Page 11 of Her Orc Blacksmiths

“I think that’ll be enough pillows for me,” I say carefully, not wanting to offend her.

She purses her lips but doesn’t object and draws a soft wool blanket from a beautifully carved wooden chest. “If you’re sure. Let me know if you need more blankets. I know humans are more sensitive to cold.”

“I’m not cold at all,” I assure her. “And this is perfect, thank you.”

We undress for bed, and soon, I’m enveloped in the blanket. Ritta blows out the candle and wishes me good night, and I close my eyes, thinking I’m so exhausted, I’ll be asleep in minutes.

But sleep doesn’t come. Ritta’s soft breaths from the other side of the room tell me she’s resting peacefully, but no matter how much I will myself to be calm, I can’t seem to slip into unconsciousness.

It’s like a phantom itch that can’t be scratched, a feeling of…not unease, exactly, just the sense that there’s something I forgot to do. Something at the tip of my tongue that I desperately want to say.

I sit up, careful not to dislodge any of the pillows, and wrap the blanket around myself. Then I tiptoe to where I think the door is—the room is underground, and I’ve never encountered such complete darkness before. I move slowly so as to avoid bumping into any furniture or shelves, but finally, I reach the door and lift the well-oiled iron latch, hoping it won’t squeak.

The light spills in from the corridor, strangely bright after all that darkness, even though the nearest lantern is at least ten paces from me.

And in the light, I find Torren and Morg sitting on the floor in front of Ritta’s room.

I gape at them, then glance back to see if Ritta is stirring. There’s no sound from the room, so I slip out into the corridor and pull the door shut behind me.

Morg stands slowly, though he doesn’t come closer, and Torren follows suit, keeping well away from me. They’re also keeping a healthy distance from each other, which is likely a good thing after the altercation they had in the great hall earlier this evening.

“Hello, Jasmine,” Morg says softly.

He has cleaned up, and so has Torren, though we didn’t meet them at the baths. But they are no longer covered in soot and dirt, and I can see them clearly for the first time. I stare at Morg, a shiver of delight going through me. He’s very handsome, his black eyebrows straight, his cheekbones sharp, and his jaw clean-shaven. He’s watching me with unabashed interest, studying my features just as closely as I’m studying his. I cannot be certain about his age, but he is several years older than me, and taller by at least a foot.

Then I turn to Torren, who has waited patiently thus far to greet me, though his hands are clenched into fists at his sides. He’s an inch or so shorter than Morg and about a decade older, I think. Or perhaps it’s his close-cropped black beard that has him looking that way, though I see old scars on his hands, too, testifying to experience that only years can bring. He’s broad-shouldered and thickset in the way that I’d associate with a blacksmith, his chest large and his arms corded with muscle that strains against the fabric of his tunic.

I swallow at the thought of what it would be like to touch him, to feel all that power.

“Hello,” I whisper at last. “What are you doing here?”

I don’t want to wake up Ritta, firstly because she’s tired and also because I want a chance to speak to the two orcs in private. I suspect that tomorrow we’ll have company, and we need to have a conversation on our own.

“I’ve come to apologize,” Torren murmurs, “for how I behaved earlier. I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“Nor I,” Morg interjects. “It was just that this one claimed you were his mate, and I couldn’t see straight after that.”

Torren’s face turns a slightly darker green, and he clenches his jaw so much, a muscle pops in his cheek. But he holds back whatever he wants to say.

“That’s all right,” I say. “I’m sure it was a surprise to everyone. But, um, Ritta will get mad if she sees you out here in the corridor.”

Morg shuffles a step closer, then stops himself. “That doesn’t matter as long as you don’t mind.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, thinking. I could tell them to leave, and they’d have to do it. But if I felt the need to get out here and talk to them, they must be feeling a much stronger compulsion to be near me.

“I don’t mind,” I admit. “But I am sorry that this mate thing has upended your lives.”

Torren shakes his head firmly. “No, Jasmine. You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m very lucky to have found you. I didn’t think I’d ever get to meet my mate. If it hadn’t happened in four decades, I’d almost lost hope that it would at all.”

I glance at Morg to find him staring at Torren with a slightly stricken expression, as if it pains him to hear his rival say that. Then he seems to remember himself because he draws back his shoulders and focuses on me again.

“I am not upset at all,” he says, pitching his voice low. “I’m only sorry you are put in such a position.”

“Yes, it’s quite unusual,” I agree.

In the human lands, I’ve heard of relationships involving more than one person, but they were mentioned with a snicker and a wink, as if loving two people at once was something of a joke. But this doesn’t seem funny to me at all.

“Uram suggested we make an agreement to court you separately,” Torren says. “And we both agreed it was a wise decision.”

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