyes, but the image remained and she pressed her face into the pillow, frustrated with herself. She’d built this life carefully, brick by brick, creating safety where there had been none. The last thing she needed was to let herself get drawn into his orbit, knowing he would disappear just as suddenly as he’d arrived.

No matter how familiar his eyes were. No matter how gentle his hands could be.