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“Darrah.” “Is that orcish? What does it mean?” “It is…little acorn.” Another blush crept up Orek’s neck. “Because he fell from a tree.”
That smile could ask things of him no one else had or would. It was terrifying to realize he’d likely give whatever that smile asked of him.
“Well, off with you then, orc-slut.” “Thank you for your kindness, hag.” The shopkeeper’s lips twitched in a grin, and Sorcha returned it half-heartedly.
There was something about riling up the orc… She did it with her older siblings sometimes, but this was different. She knew how to get her siblings twitching and yelling within three words, but the orc was so unflappable. Sorcha found she…liked pushing. Just a little.
Oh, yes. He was in so much trouble. He’d never cared for something or someone before, had considered himself incapable. But he was more than capable—and so, so willing.
He grunted in easy acceptance. She liked that. She liked many things about this male.
Darrah, tucking his tiny body into his own little nest, made from a fur-lined hood it was too temperate yet to wear. She liked that he always checked on her comfort, whether it was asking her or taking a moment to look over her bed for the night. She liked how the slabs of muscle at his shoulders and back bunched and moved as he drew off his outer jerkin, leaving him in his tunic. She liked how warm he was.
His breathing was even and easy, but she’d learned over their days together that he never fell asleep before her. Always kept watch first. She liked that, too. She liked him.
He was her companion, her ally, and perhaps now her friend. Sorcha needed friends. You don’t fantasize about friends taking you hard and fast against the nearest tree.
That was how, before making camp for the night a mile out of town, Sorcha took part in a great raccoon emancipation.
Sorcha was the river and he was caught in her current. He never wanted to come up for air.
Having grown up in what he believed to be a typical orc clan, Orek wasn’t prepared for the fussing. For three days, Sorcha fussed over him.
He could deny her nothing, especially not when what she wanted was to be near him.
But if she was warm, fed, and content, she’d have no reason for tears. So that’s what Orek intended to do. Just as a good mate should.
A good male wouldn’t dream of throwing her over his shoulder and hiding deep in the forest, where no one would find them, to hoard her all to himself and build a den just for them, where he’d keep her warm and content and naked always. A good male would bring her back to her family and leave her be. That possessive beast inside him curled its lip at the thought. No, Orek wasn’t a good male. He was selfish, covetous.
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“You are an excellent seductress.” “It helps when your target wants to be seduced,” she laughed. “Very badly.”
“Perfect,” he growled against her lips, “you’re so perfect.”
That he would kill for her, die for her, and most especially he would live for her.
Because she wanted him to stay with her. Because she wanted him. Fates, I love him.
Loving someone didn’t mean there weren’t times you wanted to occasionally smother them with a pillow.
“Mate,” he growled, “you are the air I breathe. The beat of my heart. You own me, Sorcha, body and soul.”
“You claimed me. In front of everyone,” he said between long, dragging kisses that made her forget her own name. “Why not. You’re mine.” A purr so deep it shook his chest made her quim clench with want. “Yours,” he agreed.
“You were fearsome,” he marveled. “Nobody else gets to threaten your life. Only me.” “Only you.” Orek held her face between his trembling hands. “Only ever you.”
