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CHAPTER FIVE

Verna

I wondered how I’d offended him. The Keeper—nay, Jorak —avoided me for the rest of the day, which was a remarkable feat considering we were stuck together in a small cottage with a blizzard raging outside.

Occasionally, I peeked through the door to the animals’ byre to see him bent over one of the cow’s hooves, or fixing part of the daub of the wall, muttering to himself.

Aye, he was avoiding me.

‘Twas in a thoughtful frame of mind that I began to mix dough for bread.

I hadn’t felt guilty about poking through his stores of supplies, because I told myself I was doing it for him . Trying to make his life easier so he’d allow me to stay.

Protect me.

Because he’d rejected the easiest thing I had to offer.

He thought you offered sex out of…pity. Guilt? That is what he said.

Had I?

I’d offered him my body because that’s what I was used to offering. That’s what I’d always been told had the most value. Besides, despite his terrifying appearance, Jorak had been naught but kind to me. I should be repelled by him—those tusks, those claws—but when we touched…

Well, I hadn’t imagined the warmth which had spread up my arm when he’d pressed his palm to mine. Last night, I’d curled against him because he had felt so delicious.

And when I’d stood there naked in front of him and he’d finally reached out to press his skin against me? When he’d cupped my breast? I punched the bread dough a little harder than necessary, thinking of the way I’d had to tamp down on my shudder of…of desire? Need?

It hadn’t been fear, which had surprised me.

I’d never loved the way males pawed at my body, as if ‘twas put in front of them for their amusement. But when Jorak had touched me…

This is not a helpful thread of thought, because he made it clear he does not want your body .

Nay, that wasn’t exactly true. I’d seen his erection, the massive bulge in his kilt. I knew what that meant. But…

He thought I’d only offered my body out of pity. I might no’ have two arms, but I am no’ so despicable as that.

It had only been a day since I’d first woken up in Jorak’s bed, but I didn’t pity him, and I didn’t think him despicable. I thought him… fascinating .

As I set the bread to rise, I used the supplies to make a quick batch of biscuits. I’d noticed he ate far more than I did—well, that made sense, considering how much bigger he was. So I doubled the batch, thinking we might have leftovers, and chopped up some apples to simmer in a bit of wine I found in a cask.

The biscuits finished pan-frying by the time I deemed the apple spread thick enough, and I smeared a few of them with the spiced, fragrant mash. Then I scooped the rest into an empty crock and set it next to the remainder of the biscuits, poured a flask of ale, took a deep breath, and picked up the whole tray to head for the byre.

The scent of hay and animals was heavy and reminded me not only of my hiding spot two nights ago, but my childhood. Da’s stables always smelled like this.

But none of my brothers were ever as intriguing as the kilted orc who was now turning a scowl my way as he rested a forked implement against the horse’s stall.

“What now?” he barked. “Ye’ve come to mock me some more?”

I raised a brow at him, an instinctive response to his bad mood. I should likely cower, but a lifetime of standing up to males bigger than me had left me with a hefty dose of sass.

Mayhap my response was unexpected, because I swear his cheeks darkened slightly and he looked away with a snarl.

Nodding in determination, I marched toward the water barrel and placed the tray beside it.

“You must be hungry. Supper will not be ready for several hours and you must eat.”

“Och, I must, must I?” he muttered…but since he was drifting toward me and the tray, I didn’t respond.

Instead, I stepped back, placed my hands on my hips, and glanced around the byre. From the corner of my eye I watched him scoop up one of the biscuits and take a big bite of it. The noise of appreciation—part hum, part grunt—made my lips curl, but I turned so he wouldn’t see them.

“These are good,” he finally said. “Ye fried them? How do ye get them so fluffy?”

My smile grew as I pretended to focus on the chickens hunting and pecking at the hay on the floor.

“I would be happy to teach you…tomorrow.” At least he’d let me stay one more day.

As he ate, I kicked at the straw, turning it so it wouldn’t become ground into the floor, and releasing more of the grains for the chickens. When one particularly foul-tempered hen tried to attack my ankle, I scooped her up, told her, “ Nay ,” sternly, and placed her in one of the nesting boxes.

I was fairly certain I wasn’t imagining the feel of his gaze on the back of my neck.

As I scooped out a handful of grains for the better-behaved fowl, I heard him grunt in what I hoped was approval.

“Ye ken chickens?”

It had been approval.

“Well, not these chickens.” I risked a teasing grin over my shoulder. “ These chickens are as standoffish as their master.”

Jorak merely cocked a brow and glanced significantly at the group pecking excitedly at my offering.

“I’ve eaten the standoffish ones.”

“The foul fowls, you mean?”

He didn’t respond, but I thought mayhap I saw his lips twitch as he bent to scoop up another biscuit.

The hen I’d placed up in the box squawked in irritation and half-hopped, half-fell from her perch to push the others out of the way. I clucked in exasperation and nudged her to the side.

“I have a nomination for the next time you want a roast chicken supper.”

“Noted,” he said dryly, and I spun in surprise. The male did have a sense of humor, albeit drier than a withered husk.

He had finished off the buttered biscuits and now was using the remainder, the ones I thought of as extras, to scoop the apple butter from the crock as he watched me.

“Do ye have a farm?” He gestured with one of the biscuits. “Or does yer husband?”

I reared back in surprise, but judging from the way Jorak watched me, this wasn’t a casual question.

So I considered my words. “I grew up on a farm. My father understood woodlore and kept many animals.”

“And now?” he grunted.

I didn’t want to tell him how I survived, so I shrugged and focused on keeping Bitchy Chicken from attacking my ankles.

“My eldest brother inherited the farm when my father passed. I am not married.” Before he could ask further questions, I turned the topic. “You said that the human women in your village were not married to the males?”

He grunted, and I imagined him chewing. “Mating is… When a male and a female care about one another…”

“I know what sex is, Jorak,” I announced, meeting his eyes with a bit of teasing. I’d offered it to him earlier, after all.

But he flushed again, and now ‘twas his turn to look away. “Mating is more than sex, lass. ‘Tis…a kenning . When two people are made for each other, they just…” He shrugged then shifted his shoulders as if uncomfortable.

“They are connected. Forever.”

“So, like marriage?”

To my surprise, he seemed…frustrated as he shook his head, shoving the last of the biscuit into his mouth.

“’Tis…” He swallowed, scowling. “In yer world, marriage is a contract. Females are bought and sold, aye?”

I’d never considered marriage that way. In my mind, after the life I’d lived for the last few years, marriage—the opportunity to only have to service one male—had seemed like an unobtainable dream. But I propped my hip against a feed barrel and considered his words.

“Marriage is a contract, aye. And I suppose the wife has few chances to make things right if ‘tis not an advantageous contract.”

Jorak nodded. “In yer world, females arenae valued the way they are in ours. Mating is no’ a contract, ‘tis…a kenning . No’ just an announcement to the clan and the gods, but something certain shared between a female and her Mate.”

I stared, trying to understand the picture he painted.

“The humans in the village…”

“Aye,” he agreed gruffly. “Mated. Like Isadora is—or will be—to Torvak, the male ye tried to follow. The other human females are cherished Mates. Ye…” He wiped his palm against his kilt and turned away. “Ye will be happy there. Find yerself a male who can treat ye well.”

I didn’t want a different male. The thought sprung into my head before I fully understood it. I just knew…despite my foolhardy attempts upon my arrival, I didn’t want to go to the village. Not yet.

So I blurted out a desperate attempt to get him to continue the conversation.

“How do you know so much?”

Jorak paused and I pushed on.

“You understand the way humans and the human world works. Yet I know naught about your world.”

“Our world is just like yers,” he said, slowly easing back into a position to face me. “Same trees, same animals. No’ as populated, no’ as deforested because of it. We dinnae value gold and minerals the same way ye do, and have nae need of building wealth beyond what the clan needs to survive.”

“There are no greedy orcs?” I asked in surprise.

The question gave him pause, and he shrugged his right shoulder. “I suppose there are. Greedy for power, greedy for food. But greedy for wealth?” He shrugged again. “We are content with our clans.”

‘Twas not the first time I’d heard him speak fondly of his clan. “And your clan is…Bloodfire?” Torvolk had been the Bloodfire Ranger, Jorak had said. And the village was Bloodfire Village. “Yet you do not live with them?”

His expression shuttered. “I am the Bloodfire Keeper. These stones are the only ones within a day’s journey, and many use them to cross to the human world and back. ‘Tis my responsibility to guard and care for the pathway. As for why I ken so much about yer world…” He seemed eager to change the subject and now shrugged as if it wasn’t a grand plan. “I read. The human language and orcs’ are no’ so different, and we never saw a need to develop written word when we could just borrow yers.”

I wanted to know more about his past and why he’d chosen to live here alone, but my imagination had been caught.

“You can read? Truly?” I’d seen his collection of scrolls, seen him pouring over the ones I’d brought, so I wasn’t surprised. “Could you teach—I mean, I have always wished I could.”

When he blinked, he only partly managed to hide his surprise. “Ye cannae read? Humans produce scrolls and treatises and contracts at a prodigious rate.”

I shrugged. “And only a select few, like scribes and monks, can read them. I do not know of a single female who knows more than her letters.”

“For fook’s sake, ‘tis criminal ,” he spat, shaking his head and pushing himself away from the stall where he’d been leaning. “Do ye ken yer letters?”

Nodding, I eagerly crouched, pushing the hay out of the way with one hand as I held back the ill-tempered hen with the other.

“V-E-R,” I read as I slowly, painstakingly drew the letters in the dirt. “N. A. Verna .” I glanced up at him. “’Tis my name.”

His hand was on his hip as he watched me, his expression carefully neutral. I thought I could see uncertainty there. Slowly, he sank to a crouch across from me, his elbow balanced on his knee.

“Aye. Can ye spell mine?”

With him closer now, I didn’t have to tip my head back as far, but I still bit my lower lip as I considered. It had been many, many years since Da taught my brothers and me our letters, and I rarely had need of them.

“ Jor… ” I sounded out his name, then scratched in the dirt. “J. R? Ack . A. C?”

His eyes flickered with something I couldn’t identify, but he nodded. “Good.”

I couldn’t help the way I lit up, my chest feeling lighter at his praise.

Jorak leaned forward and used his finger to draw his letters—neat, precise—in the dirt beside my attempts. “J-O-R-A-K. Jooorak ,” he sounded out, pointing at the “O” I’d missed. “Orc spelling is different from human.”

I looked at my name in the dirt, then looked at his.

‘Twas…satisfying to see them spelled out thusly. Together.

I beamed at him. “I want to learn more.”

He studied me for a long moment, then glanced back down at our names. I followed his gaze, just in time to see Sunday Supper, the arsehole hen, scratching at the letters in the dirt. Was it my imagination, or did Jorak’s lips twitch?

“Aye,” he announced abruptly, thrusting himself to his feet. He lowered his hand to me. “I’ll teach ye.”

My breath caught at the casual agreement. As if my most obtainable dream was naught to him. And then when I placed my hand in his and he pulled me to my feet, my chest tightened.

Because he didn’t drop my hand right away.