Page 5 of Bewitching the Orc Chief

I prowled the edges of the room while she disappeared down a short hallway. The cottage was small but cozy, an organized chaos that spoke of a busy mind. Books dominated the space, stacked in precise towers that defied gravity. Medical texts mingled with herb guides and what looked like antique botanical prints. A well-worn copy of “Traditional Healing Methods” peeked out from beneath a volume on crystal properties.

A partially open door revealed glimpses of what must be her workshop. Shelves lined with colorful bottles and jars. A sturdy worktable covered in notes and... was that a mortar and pestle?

Something brushed against my leg. I looked down to find a gray-and-white cat regarding me with unblinking yellow eyes.

“You must be Gus,” I rumbled, crouching to offer my hand. The cat sniffed my fingers, then butted his head against my knuckles. A deep purr vibrated through his small frame.

“Well, that’s a surprise.” Miranda’s voice startled me. “Gus isn’t usually so friendly with strangers.”

I straightened, turning to find her leaning against the doorframe. My mouth went dry. She’d changed into a short silk robe that revealed miles of pale legs. Burgundy again, the same deep color as her dress and her painted nails. The shade seemed a favorite.

I twitched the tip of a very fluffy tail as the tiny beast wove between my legs. “I have a way with animals.”

“Apparently.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Tea?”

She padded to the kitchen on bare feet, the robe swishing against her thighs. I followed close behind, trailing the intoxicating blend of rosemary and citrus.

The kitchen was small, barely big enough for two people, much less a human and an orc. Dried herbs hung from the exposed kitchen rafters, their subtle fragrances mingling with Miranda’s own scent. My nose twitched, trying to identify them. Sage, lavender, something spicier...

“Just cooking herbs.” Her voice carried a hint of... something. Nervousness? “For the business.”

The electric kettle hummed to life. Miranda stretched up on her toes, reaching for a top shelf. Her robe rode up, revealing more of those pale thighs. My cock throbbed. I wanted to spread her over the table and taste every inch of skin. Wanted to make her moan my name while she dug those red-painted nails into my shoulders.

“Here, let me.” I closed the gap between us in two short strides. Miranda’s breath hitched as I crowded her against the cabinets, savoring the feel of her body molded to mine. Reaching over her head, I plucked the tin of loose-leaf tea from its place and handed it to her.

She turned within the circle of my arms. Her chest rose and fell faster, lips parted. Our eyes locked, her caramel irises blown wide. This close, I could count each freckle dusting her nose.

“Thanks.” Her voice came out breathy.

My hand found her hip, steadying her. Or maybe steadying myself. Everything in me screamed to mark her, claim her, make her mine in every way possible.

There were protocols, some part of me objected. Blessings to obtain. What would Father say about this? About taking a human mate? What would Alris?—

Miranda’s fingers traced a line of the tattoos curling around my forearm, and all thoughts of clan politics evaporated. Her touch sent electricity racing under my skin.

“These are beautiful,” she murmured. “What do they mean?”

“Each one tells a story.” I struggled to focus as her fingertip followed the swooping pattern. “Victories. Losses. Rites of passage.”

Her fingers stilled on a particularly deep scar that crossed one tattoo. “And this?”

“The day I became chief.” The words came out rougher than intended. “My father’s challenger left his mark before I could end him.”

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes searched mine, bottomless pools of copper and brown. Without breaking eye contact, she ran her fingertip along the length of the scar. Slowly. Gently. “About your father. About all of it.”

The genuine sympathy in her voice made my chest ache. “You understand loss.”

It wasn’t a question. I’d seen it in her eyes at the bar, heard it in her careful way of speaking about her past. Whatever—whoever—she’d left behind had marked her as surely as my scars marked me.

She hummed her assent, her delicate fingers drifting higher, ghosting over the ink peeking above my collar. I closed my eyes, fighting to keep still under her touch. Each touch sent sparks of awareness through my body, stoking the fire that had been building since I first caught her scent.

Miranda’s fingertip brushed the edge of one tusk, and my eyes flew open. She startled at my sharp intake of breath, but didn’t pull away. Instead, she traced the curve of ivory, a question in her eyes.

The growl that rumbled from my chest was pure instinct. Raw, unfiltered need. I crushed her to me, devouring her lips with my own. My hand slid into her silky curls, tilting her head to grant better access. She kissed me back hungrily, teeth and tongue clashing.

One kiss wasn’t enough. Would never be enough. I needed more.

I grabbed her hips and lifted, depositing her on the kitchen counter. She gasped as I stepped between her legs, the silk of her robe gaping open. A scrap of black lace that barely qualified as underwear peeked out from beneath the fabric. Another growl tore from my throat at the sight.

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