Page 19 of Her Orc Blacksmiths

From her other side, Korr wraps his arm around her waist, his big palm splayed protectively over her ribs. She flushes prettily and squeezes my hand, then turns back to her soup.

Morg arrives at our table then and sits beside me, squeezing between me and the well-dressed orc on the other side. “Hello. I’ve missed you.”

I can’t do much more than stare at him. I thought I’d imagined how handsome he is, but it seems he took special care with his appearance today. He’s freshly shaved, his short hair—so different to the longer styles preferred by most of the other males in the clan—is combed back, and his clothes are neat and clean. The whiff of his fresh scent hits me full force, and I draw in a big inhale, unable to help myself.

I haven’t returned his greeting, but Morg doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in and takes a sniff of his own—and freezes, color rising in his cheeks.

“That bastard,” he mutters.

The angry words snap me from my daze. “What?”

Morg shakes his head, clenching his hands between his knees. “It’s nothing.”

I level a stare at him, the kind I’ve seen my mother use on unruly customers. Morg lets out a big sigh and relaxes marginally.

“I can smell Torren all over you,” he admits. “I saw he hugged you just now, and I assume it’s not the first time he’s touched you?”

He frames the last bit as a question, and I have to shake my head in answer. Feeling my own embarrassment, I whisper, “Do you want me to change out of these clothes?”

Since Torren got my unpolluted scent this morning, it’s only fair that Morg should have the same chance. Scent seems like such an important sense for them, and I don’t want Morg’s afternoon to be spoiled if this bothers him too much.

“No,” he says, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and says, “Er, it’s all right.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s the matter?”

He purses his lips for a moment, the expression almost comical with his tusks, then admits, “Your scent melds nicely with his, that’s all. It’s not bad.”

A warm sensation blooms in my chest at his words. “Really?”

He grumbles in answer, clearly unimpressed by the fact. “I wanted to ask you if you’d want to meet my parents,” he adds.

My eyes flare wide at the suggestion. “Already?” I blurt.

I didn’t expect this, but I should have thought of it, of course. It makes sense that Morg and Torren have families—and friends—at the Hill. But Torren had opted to take me outside, away from everyone, while Morg wants to introduce me to his parents.

“That would be lovely,” I say at last, even though the thought of meeting Morg’s mother has me breaking out in a nervous sweat. “But I promised my friends I would eat lunch with them first. You’re welcome to join us.”

Morg takes my condition in stride and reaches for another soup bowl for himself. Then he falls into conversation with us easily—he knows Uram and Korr, having made several of their weapons and tools over the past years, and has met Rose and Ivy. He fits in, laughing at a joke Korr tells with a shy sort of smile, as if he’s unused to being the center of attention.

But all the while, he keeps the bulk of his focus on me. His thigh presses against mine under the table, and he keeps initiating touch between us, light brushes of his fingers on my hand when he wants to draw my attention. He asks me several times if I’ve had enough to eat, then snags a pair of still-warm scones with jam and cream for me, watching me with rapt interest as I lick the sweet blueberry preserves off my fingers.

It’s intoxicating to feel as if I’m the center of someone’s universe. I don’t quite know what to do with the sensation because I’ve never experienced it before, but just when I think it might be too much, Morg backs off, drawing Ivy into conversation about the new hunting knife that Korr seems to have commissioned for her.

A prickle on the back of my neck has me turning around. I search the crowd of orcs at the dinner tables, wondering why I feel as if I’m being watched. Then I notice Torren at a table by the wall. He’s sitting with another orc who seems his age, though his face is deeply scarred as if he’s survived a horrible battle. Torren says something to his friend, the words inaudible against the noise of the gathered diners, but his gaze remains on me, a warm caress. I give him a small smile, hoping that he understands that I want to be with him, too, even as I’m with Morg, the same as I wished Morg was with us this morning.

Finishing the last of my scone, I turn to Morg with an expectant smile. “I’m ready.”

He searches my face with his gaze. “Are you certain? We can wait if you’d like.”

I shake my head, already pushing away from the table. “No, that’s important to you. I want to do it.”

Would I introduce Morg and Torren to my parents if they lived here? Perhaps. I’d be wary of their words, if not their opinions, because I wouldn’t want them to behave unpleasantly toward the two orcs. But Morg doesn’t seem to have any such reservations. He takes my hand and all but drags me to the other side of the great hall, his steps eager.

He stops by another long table which is full of orcs on both sides, sitting elbow to elbow on the sturdy wooden benches. There’s an orc couple who are likely his parents, as well as two younger women about my age and a gaggle of orc children—all of whom have been tracking our progress from across the hall.

I suppose we were rather hard to miss, what with Morg’s tall form cutting through the crowd and my golden hair so distinct from the more common dark colors shared by most orcs.

“Ma,” Morg says, grinning widely, “this is Jasmine.” He motions toward the older woman and turns to me. “Jasmine, this is my mother, Keera. And my father, Parum.”

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