Page 6 of Vexing the Grumpy Orc (Silvermist Mates #3)

CHAPTER SIX

HANNAH

I stretched over a fallen log, fingers straining for the perfect purple cap nestled against its base. My jeans caught on rough bark as I reached, but I wasn’t about to let a single shadow cap escape. Not when Digby’s freedom hung in the balance.

“Got you, you little bastard.” I plucked the mushroom and added it to my basket, already half-full with the glowing caps.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy, casting dappled shadows across the stream bank. Perfect mushroom-hunting weather. Not that I’d have cared if it was pouring rain or blizzarding—I’d crawl through hell on my knees if it meant getting Digby back.

My babysitter leaned against a nearby tree with his muscled arms crossed, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. I’d caught him watching me at least six times in the past hour, his dark eyes tracking my movements with an intensity that made my skin prickle. Not entirely unpleasantly.

“You know,” I said, straightening and brushing dirt from my knees, “when you said you knew where to find shadow caps, I expected door-to-circle service. Not a nature hike.”

Galan’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to count as progress. “You’d miss all the fun of digging through mud.”

“My idea of fun usually involves fewer splinters.” I gestured to the tear in my jeans. “And more alcohol.”

“Humans and their weak tolerances.” He snorted, but his eyes lingered on my legs before snapping away too quickly to be casual.

I bit back a smile and returned to my work. The memory of his hands on my body during that first ritual flashed through my mind. His rough palms cupping my breasts. His teeth grazing my neck. How magic had surged between us, wild and demanding. How easily I’d surrendered to it. To him.

Not that I planned on a repeat performance. I had enough distractions without dwelling on how his eyes tracked my movements, or how his scent—mountain rain and moss—made my pulse skip every time the wind shifted.

“You navigate these trails like you were born on them,” I said, watching him from under my lashes. “ Most people would need a map and compass to find these spots.”

His shoulders stiffened at the observation, but I caught the brief flash of pleasure in his eyes before he masked it with indifference.

“Most people aren’t orcs.” The rigid line of his jaw softened, just slightly. “These mountains have been Sombra territory for generations. My great-grandfather carved his home into the rocks while your kind was still debating whether to burn us or study us.”

“And you?” I frowned down at my harvest. The basket held a decent haul, but not enough. Not for what I needed to do. “How do you, Galan, orc of the long-established Sombra clan, know these spots so well? I doubt the entire clan spends their free time tracking magic mushrooms.”

He shifted his weight, a gesture I was learning meant he was weighing his words. “I spent a lot of time out here as a child.”

“Playing hooky from orc school?” I couldn’t help the teasing tone. His ears actually twitched.

A flash of violet caught my eye further up the bank. Another patch. Without hesitation, I charged toward it, splashing through the shallow edge of the stream.

“Impatient witch,” Galan cursed under his breath, following with footsteps nearly silent despite his size.

I flashed him a grin over my shoulder. “If not hooky, then what? Bootlegging? Muscle for a sprite mafioso? ”

When no response came, I glanced back. He’d stopped at the water’s edge, his gaze fixed on something I couldn’t see through the trees. The playful moment evaporated.

“Just... existing.” His massive shoulders hunched slightly, making him look younger despite his size. “I don’t always fit with the clan.”

The admission seemed to cost him something—pride maybe, or the carefully maintained distance between us. His hand drifted to a clan tattoo on his arm, fingers tracing the marks of belonging even as he spoke of not belonging.

“Don’t fit?” I frowned. “You’re literally of their blood.”

“It’s complicated.” He picked up a stone, turning it over in his massive hands. “My father has certain expectations. Traditions that matter to him. I’ve never quite...” He trailed off, shrugging those broad shoulders. “And I definitely don’t fit in town. Too big. Too green. Too many tusks for human comfort.”

The raw honesty in his voice struck something inside me. For all his intimidating presence, in that moment he seemed more vulnerable than I’d expected. More real.

“That’s a very human opinion,” I said, “thinking you have to fit somewhere.”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that humans are obsessed with belonging.” I selected another mushroom, examining its gills before adding it to my basket. “We’re pack animals. Social creatures. We need to fit in somewhere, with someone. It’s exhausting.”

“And witches don’t need that?”

I thought of the covens I’d been invited to join over the years. The Sisters of the Serpent. The Lunar Collective. Groups that promised belonging, never mentioning the fine print of conformity.

“Some do,” I admitted. “But the best witches I’ve known carved out their own spaces. Found their own paths.” I met his gaze. “There’s no shame in wanting peace, Galan. Or in creating a place where you can just... breathe.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, that I understood. That I wasn’t mocking him. He looked away first, focusing on a point somewhere over my shoulder.

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the gentle gurgle of the stream and the soft sounds of my harvesting. When I finally stood and dusted off my pants, my basket overflowed with purple caps.

“You’re done?” Galan asked, pushing away from his tree. He sounded almost disappointed.

“With this part.” I hefted my basket. “Now comes the fun bit. Setting up the ritual circle.”

His posture shifted subtly, a tension entering his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. The tips of his pointed ears darkened slightly .

I made no effort to hide my smirk. “What’s wrong? Worried about a repeat performance?”

“We should get on with it,” he growled, not meeting my eyes. “Daylight’s fading.”

“Afraid you won’t be able to control yourself around me?” I pressed, enjoying the way his discomfort manifested in that delicious flush creeping up his ears.

He made a strangled sound and stalked out of the clearing, his broad back rigid with what I suspected wasn’t entirely anger. I followed, keeping a respectable distance—but not so far that I couldn’t appreciate how his muscles moved beneath his shirt with each determined stride.

I adjusted the pack holding Digby’s stone form and hurried after Galan. My thighs burned from crouching to gather mushrooms, but I couldn’t slow down. Not when I was this close to bringing my familiar back.

“So, the woods were your escape?” I pushed as he picked our path through the underbrush. “From your father’s expectations?”

His stride hitched. For a moment, I thought he’d shut down the conversation entirely. Then his shoulders slumped.

“His. The clan’s. From a lot of things.” He ducked under a low-hanging branch. “My father’s exile hit the clan hard. Some blamed Osen. Some blamed his witch. But everyone looked at me like they expected me to... I don’t know. Fix it somehow. ”

“Exile?” The word caught me off guard. “What happened?”

“A human died in our territory.” His words came slow, measured. Like he was weighing each syllable. “But it started a whole shitstorm with the town. The humans wanted justice. Osen, who’d just become chief, was trying to navigate it all. Then Miranda saved my other cousin’s life with magic, and suddenly half the clan was calling for her head. My father...” His jaw tightened. “He saw an opportunity.”

“For what?”

“To challenge Osen. Take control of the clan.” The words came out clipped and painful. “He conspired with our shaman. Set up a ritual combat that should have left Osen defenseless. Except I...” He shook his head. “I couldn’t watch it happen. I threw Osen a weapon.”

The implication hung between us. He’d betrayed his father. Chosen honor over blood.

“Your father lost,” I guessed.

“Osen exiled him. He lives in a cave deeper in the mountains now.” Galan’s voice grew rough, jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck stood out like cords. “And keeps fucking around and causing problems.”

Goddess. No wonder he’d reacted so strongly to finding me performing magic on clan land. Maybe humans and witches weren’t the cause, but they were clearly factors. “And you still visit him? Even after that? ”

“He’s still my father.” He pushed a branch aside for me to pass, fingers brushing my shoulder. “Someone has to make sure he doesn’t starve.”

I ducked under his arm, close enough to catch the scent of mountain rain and moss that clung to his skin. His words settled over me like pieces of a puzzle clicking into place—the boy who’d found sanctuary in these woods, growing into a man who chose solitude over judgment. The defensiveness made more sense now, knowing what loyalty to a rotten father had cost him.

“It’s hard,” I said quietly, risking a glance up at his face, “watching someone you love destroy themselves with hate.”

Those dark eyes locked onto mine, searching. A muscle ticked in his jaw, then he looked away with a grunt. Which, I was learning, could mean anything from ‘fuck off’ to ‘you might have a point’. This one leaned toward the latter.

We reached the ritual site as twilight deepened around us. The remnants of my previous circle still marked the ground, though wind and weather had scattered the branches. I set my pack down carefully, making sure Digby’s statue remained stable while I unpacked.

“What’s all this for?” Galan asked as I arranged fresh branches in a wide circle.

“The outer ring is for containment.” I pulled crystals from my pack, placing them at each cardinal point. “ Magic tends to… spill. Like banks for a stream, the circle keeps the magic focused where I need it.”

He handed me a branch, careful not to disturb my arrangement. “And the crystals?”

“Amplifiers and stabilizers.” I held up a piece of clear quartz. “This one focuses intent. The amethyst protects against magical backlash.”

His wariness faded as I worked, replaced by genuine curiosity. He crouched just outside the circle, watching me position Digby’s statue in the center.

“And the mushrooms?”

“Shadow caps grow along ley lines—natural pathways of magical energy.” I settled the glowing fungi in a spiral pattern around my familiar. “They absorb that energy, making them especially potent for reversing curses.”

He nodded, processing the information with none of the dismissive scorn I’d expected. “How do you know where to place everything?”

“Practice. Research.” I adjusted a crystal slightly. “A lot of trial and error.”

“And it will work this time?” His gaze flicked to Digby’s stone form.

“If we don’t have any… interruptions.” I shot him a pointed look.

His ears darkened again. He held up his hand and took an overly large step away from the boundary. “I’ll stay outside the circle.”

“Good.” I finished placing the last mushroom and stood back to examine my work. Everything was perfectly positioned—better than my first attempt. “Because I really need this to work.”

I dug through my pack for my mortar and pestle, then returned to kneel in front of Digby. The shadow caps glowed purple in the growing darkness, casting eerie light across my familiar’s frozen features. My heart ached at the sight of him—still as vigilant in stone as he’d been in flesh.

I dropped the most vibrant shadow cap into the bowl and crushed it into a fine paste. The mushroom released its earthy scent as I worked, mixing it with a few drops of water from the stream, until only the final ingredient waited.

I pulled a small silver knife from my pocket and pressed the blade to my index finger. A quick slice—practiced, clinical—and crimson welled to the surface.

Galan hissed, his head snapping away.

“What’s wrong? Big bad orc doesn’t like blood?” I teased, letting three drops of blood fall into the mixture.

“Not blood without purpose.” His ears darkened again. “Wasteful bleeding is for fools and showoffs.”

“This has purpose.” I stirred the mixture with my fingertip, watching it turn from purple to deep crimson. “Blood carries intent. It’s the strongest binding agent in magic.”

He shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable. “You must be used to it. With your nursing. ”

“Former nurse.” I smeared the mixture across Digby’s stone forehead, careful to make the symbol exactly as the grimoire had shown. “Though the medical board might have a new complaint about Harrison Rocha to consider.”

The symbol complete, I pushed away all thoughts of Harrison, of jobs, of everything but the magic gathering in my blood. This moment belonged to Digby.

Taking a deep breath, I began the chant.

“Shadow caps of twilight’s hour, grant me now your sacred power. Blood of witch and mountain’s heart, break this curse and stone apart. What was flesh and now is stone, return to life and blood and bone.”

The words pulled at something deep inside me, drawing magic up from my core and into the circle. Sweat beaded on my forehead as I channeled more power, feeling it flow through my outstretched hands toward Digby.

“Shadow caps of twilight’s hour...”

The crystals vibrated, humming with energy. The air thickened as the mushrooms began to pulse.

A sudden crack echoed through the trees. Galan moved before I could blink, positioning himself between me and the sound. His huge frame blocked my view of the forest, muscles tensed for attack. I froze, spell momentarily forgotten as he listened, head cocked.

“Deer,” he finally said, relaxing slightly. “Just passing through. Keep going. ”

I nodded, though he wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze swept the tree line, vigilant. The protective gesture wasn’t lost on me. For someone who claimed to hate witches, he seemed awfully concerned about my safety. I didn’t comment when he settled closer to my circle than before, though still carefully outside its boundary.

I closed my eyes and centered myself again. The ley lines hummed beneath me, power rising through the earth and into my bones. I let it fill me, channeling it through my blood and into the circle. My limbs trembled with the effort, but I couldn’t stop now. Not when I was so close.

“Blood of witch and mountain’s heart, break this curse and stone apart. What was flesh and now is stone, return to life and blood and bone.”

Again.

“Shadow caps of twilight’s hour, grant me now your sacred power. Blood of witch and mountain’s heart, break this curse and stone apart. What was flesh and now is stone, return to life and blood and bone.”

Again. The mushrooms brightened, their purple glow intensifying with each word. I poured more and more of myself into the spell. Each syllable felt heavier than the last, like speaking through honey. But I had to keep going.

“Blood of witch and mountain’s heart…”

My voice grew hoarse, but I pushed on, focusing everything I had on Digby’s stone form. On memories of his warm weight against my side. His indignant chattering when I worked too late. His unfailing loyalty that threw him between me and danger.

“What was flesh and now is stone, return to life and blood and bone!”

A pulse of energy surged through the circle. The mushrooms flared blindingly bright, then dissolved into sparks that swirled around Digby’s form. The crystals shattered, their fragments suspended in the air for one breathless moment before falling like glittering rain.

And Digby?—

Stone gave way to fur, gray and white and black. Claws. Whiskers. His black eyes blinked rapidly, adjusting to the world again.

“Digby!” I cried, swaying where I knelt.

My familiar looked around in confusion, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. Then his gaze locked on Galan, and his hackles rose. With a fierce growl, he placed himself between me and the orc, teeth bared in warning.

The sight of my badger—my tiny, brave familiar—challenging a creature a zillion times his size broke something inside me. Laughter bubbled up, slightly hysterical with relief and exhaustion.

To my surprise, Galan laughed too, a deep rumble that shook his chest. “Protective little bastard, isn’t he?”

“That’s my Digby.” I wiped tears from my cheeks. “Always ready to fight monsters for me. ”

Digby’s growl deepened at the sound of Galan’s voice. My hands shook as I reached for him, the simple movement requiring more effort than it should. I stroked his back, feeling the familiar texture of his coarse fur beneath my fingers.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I soothed Digby. The clearing spun lazily around me, like I was viewing it through water. “This is Galan. He helped us.”

Digby sniffed suspiciously, his posture still defensive.

“Smart creature,” Galan commented, keeping a respectful distance. “Knows a predator when he sees one.”

The last dregs of power slipped through my fingers, leaving me hollow. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision as exhaustion pulled at my bones. Every muscle screamed as I fought to stay upright.

“Hannah?” Galan’s voice seemed to come from far away.

My legs gave out. I pitched forward, bracing for impact with the hard ground. Instead, strong arms caught me, cradling me against a broad chest. Digby’s alarmed chitter faded as the ritual took its toll.

“I’ve got you, witch,” Galan murmured, his voice the last thing I heard before consciousness slipped away.