Page 8 of Vexing the Grumpy Orc (Silvermist Mates #3)

CHAPTER EIGHT

GALAN

T he workshop door creaked under my hand. Familiar scents hit me—fresh sawdust, linseed oil, sweat. I paused, throat tight. It had been two days since I’d escorted Hannah and Digby back to her door, two days of patrol routes deliberately avoiding her cottage, two days of failing to outrun memories of her.

Two days wasn’t nearly enough to forget the way she’d looked riding my cock, her hair the fiery halo of the sun cutting through morning mist. Or how right she’d felt in my arms after, her soft curves pressed against me, her scent mingling with mine.

I growled, shoving the door open harder than necessary.

Zral looked up from his workbench, chisel poised over a half-carved piece of cedar. His eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as he caught my scent .

“Galan.” He set down his tools, wariness written across his features. “What can I do for you?”

I stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. Words stuck in my throat. This wasn’t a conversation I’d ever imagined having, especially not with Zral. But Torain was wrapped up in his human mate, and my options were limited.

“This is something I would bring to... well.” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

Understanding flashed across Zral’s face, followed by something that might have been hurt. “Torain, yeah.”

The silence stretched between us, heavy with all the ways I’d kept myself apart from the clan. Even as children, I’d been the one watching from the edges. Too serious for Torain’s games, too blunt for Osen’s diplomacy. They didn’t know what to make of a boy who hid in the forest during his father’s rages, and I’d learned early that solitude was safer than connection. The woods didn’t judge or demand or disappoint.

“I—” I started, then stopped, pacing between stacks of lumber. “Have you ever—” No, that wasn’t right either.

“Spit it out,” Zral said, crossing his arms. “Some of us have work to do.”

“It’s a human issue,” I finally managed, the words tumbling out after several false starts.

“So, ask Miranda,” Zral interrupted, turning back to his carving.

“No, that’s not?— ”

“What, too proud to ask a human for help?” Anger crept into his voice. “Thought you were different from Coth.”

“She’s female,” I snarled, bristling at the comparison. “It’s not that she’s human. This is a…” I pressed my lips together and tried to find answers in the ceiling above me. The stone here was as silent as the beams in my cabin and all the branches of all the trees in the entire territory. “It’s a male issue.”

Zral’s eyebrows shot up. “Ask Osen then.”

“It’s not a matter for the chief.” The thought of discussing Hannah with my cousin made my skin crawl. Bad enough I’d had to report the completion of my assignment yesterday. Osen’s questions about the witch had been awkward enough without revealing how personal it had become.

Zral sighed, setting his carving aside completely. “Fine. Sit before you wear a hole in my floor.”

I hadn’t realized I’d been pacing. I dropped onto a stool, the wood groaning under my weight.

“So,” Zral prompted when I didn’t speak. “Human woman troubles?”

I grunted. Close enough.

“What, she won’t fuck you?” His lips quirked. “Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re not exactly charming.”

“She did,” I snapped, then winced at my own admission.

Zral’s eyes widened. “Well shit. Didn’t think you had it in you. ”

I glared at him, hands clenching into fists. This was a mistake. I should never have come here. Just another opportunity for mockery, another reminder that I’d spent years living out my father’s ideas of honor and tradition. And for what? To end up alone while my cousins found happiness with their mates—human mates, no less?

I stalked toward the door with a growl.

“Wait.” Zral’s voice stopped me. “I’m sorry. That was... uncalled for.”

The apology, rare from Zral, hung in the air between us. I hesitated, hand still on the door.

“Look,” he continued, setting his chisel down. “Whatever’s eating at you must be serious if you’re coming to me. So just... talk.”

“It’s about the witch. Hannah.” I turned back slowly, jaw clenched. The admission felt like surrender, like acknowledging every tradition I’d clung to had been as hollow as Coth’s promises.

Zral nodded, expression suddenly serious. “The one you were watching. Torain mentioned her.”

“The ritual worked. She freed her familiar.” I leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “My assignment is over.”

“And?” At my look, he shrugged. “What’s the problem?”

“And I can’t stop thinking about her.” The words scraped my throat raw. “She’s... different.”

The problem was I couldn’t stop remembering how she’d felt beneath me, around me. How right it had felt to carry her to my bed after the ritual. How I’d kept watch while she was at her most vulnerable, fighting the urge to trace the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw, the fullness of her lips.

The problem was I wanted more. And that terrified me.

“She’s a witch,” I said instead, as if that explained everything.

Zral studied me, his expression unreadable. “And?”

“And witches can’t be trusted.” The words sounded thin even to my own ears. I’d seen Hannah’s dedication to her familiar, her refusal to give up. I’d felt the truth of her magic—raw and powerful but fundamentally honest.

“This from the orc who’s been visiting his exiled father like clockwork?” Zral’s voice cut through my thoughts. “The same father who conspired against our chief?”

I growled, a warning he ignored.

“She’s your mate, isn’t she?” Zral asked quietly.

The question knocked the air from my lungs. It put words to the feeling I’d been fighting since that first night in the ritual circle. The stirring in my chest whenever she was near, the aching desire to hold her, the instinct to protect her that overrode even my distrust of magic.

“No.” I denied it, but the word tasted like a lie.

“Bullshit.” Zral laughed. “Oh, this is rich. Everyone was sure you’d die alone clutching your precious principles, and here you are, mooning over a human witch.”

“She’s not—” My snarl died in my throat. Maybe she was my mate. I couldn’t ignore how being with her felt like finding something I hadn’t known was missing. But— “She has no reason to stay now that her familiar is free. Her life is elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my fingers digging into the wooden table edge until it creaked in protest. She had no attachments now. She could go anywhere, do anything. “But she came here with a purpose, and that purpose is fulfilled.”

“And you?” Zral studied me with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Where do you belong?”

The question caught me off guard. I’d never truly belonged in Grimstone—always at the edges, always apart. Even before the exile, I was just my father’s shadow. The son who wasn’t good enough, the asshole who got along with no one. Now, I was the permanent reminder of traitor’s blood.

“I don’t know,” I said again, the words like gravel between my teeth.

“Maybe that’s what mates are for,” Zral offered, returning to his carving. “Finding what you truly need. Osen found his purpose as chief when Miranda came into his life. Torain found his voice through Carissa.”

“And what would I find with Hannah?” The question was barely a whisper .

“Freedom, maybe.” Zral shrugged. “From Coth. From the past. From all the shit you’ve been carrying that was never yours to begin with.”

Freedom. The word echoed through me, unfurling some tiny kernel of hope in my chest. Freedom to forge a path beyond duty and obligation. Freedom to explore what existed beyond the lines I’d blindly followed. Freedom to live.

Freedom to love.

“You’d be doing me a favor by getting on with it,” Zral continued, his tone lighter. “More females for me now that you and Torain are off the market.”

“I’m not off any market,” I growled automatically, but the protest sounded weak even to my own ears.

“No?” Zral arched an eyebrow. “Then why are you here, asking about a human witch you can’t stop thinking about?”

I glared at him for a beat. Two. He met my stare calmly, undeterred. I sighed, feeling some last dregs of resistance slip away.

A sudden commotion outside cut through our conversation. Shouts echoed across the square, followed by the distinctive clang of weapons.

Zral and I exchanged glances before moving as one toward the door. Outside, a crowd had gathered near the clan hall. Osen stood at the center, flanked by guards. And between them, struggling against their hold? —

“Traitor!” My father’s voice cut through the square like a blade. “Witch-lover!”

I froze mid-step, watching Coth struggle against the guards who held him. His clothes were singed, face streaked with soot. The acrid smell of smoke clung to him, mixing with something else—herbs and oils. Miranda’s scent.

“What have you done?” The words scraped my throat raw.

Osen stepped forward, fury etched into every line of his face. “Your father burned down Miranda’s workshop. Her entire supply of winter remedies, destroyed. He’s lucky she wasn’t there.”

The world tilted beneath my feet. Coth had crossed a line I never thought he’d touch. Destroying a clan member’s livelihood was bad enough, but to target the chief’s mate...

“Suffer not a witch to live!” Coth spat on the ground. “She has poisoned our chief’s mind, turned him against his own kind! She’s destroying everything we stand for!”

“The only poison here is your hatred,” Osen growled. “You’ll rot in the mountain cells for this.”

I stalked forward, each step heavier than the last. Coth’s face lit with savage triumph, clearly believing I was coming to his defense.

“What did you think would happen?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “That burning her things would drive her away? That Osen would suddenly see things your way?”

The rage I’d inherited from him—the only true gift he’d ever given me—simmered just beneath my skin, hot enough to burn. My hands trembled with the effort of keeping them unclenched, of not becoming exactly what he’d raised me to be: violent, reactionary, ruled by anger.

“I thought my son would stand with me!” Coth roared. “Against the corruption of our traditions! Against the human filth invading our territory!”

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder. I felt their eyes on me, judging, waiting to see which side I’d choose. Always caught in the middle. Always the son of the traitor.

“There’s no honor in what you’ve done.” I forced myself to breathe through the fury, to find the cold clarity beneath it. To be better than him in this moment when it mattered most. “You talk of tradition while spitting on our most sacred laws. You speak of proper behavior while acting like a rabid animal.”

“She’s bewitched you too.” Coth’s voice dropped, disbelief etched across his features. “My own son.”

“No one’s bewitched me.” I stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gray in his beard, the lines time and bitterness had carved around his mouth. “I’ve just finally seen what true honor looks like. And it isn’t this.”

“You would choose them over your own blood?” Coth strained against the guards holding him. “You ungrateful whelp. After everything I’ve done, all the sacrifices?—”

“I would choose my mate.” The words left my mouth with surprising ease. “And yes, Father, she’s a witch.”

The crowd had gone silent, watching our confrontation with bated breath. I could feel their eyes on me, but for once, I didn’t care what they thought. This moment wasn’t about them. It was about finally breaking free from chains I’d forged myself.

Coth recoiled as if I’d struck him. “What?”

I expected anger. Disgust. The same hatred that had been drilled into me since childhood—witches were untrustworthy, dangerous, lesser.

Instead, a strange calm washed over me. Acceptance. Relief, even. The world hadn’t ended with my admission. The floor hadn’t opened beneath my feet.

“You heard me.” I squared my shoulders and glared down my nose at this weak excuse for an orc. “Hannah is my mate. My fated mate. And I choose her over you. Over your hatred. Over everything you stand for.”

“No.” He shook his head violently. “No son of mine would?—”

I turned my back on him—the ultimate sign of disrespect among our kind. A declaration that I viewed him too weak to be a threat, too dishonorable to be acknowledged.

His howl of rage followed me as I walked away, but I didn’t turn. Couldn’t. If I saw his face now, I might waver. Might fall back into the pattern of placating, of compromising, of denying what I knew to be true.

“You’re dead to me! Dead! No son of mine would bed a witch! No true orc would?—”

“Take him to the cells,” Osen ordered, his voice cutting through the noise. “Let him rot there until I decide what to do with him.”

I kept walking, spine straight, eyes forward. Didn’t stop when Zral stepped up to take Coth away, didn’t flinch when he clamped a hand on my shoulder in solidarity. Didn’t look back to see the pity in the eyes of my clanmates.

Pity was worse than judgment. Pity meant they saw me as broken. Damaged by my father’s legacy. And maybe I was. But there was one person who wouldn’t look at me that way. One person who saw me clearly, without the shadow of Coth hanging over me.

Hannah.

I needed her. Now.

The path to her cottage blurred beneath my feet. My mind raced with everything that had happened, with the irrevocable step I’d just taken. I’d publicly claimed a witch as my mate. Turned my back on my father. Severed the last thread binding me to a life that had never truly been mine.

The sun had begun its descent behind the mountains by the time I reached her porch, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry reds. The forest sounds washed over me—birds settling for the night, small creatures rustling in the underbrush. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to simply exist.

Her scent reached me first—winter air and mint—carried on the evening breeze. I lifted my head as she rounded the corner, Digby trotting protectively at her heels.

She froze mid-step, surprise flickering across her face before melting into a smile. “Well, well. The mountain comes to the witch.” She approached the steps, stopping just short of where I sat. “I was beginning to think I’d need to scry with bones and bind you with a poppet to see you again.”

I tried to smile at her teasing, but my face wouldn’t cooperate. “Wouldn’t work. I’m immune to your spells, witch.”

“Is that so?” Her smile faded, eyes narrowing as she studied my face. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing worth laying at your feet.” My voice came out rough, choked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Today hasn’t been good.”

“I thought we were past keeping secrets.” Her voice was soft but firm. Just quiet insistence and green eyes seeing too much.

“My father...” I started, then stopped, unable to find words for the tangle of emotions choking me. Anger. Grief. Relief. Shame.

The wall I’d built around myself—years of rigid control, of swallowed words and buried feelings— crumbled all at once. My face crumpled with it, a sound escaping my throat that wasn’t quite normal.

Hannah didn’t hesitate. She opened her arms.

I slid from the step to my knees before her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and buried my face against her stomach. Her fingers found my hair, gentle and sure, as I shuddered against her. Everything I’d held back for years poured out in silent, shaking waves.

We stayed like that, neither speaking, as the last light faded from the sky outside. Her heartbeat steady under my ear. Her scent surrounding me. Her touch anchoring me when everything else felt unmoored.

In her arms, the choice I’d made didn’t feel like loss. It felt like the first step toward something new. Something real.

Something mine.