Page 9 of Vexing the Grumpy Orc (Silvermist Mates #3)

CHAPTER NINE

HANNAH

I stood with my fingers tangled in Galan’s hair, his face pressed against my stomach. His massive shoulders trembled under my touch. The mountain air turned cool as night settled in, but I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not while he needed this.

How far we’d come from that first night in the woods. Me arranging mushrooms, him barking territorial orders to fuck right off. The memory almost made me smile. Almost.

I didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Just held him as darkness settled around us like a blanket, waiting for whatever storm had driven him to my door to pass. I traced the contours of his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the curve of his ear. I’d learned enough about him to know he’d speak when ready, not before.

Digby circled us warily before settling on the porch steps, his dark eyes fixed on Galan. Even my familiar had come to accept the orc’s presence, if not entirely approve.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours before Galan’s breathing steadied. His grip on my waist loosened, but he didn’t pull away.

“My father burned down Miranda’s workshop,” Galan finally said, his voice rough. “Destroyed her winter remedies.”

“Shit.” The word escaped before I could stop it. “Is everyone okay?”

“She wasn’t there.” He exhaled slowly. “But Osen... he ordered Coth to the cells.”

I brushed my thumb across his cheekbone. “And you?”

“I turned my back on him.” His voice cracked. “In front of everyone.”

The weight of that choice hung between us. I knew enough about orc culture now to understand the gesture meant a complete severing of ties. They were no longer blood, no longer clan. Coth was no longer even worthy of acknowledgment.

“He crossed a line,” I said softly. “You had no choice.”

“I had every choice at every step.” He insisted, hands tightening on my hips. He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting mine with a wild light. “And I let him lead me down a road to becoming the same hateful, bitter shell of an orc as him. Clinging to traditions that were never about honor, just about control and fear.”

The confession felt ripped from somewhere deep inside him. This wasn’t just about his father or clan politics. This was about something fundamental shifting within him.

I bent to press my forehead against his, our breath mingling in the cool evening air. “What happened?”

“I chose you.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. “Me?”

“I told him you were my mate. My fated mate.” The words tumbled out, as if he needed to say them before courage failed him. “The one person in this world meant for me. The one I’m meant for.”

The world tilted beneath my feet. Mate. Everyone knew the stories, even if they didn’t believe the tales. Witches had their own legends of rare pairings where magic recognized its complement in another soul, where power called to power across impossible distances. My grandmother had spoken of a great-aunt who’d found her mate in a selkie, how their magic had twined together until neither could exist without the other.

Something that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.

“Is that...” I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Is that what this is? Between us?”

“Yes.” No hesitation now. No doubt. Just certainty burning in his dark eyes. “I think I’ve been fighting it since you pulled a knife on me. Since I caught your scent and touched you and lost my damn mind.”

“Truth, not desire,” I whispered, echoing my own words from that night.

But that wasn’t right. It had been both. Truth and desire tangled together until I couldn’t separate them anymore. The heat in his eyes when he looked at me. The way my body responded to his touch. The comfort I found in his arms.

“I always thought fated mates were something that happened to other people,” I admitted, my fingers still tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “Stories from the old covens, rare magic that would never touch my life. But I can’t deny what I feel when I’m with you.”

“And what do you feel?” His voice roughened, hands tightening on my hips.

The question hung between us, demanding honesty I wasn’t sure I was ready to give. I’d come to Silvermist Falls broken, focused solely on saving Digby. I hadn’t planned on staying. Hadn’t planned on him.

“Like I’ve found something I didn’t know I was looking for.” The truth slipped out before I could stop it. “Like maybe I don’t have to face everything alone anymore.”

Galan surged to his feet, towering over me. His hands cupped my face with surprising gentleness, thumbs brushing my cheekbones. “You don’t.”

“I don’t know how to do this,” I confessed. “I’m not good at needing people. ”

“Neither am I.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But I’m tired of denying what I want. What I need.”

He leaned down, his breath warm against my lips. “And I need you, Hannah.”

The raw honesty in his voice broke something loose inside me. I’d spent so long being strong, standing alone. First as a nurse fighting for respect in a system that undervalued me. Then as a witch desperately trying to save her familiar. Always pushing forward, never letting myself lean on anyone else.

But here was this mountain of an orc, offering to shoulder my burdens alongside his own. He’d chosen me as his safe harbor. His sanctuary. And I realized I wanted to be that for him—wanted him to be that for me, too. A place where we could count on the other to step shoulder-to-shoulder in telling the rest of the world to go to hell.

“I need you too,” I whispered against his mouth.

His kiss was gentle at first, almost reverent. Then hunger took over, and I found myself pressed against the porch railing, his massive body caging mine. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel the solid weight of him against me. I tasted desperation on his tongue, need and relief and something deeper—something that felt dangerously like love.

“Hannah,” he groaned against my neck. “Let me in. Let me?—”

“Well, isn’t this touching. ”

The harsh voice shattered our moment. Galan whirled, pushing me behind him with one fluid movement. Digby growled, fur bristling as he positioned himself at my side.

An older orc stood at the edge of my property. Blood matted his gray hair, and his clothes were torn. But it was the hatred in his eyes that made my skin crawl—pure, undiluted loathing directed straight at me.

“Father.” Galan’s voice turned to ice. “You should be in a cell.”

Coth. The name clicked into place. The exiled elder who’d conspired against his chief. The traditionalist who hated humans and witches. The father Galan had just publicly disowned.

Even in the dim porch light, I could see the family resemblance. The same strong jaw, the same broad shoulders. But where Galan’s face held warmth, this orc’s was a weathered map of bitterness.

“Did you think those cells could hold me?” Coth sneered. “I built those tunnels before you were born, boy.”

He took a step forward, and Galan tensed. “How touching that the witch called her thrall home. Does she pull your strings with a spell, or just with her cunt?”

“Leave,” Galan growled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Now.”

“Not without finishing what I started.” Coth’s hand moved to his belt, drawing a wicked blade that gleamed in the moonlight. “First her, then Osen’s witch. I’ll purge this infection from our clan, even if I have to cut it out myself.”

“You’ll have to go through me first.” Galan’s stance widened, hands curling into fists.

Coth’s laugh was ugly. “I brought you into this world, boy. I can take you out just as easily.”

I reached for my magic, drawing it up from the earth beneath my feet. But before I could shape it into a protective ward, Coth lunged.

Everything happened too fast. The flash of steel. Galan’s movement to intercept. The sickening sound of blade meeting flesh. Galan’s grunt of pain as he drove his fist into his father’s face, sending the older orc staggering backward.

“Galan!” I screamed as he stumbled, one hand pressed to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, black in the moonlight.

Coth recovered quickly, wiping blood from his split lip. “Weak. Just like I always said.”

He advanced again, blade raised. But this time, I was ready.

I thrust my hands forward, channeling every ounce of protective magic I possessed. “Shield of earth and sky, between us rise!”

The barrier materialized between us and Coth, shimmering with power. He slammed into it with a howl of rage, the impact sending him flying backward. He hit the ground hard, the knife skittering from his grip.

“You dare use your filthy magic against me?” he snarled, struggling to his feet.

I ignored the fucker’s charming words, maintaining the shield with one hand while I checked Galan with the other. The wound was deep, blood flowing freely despite the pressure he applied. His face had gone ashen, lips pressed into a tight line against the pain.

“Hannah,” he murmured, swaying slightly. “Don’t let him?—”

“Shh.” I guided him to sit on the porch steps, my heart racing with fear. “Save your strength.”

I reached for my magic, pulling it from deep within. Healing had never been my strength—protective spells were my specialty, not mending flesh—but I had to try.

“Flesh mend, blood bind, pain recede, life find,” I whispered, placing my hand over his. Warmth flowed from my palm, but I could feel the magic struggling to take hold. The bleeding slowed but didn’t stop. Not enough. Nowhere near enough.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” I said, fighting to keep my voice steady.

“No hospitals,” Galan grunted, trying to sit up. “Our healer?—”

“Is too far away,” I snapped, pressing harder on the wound. “You’ll bleed out before we reach Grimstone.”

A crash made me look up. Coth had found a rock and was smashing it against my barrier. Each impact sent painful reverberations through me, weakening the shield. I couldn’t maintain it much longer, not while trying to heal Galan.

“We need to go,” I said, looping Galan’s arm over my shoulder. “Now.”

He nodded grimly, jaw clenched against the pain. Each movement clearly cost him, but he pushed to his feet with my support.

The barrier flickered as we staggered toward my car, each step leaving a dark trail on the ground. Digby circled us protectively, his fur bristling.

Another crash. The barrier wavered, translucent patches appearing where Coth’s attacks had weakened it. I poured more energy into the spell, but it was like trying to patch a dam with my bare hands.

We were halfway to my car when the barrier shattered with a sound like breaking glass. The magical backlash exploded outward, a concussive wave that knocked us all off our feet. I hit the ground hard, Galan’s weight crashing down beside me with a pained grunt.

Through the settling dust, I saw Coth sprawled motionless several yards away.

I didn’t waste time checking if he was alive. I helped Galan to his feet. Struggled the rest of the journey to the door. Shoved him into the passenger seat.

Goddess. Every time I looked, his skin drained of more and more color.

Digby leapt into the back as I slammed the door and ran to the driver’s side. I glanced back once as I started the engine. The spot where Coth had lain was empty, only a dark stain marking where he’d fallen.

I floored it toward Silvermist Medical, one hand on the wheel, the other pressed against his wound. Blood soaked through my fingers, warm and sticky. His breathing grew increasingly labored, his massive frame slumping against the door.

“Stay with me,” I demanded, pushing harder against the wound. “Don’t you dare check out on me now.”

His eyes fluttered. “Bossy witch.”

“You haven’t seen bossy yet,” I threatened, relief flooding through me at the weak attempt at humor. “Just wait until you’re better. I’ll show you bossy.”

By the time we screeched to a halt at the emergency entrance, my shirt and hands were soaked with his blood. Galan was barely conscious, his head slumped to one side.

“Help!” I screamed, throwing open my door. “I need help out here now!”

Two nurses burst through the sliding doors, followed by an orderly pushing a gurney. Their eyes widened at the sight of Galan.

“Stab wound,” I explained, nurse mode kicking in despite my panic. “Heavy bleeding. He’s lost consciousness twice.”

Together, we managed to transfer Galan’s massive form onto the gurney. I kept pace as they wheeled him through the doors, Digby trotting at my heels .

The harsh fluorescent lights of the ER made the blood on my hands look obscenely bright. And they shook. So much. Too much. I needed to be steady. I needed to help

The doctor at the nurses’ station turned and narrowed his eyes. Harrison Rocha clicked his pen closed and stuffed it into a pocket.

“Ms. Cuyler? What’s going on here?”

“He needs surgery,” I said, ignoring the question. “Now.”

Harrison approached cautiously, his gaze flicking from Galan to me. “Surely, he should be seen by his own kind? A shaman, or some such nonsense, I believe?”

Rage exploded through me. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“I’m simply suggesting?—”

“Let me be very clear.” I grabbed his lab coat, yanking him close. My hands were steady now, the tremors replaced by cold fury. Blood—Galan’s blood—smeared the white fabric where my fingers gripped.

I’d spent my career navigating the politics of hospital hierarchies, swallowing my pride, playing nice. Following rules created by bastards like Harrison who thought their medical degrees gave them the right to lord over anyone who walked through their doors needing care.

That Hannah was gone. Burned away by the sight of Galan’s blood soaking through my clothes, by the memory of his body shielding mine, by the weight of his declaration: My mate.

“If he dies because you delayed treatment, I will end your career. I will go to every medical board, every ethics committee, every news outlet in the country. I will make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of doctor you are.”

Harrison’s face flushed. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m promising you.” I held his gaze, letting him see the witch behind the nurse. “And then I’ll come for you personally.”

Harrison blanched, stumbling back when I released him. “Dr. Patel!” he called, his voice cracking. “Emergency case here!”

A woman in scrubs appeared, taking in the scene with a quick, professional glance. “What happened?”

“He’s been stabbed and needs surgery,” I said, not taking my eyes off Harrison. “Dr. Rocha seems to think his species disqualifies him from care.”

Dr. Patel’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s not hospital policy.” She moved to Galan’s side, checking his vitals. “Get him to OR Two. Now.”

The orderlies sprang into action, wheeling Galan through double doors. I tried to follow, but a nurse gently blocked my path.

“You need to stay here,” she said kindly. “We’ll take good care of him.”

I stood there, covered in Galan’s blood, watching the doors swing shut behind him. My legs threatened to give out as the adrenaline began to ebb.

Digby pressed against my calf, his warm weight anchoring me to the moment. I sank into a nearby chair, burying my fingers in his fur.

“He has to be okay,” I whispered, more prayer than statement. “He has to be.”