Page 10 of Bewitching the Orc Chief

“You really brought me here because you were worried?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“Of course I was worried.” Osen’s posture softened as he turned back to me. His hand settled on my knee through the blanket, and electricity crackled along my nerves. “You are mine to protect and care for. What kind of mate would I be if I left you vulnerable?”

Mate.

There it was again. The word sent tingles through my body, my magic humming in response. What did it mean to be mated to an orc? To be tied to their clan chief, no less? Everything Iknew about orcs came from outsider perspectives or sanitized history books.

I should be terrified. Should be plotting my escape from the mountain stronghold and the chief who’d claimed me.

But even as the thought crossed my mind, I knew I wouldn’t. Curiosity had always been my downfall. And if I was honest… I wanted to know more about the orc who’d turned my world upside down in a single night.

His thumb traced maddening circles on my skin, and I gritted my teeth against the surge of desire. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I know.” Osen’s mouth curled into a wicked smile. “But you’re also mine. And I intend to prove it.”

Goddess help me, I wanted him to try.

Osen’s gaze flicked to the door, and a hint of regret slumped his shoulders. “I should deal with whatever drama is unfolding in the workshop before they come to blows. As much as I’d rather stay here with you.”

The loss of his touch left me cold. I pulled the furs tighter, trying to ignore the sting of rejection. Stupid. Of course he had responsibilities. He was a damn clan chief! And space was good. I’d have a chance to think clearly, to plan my next move. Maybe devise an escape plan or ten.

“You’re welcome to join me,” he added, hope clear in his voice. “If you’re feeling up to it. Our woodworking is something of a point of pride.”

I found myself smiling back, some of the tension easing from my shoulders. Not rejection, then—inclusion.

“I’d like that.” I bit my lip and peeked under the blanket at my—his—tunic. Not a problem under normal circumstances, but I hesitated to use a glamour in mixed company. “But um, clothes?”

His entire face lit up, and something in my chest squeezed painfully. Unholy hell, he was adorable for someone who could bench press a car.

Ten minutes and multiple apologies for not thinking to grab any of my things later, we stepped out of Osen’s front door. My first step into Grimstone was focused on adjusting the hastily borrowed clothes I suspected belonged to someone’s child, but the second? The second spread a huge grin all through my body.

The remote orc village sprawled through a narrow valley, with winding paths worn by generations of feet connecting the buildings. The homes and shops were carved directly into the mountainside, with peaked porches and gardens marking the boundaries. Everywhere I looked, orcs went about their morning routines—sweeping shop porches, tending gardens, children racing and playing in the street.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

Osen’s chest puffed with pride. “Our ancestors chose well when they settled here.”

Curious eyes followed us as we made our way through the village. Some nodded respectfully to Osen. Others gawked at me, expressions ranging from suspicious to hostile. I lifted my chin, refusing to shrink under their scrutiny. I’d survived worse than dirty looks.

“Don’t be fooled,” Osen rumbled in my ear. “They are all dying to know who you are.”

“But who is doing the dying?” I muttered under my breath.

He chuckled and gave my waist a comforting squeeze. The protective gesture sparked a riot of butterflies in my belly.

The workshop occupied a large cave mouth near the valley’s heart. Warm light spilled from the entrance, along with a rich, earthy scent that mixed with oil and leather. Half-finished pieces dotted the room. Delicate carvings adorned chair backsand table legs—scenes of hunts and battles alongside flowing abstract patterns.

“Chief!” A muscular orc with elaborate braids waved from a workbench. His grin turned wolfish as he spotted me. “I see the rumors are true.”

“The mysterious lady emerges, fully clothed this time.” The younger orc from earlier—Torain—offered his hand to shake, then bent over and kissed the air just above my skin. “I’m Torain, by the way. Osen’s infinitely more charming brother.”

The wink only emphasized his point. As did Osen’s annoyed growl.

“Ignore this idiot.” The other orc smacked Torain’s shoulder, who winged out an elbow in retaliation. “I’m Zral. Welcome to our humble workspace.”

“Miranda,” I said, finding myself oddly charmed by their easy banter. It reminded me of... no. Best not to think about the coven right now. “Nice to meet you properly. Both of you.”

“Someone has to mind the etiquette around here.” Zral gestured at the chaos of tools and wood scraps littering one corner. “Speaking of which,” his attention turned to Osen, “Galan stepped out, but he should be back soon. Maybe you can talk some sense into him about proper tool storage.”

---