Page 42 of Bound to the Orc Renegade

Turning to face the front, I do just that, unraveling my hold on my power until it snaps back into the hollow space inside me.

He grunts and stands. “I’ll set up another toadstool.”

Once it’s in position and he’s out of the way, I close my eyes and reach. Even knowing the magic waits right below me in the ground, it’s still harder to find without Krivoth’s magic guiding me to it. Magic defies logic. Reaching “down” doesn’t do anything.

But I didn’t get to the endgame level of every expansion pack of theWitcherby giving up, and I’m sure as hell not going to give up now, when learning my power means safety for me and everyone I hold dear in this world.

So if down doesn’t work, what will? Then it comes to me. I don’t need a direction—I need afeeling. All this time, I didn’t chart what Krivoth did like reading a map. Ifelthis magic and how it moved through him.

I reach out again, searching for the heart of Alarria, the magic that feels as wild and free as the fae who call it home. Everything’s there—Krivoth’s steady power as he fights to protect those in his care; Storm’s grumpiness even while he carries us everywhere; Mist’s smug amusement tempered by her willingness to hunt for us; and even the sprites and their mischievous attempt at throwing a party.

Alarria is all of this to me, and so much more.

She sings below my feet and all around me, a song of power and life.

“Hi,” I whisper, awe filling my chest even as my magic connects and my crystal warms in my hand.

In a burst of wild laughter, another toadstool bites the dust.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Krivoth

My moon bound dismisses and calls her power to her over and over, until I run out of toadstools and the sun drops behind the trees. She continues to practice by knocking over the sticks, determined to keep going until, as she says, “It feels effortless. Like muscle memory.”

I’ve never heard the phrase, but I understand. Weapons training is similar.

Mist returns, calling me into the woods to help with her kill, and Storm looks up from his grazing to tell me he’ll watch over Taylor.

She blasts another stick from the ground, sending it flying, and pride fills me. My bride can now protect herself, and her powers will assure our quest goes as planned.

My glorious future awaits, closer than ever.

I nod to him and follow Mist into the trees. She brought down a deer, and it’s too large to butcher close to camp without attracting predators. The feline fae’s already eaten the liver, and I carve off both haunches and leave the rest for her once I’ve skinned the deer. It’s a great deal of meat, but she clearly needs it, falling on the carcass with great hunger. She’s been running and hunting more than a cat sith normally would these past few days since she’s been feeding all three of us.

I heft the haunches, the weight of them solid in my hand. I too will eat well for the first time in over a week. “Thank you,” I force the words out. “You’ve taken on the burden of hunting so I could protect my moon bound. I’ll be able to help more now that she’s found her magic, but I won’t forget what you’ve done.”

“Be still my heart,” Mist drawls, her green eyes laughing up at me. “Did an orc just thank a cat sith?”

A scowl pulls at my mouth. I try to do something nice, and the cat has to go and throw it back in my face.

Then she grins. “You’re welcome, orc. I look forward to those big hands of yours plucking some fowl clean for me. Feathers are such a pain when they get stuck in the throat.”

Saying you’re welcome is as unusual as a thank you among many of the fae, so I take her words for the peace offering they are. I tip my head and turn away.

“That is, if you’re not too busy using those fingers to pluck something—or should I saysomeone—else.”

I stomp off, irritated all over again. How dare Mist talk about what I shared with Taylor in that way?

But I’m more irritated that I don’t know when I’ll have my hands on my bride’s sweet body again.

It doesn’t help that when I get back to the meadow, the sprites have found us. They circle Taylor’s head in flashing butterfly wings, calling out in high voices.

“No,” she says, her voice firmer than normal. “I donotwant you to make me more Faerie Fruit!”

And there it is. Confirmation that she regrets what happened between us. I have not wooed her. She does not love me yet.

I duck back into the forest, harvesting fiddleheads and edible mushrooms to add to our dinner, my knife slashing through the soft vegetables with extra frustration.

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