Vark puts me through a rigorous training the next morning. It’s as if last night never happened—not the conversation by the river, and certainly not the fact that he cuddled me all night, keeping me warm. He’s a brutal master today and has me running around the camp, building up my stamina. Then he switches to teaching me how to throw knives.
“Since you’re so small, it’s best you don’t let your attacker get too close,” he rumbles, standing behind me to guide me into the correct stance.
His chest brushes up against me, and there’s the thick ridge of Vark’s cock, pressing into my lower back. He’s clearly pretending it’s not there, but I can’t help the memories that flood in. I will never forget the sight of Vark, naked in that river, his hand wrapped around his magnificent cock.
I blink several times to focus back on the present, even though I could swear that Vark is sneakily sniffing my hair. I let the blade loose, and it smacks the tree we’re practicing on, then bounces off, disappearing into the undergrowth. I curse, then stomp over to collect it—and the three other knives I haven’t managed to get to stick in the tree. My whole body hurts, my muscles shaking with exertion, and he expects me to have a steady hand for throwing?
While he’s actively trying to distract me?
“I’m not small,” I snipe, hating that my voice comes out whiny.
Vark scoffs. “I could pick you up and carry you easily, pet.”
I turn to him, my hands bristling with knives. “I’d like to see you try, you ogre.”
He laughs. His handsome face lights up, and his white tusks gleam in the early morning light. I stop breathing for a moment, staring at him, then shake myself and glower, worried about the effect he has on me. If he ever found out how my heartbeat skitters whenever he’s near, he’d surely use it to his advantage.
“An ogre would try to eat you.” He stalks closer in his fighter’s stance. “If you ever see one, don’t try to fight. Just run.”
“There aren’t any ogres left,” I argue, mimicking his pose and circling to the right. “They were all killed by human hunters.”
“Humans tried to kill them off, that’s true, but at some point, sending out more hunting parties was inefficient,” Vark mutters. His gaze slips to my knives, then back to my face. “Human kings spread rumors that the ogres were no more, and ogres were more than happy to stay in their mountain lands where they wanted to live in the first place.”
I want to protest that this isn’t true, but what do I know? I thought orcs were brutal killers who stole women and razed villages to the ground. If I was wrong once, I could be wrong about this, too.
But why were we talking about ogres again?
Vark attacks. He has distracted me, and I fell for it, losing sight of the primary goal—to keep him from grabbing me. He wraps one hand around my wrist and pulls, throwing off my balance. He plucks the knife from my left hand, then spins me around as I try to stab him in his side with the knife in my right hand.
The maneuver is very similar to the one Korr used on me, and I curse myself for being so damn gullible. It’s exactly what I would have done if I was trying to distract someone.
“Oof,” I gasp, my back slamming into Vark’s chest.
He disarms me fast, his movements practiced and efficient. Then he turns me to face him, grins at me, and with one strong heave, throws me over his shoulder.
I yelp and scrabble for purchase, trying to escape his grip. I kick out to knee Vark in the face, but he easily restrains my legs, his hands high on the backs of my thighs. Furious with myself over the immediate reaction that sparks in me, I wrap his long braid around my fist and give it a yank.
“Ow,” Vark says mildly. “Not the hair, pet.”
Aha! I’ve found his weak spot.
I shake the thin stiletto dagger from my wrist into my palm. He really should have patted me down before he decided to manhandle me like a sack of grain. Bracing myself on my elbows against his broad back, I ignore the shiver that runs through me when he squeezes my thighs. Instead, I take his braid in one hand and my knife in the other.
“If you don’t put me down this instant, I’ll cut off your precious hair.”
Vark lets out a low growl, then flips me instantly so I’m hanging upside down in front of him, staring at his shins. My dagger goes flying. He’s holding me by my waist, and all the blood rushes down to my head.
Then the pain registers.
I yelp and try to bring my palms in front of my face to see where I’m hurt.
He reacts immediately. At the sound of my distress, he turns me the right way up, gently deposits me onto a mossy rock, and crouches in front of me.
“What’s wrong?” he demands.
I hold my injured palm to my chest, trying to hide the slash. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.”
Vark takes a hold of my wrist and tugs until I relent and show him my hand. A shallow cut runs over the heel of my palm where I fumbled the dagger as I dropped it. It’s bleeding, not a lot, but a steady, thin trickle of blood runs down my wrist and into the sleeve of my jacket.
He lets out a sound of dismay, then stands, rips a strip of cloth from the bottom of his linen tunic, and winds it around my hand. He’s surprisingly quick at it—but then he’s a warrior. He must be used to treating injuries, his own or his fellow soldiers’.
“I’m so sorry, Hazel,” he murmurs, his gaze on my hand. “I was only—”
He stops himself and shakes his head.
“I know,” I say. “It’s fine. I’ll stop bleeding in a moment.”
I’ve had injuries far worse, and I’m still here. I’m not worried about it, but the way he’s staring at my hand, you’d think I was missing a whole arm.
“I should never have tried to train you.” He ties a knot in the linen strip, then inspects the makeshift bandage closely. “People always end up hurt around me.”
His voice has gone completely emotionless, and I hate it. He goes to pull away, so I grasp the lapel of his cloak.
“Hey.”
I give him a tug, and he leans into me, our foreheads almost touching. His breath fans over my lips, and he’s so close, completely focused on me. His scent tickles my nose, so strong I have to hold myself back from closing the distance between us and licking his neck. My gaze slips down to his mouth. To his tusks, as big as the smallest joint on my little finger, jutting up from his lower lip.
What would it feel like to kiss him?
I shake the thought off. This isn’t the moment. Not when he’s letting his past influence his present like this—not when he’s beating himself up for a mishap that he couldn’t have prevented.
“This was an accident,” I murmur. “It could have happened even if I was training with someone else. I was the one who couldn’t keep hold of the dagger.”
He lets out a low laugh—but there’s nothing jolly about it. He seems lost, his gaze hollow. “When it happens once, it’s an accident. If it repeats itself, it’s a pattern.”
I should release him. He’s a grown male. If he wants to sulk and blame himself, I should let him. But there’s genuine pain in his voice, and I find myself holding to his coat.
“Tell me,” I urge him. “I want to know what happened.”
Vark gives me a wary look, as if I might start screaming in pain at any moment. My hand throbs, but it’s not unbearable, so I tuck it against my chest and hide it from Vark’s view. Then I release him and pat the rock next to me, the cold, damp moss giving way under my fingertips.
The orc lets out an exhale but moves from his crouch to sit next to me. He remains silent, his elbows on his knees, his back hunched forward. Our shoulders touch, so I bump mine against his gently in encouragement.
“Well?” I prompt.
He swallows thickly. “I was assigned to protect the king’s mate. His queen.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Really?”
I knew he’d been a warrior, but being a part of the queen’s guard meant he was one of the elite. It wasn’t a job for just any foot soldier—at least not in the human world, and I could hardly imagine things being any different in the orc realm.
He grimaces. “Aye, and the king made a mistake in trusting me, clearly.”
I let that comment slide, because we’ll be sitting here forever if I stop him at every sentence, and my butt is getting cold. So I motion for him to go on.
“His brother, Charan—the son of the king of the Boar Clan from the south—brought a handful of soldiers to our Hill.” Vark pushes his elbows away from his knees, straightening his back. “They came to spy and to cause trouble.”
He glances at me as if to see if I’m listening, so I wait, willing silently for him to continue.
“We didn’t know it, but some of Charan’s soldiers had started talking with a tracker from our clan, and he’d put together a plot to kill the queen,” Vark says. “Her name is Dawn, you’ll meet her at the Hill. Long story short, they worked to get the queen away from King Gorvor, then to separate her guards, too.”
He motions to himself. “That’s where I made my first mistake. I shouldn’t have let Steagor, her other guard, leave us. We knew the Boar Clan warriors were planning something.”
“What do you mean, he left you?” I ask. “Did he abandon his post?”
Vark shakes his head. “No. Steagor wouldn’t do that. He went to get more lamp oil for the queen. She can’t see in the dark, same as you, and that part of the Hill isn’t well lit.”
“So you were inside your home at the time?” I press, trying to get a clear picture of what happened.
“Aye,” Vark confirms.
I force myself to keep my mouth shut. I have no way of knowing if what Vark is saying is true. Maybe this Steagor was a junior warrior, one under Vark’s command. That might place some of the blame on Vark, of course, though why they’d be on high alert while in their own home is confusing to me.
“The Boar Clan orcs attacked,” he says. “I killed two before the third cut me down.”
He motions to his eye, and there’s my answer. He lost it protecting his queen and nearly died in the process.
“How did you survive?” I whisper. An injury like that would have almost certainly been fatal for a human.
Vark grimaces. “I have no memory of it, but they told me the queen bargained for my life. She’d been scared half to death, but she threatened to kill herself if the surviving orc didn’t let her bandage my wounds.”
He rubs his thigh with the heel of his hand, and I would bet that gold mark I stole from him that he’s hiding another injury there. It must have been visible last night when I’d caught him naked in the river, but I’d been too busy staring—or not staring, as it was—at the rest of his body.
“They left me in the corridor, and that bastard kidnapped her. Dragged her out through the sewers.” Vark’s face twists with anger. “He hit her. She could have died. Do you know how much stronger orcs are than humans? He could have crushed her skull.”
I have a fair idea of the strength difference, yes. But his story makes it sound as if all of this is his fault.
“Did she say she blames you?” I ask quietly. “Did the king?”
He lets out a dry laugh. “No. Not in so many words.”
“Ah.”
Without knowing the queen or the king, I can’t know how the story played out. But from what he told me, it would have been nearly impossible for him to protect the queen the way he wanted to. He’d been outnumbered and fell victim to a plot long in the making.
“Come on.” Vark suddenly pushes to his feet. “Let’s get you back to camp. Ozork has an ointment for that cut of yours.”
It seems like story time is over. I want to ask more questions, but Vark’s closed-off expression forbids me from speaking. He bends down and collects my discarded knives, handing them to me. Then he picks me up, hoisting me into his arms, and marches back toward the camp.
“Hey,” I exclaim, struggling to get free. “Put me down. Vark? Vark!”
He doesn’t listen. He strides straight to the middle of the camp and glances this way and that for Ozork. My face feels as if it’s on fire, flaming with embarrassment.
“I hurt my hand, not my legs,” I hiss at him. “If Wren sees me like this, she’ll get scared. If you make my daughter cry, I won’t just cut off your hair. I’ll shave it off your head!”
My angry words have no effect on the stubborn orc. He carries me to Ozork’s wagon. Wren is perched on one of the black horses already hitched in front, this time untangling the horse’s mane with a wooden comb. A scuffling noise from the back of the wagon announces Ozork, who pokes his head through the flap at our arrival.
“What happened?” he demands when he sees us. “Is she hurt?”
Wren gasps, turning toward us. “Mama, are you hurt?”
“No, no,” I hurry to say, eager to keep her calm. “I’m fine, it’s just a scratch.” Then I mutter, “You are a dead man. Orc. A dead orc. I will wait until you’re asleep and—”
Vark’s arms tighten around me, and I gasp at the sensation of his hands on my body. I don’t know why it didn’t register before, but I’m in this male’s arms, pressed close to his powerful chest. The sheer strength of him is unbelievable—he carries me without effort, and if the way he tossed me around earlier is any indication, this is easy for him.
I’ve never felt this light in my life.
My belly flares with heat, and I clench my thighs together to find some relief from the sensation. My move doesn’t do anything but remind me of how long it’s been since I’ve been this needy—and never with such intensity.
Vark’s gaze flies down to me. His nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, and then he stumbles, his leg going out from under him. He corrects his course immediately and doesn’t drop me, but his reaction is enough to let me know he noticed something.
I groan in mortification, wishing I could disappear.
If he can scent my fear with that ridiculously sensitive nose of his, then he can likely scent other bodily processes, too. Like the fact that the most secret part of me has gone hot and liquid.
I don’t dare look up at him, so I focus on the throbbing vein in his neck. It pulses fast, and I know it’s not because he’s getting tired of holding me.
Vark is…excited again. Because of me.
“Put her down.”
Ozork’s voice breaks through my embarrassment, and I focus on the older orc. Vark lets loose a low growl, and when I finally glance at him, he’s baring his teeth at Ozork, his face scrunched up in anger.
“Oh, for gods’ sake,” Ozork snaps. “I’m not trying to take her from you. I won’t even touch her if you don’t like my scent on her. Let me see her hand, you big lump.”
Wren, who has been silent up to this point, giggles, covering her mouth with her hands. “You called him a lump!”
Vark seems to snap out of it and lowers me to the ground but doesn’t let go—instead, he keeps his hands on my waist and steadies me.
“Mama says we shouldn’t call other people names,” Wren adds with the air of a prim schoolteacher.
“I’m sorry, girlie. Your mama is smart.” Ozork offers her a wry smile. “But sometimes, you’ve got to call a male the name he deserves, you know.”
She thinks about it, her eyebrows coming together in a frown. “But what did Vark do?” She fixes him with a fierce glare and straightens her back. “Did you hurt her?”
“No.” I quickly elbow Vark in the ribs before he can open his mouth. “It was an accident, and I’ll be fine. Vark is concerned and didn’t want to let me go.”
She eyes me, then Vark, and finally gives a reluctant nod. “All right, then.”
If I wasn’t worried about how fast she’s had to grow up, I’d laugh at her serious expression. She has seen things no child should have. That’s why I prevented Vark from saying he hurt me.
“I think Korr needs help putting out the coals,” Ozork says. “Do you think you could help him carry some water up from the river?”
Wren shoots me a questioning look, and at my nod, she scrambles from the tall horse’s back, landing on nimble feet. She runs over to where Korr is collecting buckets to take the short walk to the river—both to put out the last of the fire and to water the horses one more time before we go on the road again. He smiles down at my daughter and gives her the smallest bucket to carry, but it’s still too heavy for her. She drags it for several feet, huffing in effort, then says something to Korr. He picks her up, puts her on his shoulders, and they take off, chatting all the while.
“Why did you lie to her?” Vark asks quietly.
I turn to face him, and his hands remain on my hips, as if he can’t bring himself to let me go.
“I didn’t lie,” I say with conviction.
“But you—” he starts.
I put a hand up to stop him. “Wren has seen what it means for a man to hurt a woman. She’s seen me get hurt. What happened here was an accident.” I choose my words carefully. “I don’t want her to think you’re the same as those men. You aren’t anything like them.”
Vark’s fingers dig almost painfully into my flesh. His face twists with fury, but it’s not directed at me. No—what he feels must be the need to avenge me.
“If you two are done making moon eyes at each other,” Ozork drawls, “I’ve found the ointment.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I extend my hand toward him. “I-I cut my palm,” I stutter in my need to hide the effect Vark is having on me.
“I know,” Ozork says, his bushy eyebrows raised. “Saw the bandage.”
Why do I feel like he’s a disapproving father who just broke up two teenagers kissing?
I bite my lip and let Vark untie the makeshift bandage from my hand. Ozork hands him a clean, wet cloth first, and Vark wipes around my wound. I twitch my fingers from the pain, wincing. Now that the cut has stopped bleeding, I can confirm it’s not a bad one, but it stings all the same.
“Just a little more, pet,” he murmurs. “We don’t want this to fester.”
I don’t even correct him when he calls me pet. I don’t know if I should worry about that.
Vark opens the small jar of greenish ointment that Ozork passes to him. The scent of herbs rises in the air, and the moment the thick paste touches my wound, the entire area goes pleasantly numb and tingly.
“Ooh,” I gasp. “What is this stuff?”
Vark wipes off his fingers and pushes the lid onto the jar. “Something our herbalist supplies us with.”
Ozork gives me a significant look. “It has a touch of fae magic in it.”
I scoff. “Fae magic?”
Vark smiles, handsome as sin. “You humans have forgotten so many things.”
I want to question him more, but he accepts a clean bandage from Ozork and winds it expertly around my hand. From the way my wound has stopped hurting, I’m almost ready to believe the story about magic, too. If orcs are real—and ogres, like Vark claimed—then fae magic isn’t such a stretch, is it?
Ozork lets us keep the pot of ointment. “You’ll need it more than me. I’ll get a new one from Taris when we return to the Hill.”
We load up the wagons with the last of the gear, and Wren hops onto Vark’s wagon, settling between us. She’s full of questions today, and Vark answers one after another with infinite patience, addressing everything from horses and their care to orc songs and fairy stories.
She even coaxes him to sing us a slow, melancholy ballad about lovers lost that has me wiping my eyes on the cuff of my dirty tunic. The male has a surprisingly melodious voice, and even though it’s rough at the edges and so deep, it touches a neglected, needy part of my soul.
I listen to him and worry. The more I find out about him, the more I like him—and I can’t afford to do that. Not if I want to get out of this with my heart intact.
