Page 27 of Her Orc Blacksmiths

I lift one eyebrow, an idea forming in my mind. “Or Morg could go to the kitchens to see if he can scavenge some food for us, and we can all eat here together?”

I’m not entirely sure Torren is fit for company right now. I can’t imagine how I’d feel after a conversation like that—exposed and exhausted, likely.

“That’s a splendid idea.” Morg pushes to his feet. “But you better leave that door unlocked, Torren, or we will have words.”

Torren lifts his chin, looking the other male in the eyes. “Never. My door’s always open for you.”

I swear Morg blushes even deeper before he twists on his heels and leaves. He closes the door softly behind him, and I’m alone with Torren, still curled up in his lap. He seems to realize it at the same time I do, but instead of letting me go, he hitches my hips an inch closer, the warmth of his palms permeating through my skirts.

“Thank you for sharing your story with us,” I murmur, gazing up at him.

Torren quirks his mouth in a smile. “I should thank Morg for bringing it up, I suppose.”

“Not something you expected, hmm?” I tease.

He rubs his thumb over my hip in slow circles. “He certainly manages to surprise me even though I’ve known him for years.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering whether I should press this matter or not. Finally, I just can’t hold the words back.

“He told me he invited you to the harvest festival,” I say. “And that you never showed?”

Torren groans and buries his face in my neck. “And now you think I should apologize for that?” he mumbles.

I grin, unable to help myself. “No, I’m only wondering why you’re so intent on pushing him away when it’s clear?—”

I stop myself, not wanting to say too much. Morg must have his own opportunity to tell Torren how he feels, and Torren has to figure things out on his own, too.

“He’s just so young,” Torren bursts out suddenly. “Everything he does is hasty and loud.”

I blink, surprised. “You mean his work?”

“No, no.” Torren growls in frustration, his hands tightening slightly on my waist. “He’s an excellent blacksmith. Better at forging blades than even I was, I think. I meant the way he speaks. My life was…quiet before he showed up in my forge.”

Oh.

I fight my smile, not wanting to give too much away. “Well, I’m even younger than him,” I point out instead.

Torren lets out another groan and covers his eyes with a palm. “I know. You are both too young, but the fates are never wrong.”

I squirm a little in his lap. “Does that bother you? That you’re older?”

He lowers the hand and levels a look at me. “I won’t pretend that I don’t know which one of us is the better partner for you. But I’m a selfish bastard, so I will fight for you unless you tell me unequivocally that you don’t want me.”

My heart skips, and a fluttering sensation descends all the way to my belly. “I’m glad,” I whisper. “I don’t want you to stop fighting for me either. And you’re not selfish at all. You said yourself the fates are never wrong.”

I never once considered Torren too old for me. I feel safe with him, protected in ways I never expected but that I now crave. Being in his arms is incredible, and I want more from him.

I search his handsome, scarred face, wondering what stories every one of those scars hold. With time, perhaps he’ll tell me all about them—if I decide that I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

The thought of doing anything else is physically painful, but so is the idea of letting go of Morg. I’m being torn in two, clear down the middle, and I hate it. I hate that these two orcs, honorable and kind, are being put through this ordeal as well.

“You are so beautiful,” he rasps. He lifts one big hand to my cheek, his calloused thumb stroking my skin. “Your eyes are so blue.”

I want to tell him that I’m not that unusual in the human lands, that I’m ordinary and forgettable enough that my fiancé couldn’t stomach the thought of being married to me. But I don’t, because Torren is staring at me as if I’m a treasure, and I want that—for the rest of my life.

I lean in, tipping my chin up. I’m not used to this, but I hope it’s invitation enough for him. He lets out a low groan, then brushes his lips over mine. It’s tentative, that first kiss, a question that demands an answer, so I press myself closer to him, digging my fingers into the thick slabs of his muscle under his shirt.

“Torren,” I gasp against his lips.

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