Her Orc Husband (Bellhaven Clan, #5)

by Zoe Ashwood

No, the real coup would have happened if I’d married a lordling of some sort and gained the title of a lady. Then my sons would be lords. And I’ve tried. Gods, I’ve tried my very best, but all I’ve done is gain a reputation as a prissy virgin who won’t let a man touch her, let alone bed her.

I wish I could take her advice and traipse around taverns. I do. For once in my life, I would like to have the courage to take this step and make my own choices instead of listening to my brother. And I don’t care about my future husband’s pedigree. I only want a man who doesn’t make my skin crawl. One who would treat me well and not…demand things from me.

The next form had been filled out by a man old enough to be my father, who’d cheerily told me he didn’t care for heirs and only wanted a soft body to rut into at night.

Gag.

“How about this one?” I ask, pushing a form across the desk. “He might—” But Mrs. Pimms is already shaking her head. “No, he won’t do. He specifically requested a young bride. Eighteen, nineteen at the oldest.” My cheeks flame at the implication that I’m nowhere near young enough. I check the man’s age on the form and grimace. He’s forty-three. One would think that my twenty-seven years of age would be young enough for him, but apparently not.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you, little bird. I will not hurt you. You have my word.”

“Mr. Marut, I have decades of experience in this sort of thing,” she declares. “You are searching for your one true mate, correct? A woman to satisfy your, uh, various appetites? One you could lavish all your attention on.” My insides squeeze at the image she paints, and before I can stop myself, my mind goes wild, imagining all the ways a male like that would lavish attention on a willing partner. One who wasn’t so damn afraid. The orc crosses his thick arms over his chest. “Aye, that is correct.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you earlier. I didn’t know about your…” “Issue?” I fill in. “It’s all right. You couldn’t have known. But you do see why Mrs. Pimms is so certain that this match would be a terrible one. You could do much better with another bride, I’m sure.” One who won’t cringe away from you every time you come near. One who would be only too happy to marry a male as large as you, because I’m certain you’re quite proportionate all over.

“All right, then, Marut.” I’d thought it was his family name, but apparently not. Using his first name seems too intimate somehow, but now that he’s given me permission, I want to call him that. “You may call me Violet.” He leans forward and takes another deep inhale through his nose. Then he lets out a noise that can only be called a contented purr and says, “You’re not afraid of me anymore.” My hand flies to my chest on instinct. “A-are you smelling me?” “Aye. Your name is very apt. You smell like the first spring flowers.” He sniffs again. “And like blueberry scones. I haven’t had scones in years, and right now, I’d like to eat my fill.”

My shoulders relax, and I smile for the first time since he barged through the door. “You were saying?” He glowers at me. “Mrs. Pimms would skin me alive if I uttered aloud what is going through my head right now, little bird.”