Page 13 of Bound to the Orc Ranger

“What is that?” She asks, slowing her voice so I can understand, her tone as high and bright as a tinkling bell. A tiny arm points to the food.

My moon bound frowns, not understanding.

“I think it’s called peet zaa,” I say.

“Peet zaa!” Olivia repeats, nodding, her expression clearing to a smile. She holds up the last of the triangular slices.

The pixie calls out, and five more of them dash from the trees, each grabbing an edge of the breading. They lift it from Olivia’s hand, but chaos ensues as each tries to fly in a different direction, which means they end up going nowhere. Arguments break out, their normal voices too high and fast for me to follow until it sounds like a series of angry whistles.

Their little bodies strain, wings beating hard, each of them pulling on the peet zaa with all their might. The first pixie flies in circles over their heads, shouting ignored instructions.

Glee dances in my bride’s eyes as she claps a hand to her mouth to muffle her laughter.

I grin back.

Eventually, the leader shrieks loud enough to get the others’ attention. She points definitively to the right and flies off without looking back, her expression making it clear they’d better follow.

It takes a couple of false starts, but the five finally zoom through the air, their prize carried like a battle trophy between them. They light on the ground just inside the tree line, and the rest of the flock descends. The peet zaa disappears under a blanket of fluttering wings and flashing arms carrying tiny chunks of food to mouths armed with more teeth than anything that small should have.

The leader flies back over, moving a little slower, her mouth smeared with red sauce like blood, her stomach slightly distended. She lays a small flower on Olivia’s knee, and once she backs away, it becomes clear that it glows with its own light instead of merely reflecting the pixie’s.

“Peet zaa,” she says one final time before disappearing off into the trees, the rest of her flock following until they spread around us in a blanket of low stars.

My moon bound picks up the flower and hands it to me, a question in her eyes.

“It’s a magical bluebell,” I say, wishing she understood me. “The pixies have declared you their friend. Ringing it will bring their aid.”

I fish a small box out of my pack and tip the flints out into my palm. After placing the bluebell inside, I hand the box to her and curl her fingers around it to make my words clear. “Keep this with you.”

She nods and slips it in the pocket of her human pants.

If this keeps up, my moon bound bride will have befriended half of the continent before we make it back from the speaking stone. She’s already got Hurtle eating oats out of her hand, and he barely likes anyone.

Yet why should I be surprised? My Olivia is sweet and kind.

And lovable.

So very, very lovable.

CHAPTER NINE

Olivia

A shiver runs through Rovann’s body, and his arm tightens, pulling me from a doze. We’ve ridden all night, not stopping to make camp. I feel a little disappointed and a lot relieved, because it means I don’t yet need to figure out what I want to happen the next time we’re alone in the tent together.

The unicorn trots into a clearing dominated by another standing stone. It’s shaped much like the one I landed on top of, a tall rectangular column of granite, too perfectly shaped to be natural, but with edges worn smooth by time. Still, it’s notmystanding stone, though I can’t say how I know. Must be the magic.

I grin. Having magic is the best thing ever. I’ve never felt so alive.

The animal barely stops before Rovann’s already sliding off its back, his handsome green face serious as he lifts me down.

He pulls me to the stone with eager steps, one large hand flattening mine to the cool surface. An electric shock runs through me, almost like when I do magic, and Rovann stares down at me, his expression serious. “Did it work? Can you understand me?”

“Yes!” It escapes as a sob, as relief crashes over me.

Rovann pulls me to him, holding me close. He’s been so nice, so patient, but not being able to speak has been more horrible than I wanted to admit. I’ve never been one of those people who’s good with languages, barely scraping a C the one time I tried to take Italian, assuming my heritage meant I’d be good at it. Every word he tried to teach flew out of my head within minutes.

This is why we rushed. This is what he wanted me to have. The thoughtfulness of it makes emotion clog my throat.

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