Page 26 of Bound to the Orc Warlord

“Pookacorn.” Drake’s long neck gyrates his head in circles, which must be dragon amusement.

I bite my lip on a muffled chuckle, and even Dravarr’s lips twitch.

“Long have the fae cavorted among themselves. I’m not the first to come from the union of unicorn and pooka, and I won’t be the last.” Midnight flips her mane and preens. “But since we name ourselves based on our most dominant trait, my horn and my healing magic make me a unicorn, simply a special one withfabulouscolor.”

“You’re one of a kind, you mischievous imp.” Dravarr pats her neck affectionately, careful not to touch any of the already closing cuts. “And I’m sure you’re far more pooka than that.”

“Ha! You’re just secretly glad I’m not grumpy like the rest of the unicorns, because I’d beexcellentat it and out-grump you.”

“Wait, what?” I frown at her in confusion. “Unicorns are supposed to be sweet and nice.”

“Who told you such nonsense? Unicorns are grumpy.” Her neighing laugh rings out. “Why give a horse a horn unless it wants to stab people with it?”

Huh. I never thought of that.

“Now release me.” She stomps her front hoof. “Healing’s hungry work.”

Dravarr crouches to unbuckle the saddle and looks up at me. “I can’t lower the saddle to the ground smoothly with only one arm. It’s going to jerk on your leg.”

“I’m ready for it.” I squeeze my thighs together and tighten my tummy muscles.

At my nod, he pushes the saddle from the unicorn’s back. As it falls, it pulls me down with it. Since I expect it, it feels like a little roller coaster ride—a fun drop that doesn’t last too long.

“Go and graze.” He gives Midnight a light slap on her rump.

She snorts and trots into the meadow, lowering her head to snatch up every flower she passes, chewing up a mix of red, blue, purple, and yellow before switching to the green grass.

A silent laugh shakes through me. Maybe she’ll doonething like a unicorn and fart a rainbow.

“I’m getting dinner, too!” Drake leaps through the opening in the trees and into the clear air above the meadow.

“What does he eat?” I ask.

“At his current size, mostly birds and small rodents.” Dravarr pulls on the rope until I float just above him. I grab his good shoulder and climb down his body. It’s far enough that the excess rope touches the ground, and he steps on it to hold me in place.

I crouch, having to use my stomach muscles to force myself down when all my magic wants to do is go up, up, up. It’s the weirdest feeling. Will I ever get used to it?

Pulling out all the stuff I need for his shoulder, I say, “Why don’t you sit?”

Dravarr settles onto the pine needles beside me with a muffled grunt. Tightness lines his eyes, his mouth, his torso. He’s in a lot of pain, and all that riding didn’t help one bit.

His long legs are bent and spread slightly, so I grab one of his knees and climb in between. “Can you hold me in place?”

He clamps them firmly to my sides, anchoring me.

“Great. Now…” My hands flutter over his injured shoulder like startled birds who don’t know where to light. “I need your shirt off.”

Another pained grunt as he lifts his good arm over his head and tries to grab the back of his shirt. His expression twists into a grimace. I can’t bear it. He’s in too much pain, and he hasn’t even moved the shirt yet.

“Stop,” I blurt, then soften my words. “Please stop. This isn’t going to work. I’ll cut it off.”

I expect argument, maybe male bluster that he can do it, but Dravarr simply offers me a sharp nod and an even sharper knife.

Yep, he’s in a lot of pain.

Holding the blade pointing up and toward me so I don’t accidentally cut him, I run the knife up the center of his shirt, the soft linen parting effortlessly with a ripping sound like tearing a piece of paper. It falls open, and—

Oh.

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