Page 25 of Her Orc Blacksmiths

Finally, his large hands land on my hips, and he draws me in, then hugs me fiercely, burying his face in my neck.

“Whatever it is,” I whisper, “you can tell me. I won’t judge you, I promise, and I won’t leave.”

Torren lets out a shuddering breath. Then he straightens and looks past me toward Morg.

“Do you want me to leave?” Morg asks.

His voice is raspy, and I know he wants to be here, but he’s giving Torren a way out of this. My heart thumps painfully at this, and I can only hope that Torren won’t send him away. They need to heal whatever hurt is between them, and if we don’t start tonight, I don’t know if we ever will.

Torren shakes his head. “You can stay.”

Morg’s shoulders relax slightly, and he draws the chair closer to us, then sits, his elbows on his knees. Torren’s grip on my waist tightens, and I dig my fingers into his shoulders in answer, letting him know I’m there.

At last, Torren takes a deep breath and says, “I made the sword that killed one of my best friend’s entire family.”

Chapter

Nine

Silence follows Torren’s confession. I don’t know what to say, because I’m too busy trying to understand how this could have happened.

But Morg straightens, his eyebrows snapping down. “Steagor’s…?”

Torren gives him a curt nod. “Aye.”

I look from one to the other, confused. “I thought Ozork was your best friend,” I say, though my comment has me cringing the moment the words leave my mouth.

Torren’s sigh shudders out of him. “You haven’t met Steagor yet, have you? He and Poppy have been keeping to themselves because she’s been having issues with morning sickness. Steagor’s been taking care of her.”

I love how he casually mentions this, as if men concerning themselves with female issues is perfectly normal in the orc world.

“So how did…?” I stop myself, not wanting to press what seems to be a raw wound. But I have to ask, because I think he needs to tell the story. “What happened?”

Torren slides his hand up and down my back, a soothing gesture meant more for him than me. “Before we came to live in this Hill, before King Gorvor founded the Black Bear Clan, we all lived in the mountains on the eastern part of the continent, closer to the fae kingdom.”

Now that he’s started the story, his words flow more easily.

“The old king, Gorvor’s father, was a mean ruler. His generals were as bad as him,” he tells us. “My father was one of them.”

Morg blinks, surprise clear on his face. “I didn’t know that.”

Torren nods thoughtfully. “I didn’t like how the king did things, and especially how he treated his queen. She was his fated mate, and yet he treated her like garbage.” He shifts his gaze to me. “I would sooner stick a dagger in my chest than hurt you, Jasmine, so I don’t know how he could treat her so, but he was always a rotten bastard. But my father had his ear, and my family enjoyed the benefits of that.”

He says that with disgust, and I can only imagine what kind of benefits they got if they danced to the tune of a tyrant king.

“My father wanted me to become a warrior like him,” he continues, “but I went and convinced the blacksmith of the Boar Clan to take me on as an apprentice instead. My father beat me bloody the day he found out, but by then, the king had approved of it, so he couldn’t do much about it.”

Morg leans forward, his frown deepening. “Smithing is an honorable profession,” he growls. “He was wrong.”

Torren offers him a small smile at this. “Aye, I know that. But he wanted to raise a killer, and I was a disappointment. Especially since I was the only boy he ever had—I have two older sisters, and my mother never managed to get pregnant after that.”

I press a soft kiss to his jaw. “I’m glad you resisted.”

Torren runs his nose over my temple and takes a deep inhale as if my scent soothes him. Then he goes on, “I was good at the job, too. And when the time came, I forged a new sword for King Trak. He broke his old one during a war campaign.” He glances at Morg and lifts his chin a little. “It was a beauty, steel so bright it shone. I presented it to him, with a golden pommel encrusted with rubies. Fit for a king.”

Morg remains silent, his hands clasped in front of him. We’re both waiting for the conclusion of this story, which I know will be horrible.

Torren sighs. “Steagor was a warrior, but an honorable one, like Gorvor, Ozork, and the others. We would talk often, they’d come by the forge to offer suggestions about the weapons they needed, and they’d make room for me at the table every night even though I wasn’t a warrior. But they couldn’t stand what the old king was doing to the clan.”

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