Page 2 of Bewitching the Orc Chief

Osen’s lips quirked. “Ah. So, it wasn’t just me, then.”

The idea of this mountain of an orc being nervous about our date was oddly endearing. I felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders. “Well,” I said with a small smile. “Here’s to first date jitters.”

His lips quirked around his tusks. “May they be as short-lived as a gnome’s temper.”

An undignified snort of laughter escaped before I could stop myself. Mortified, I clapped a hand over my mouth—only to see Osen’s eyes light up with genuine delight.

“Aleto the chief.” Vanin drawled, setting a pint glass brimming with amber liquid in front of Osen. “On the house.”

“That’s not necessary—” Osen started, but Vanin waved him off.

“Consider it a welcome back. Been too long since you lot graced us with your presence.” Vanin’s tone held an edge of reproach.

Chief? The title echoed in my head. The guy’s profile had mentioned leadership experience, but I’d assumed some corporate team. Not the fucking chief of the entire local orc clan. So much for flying under the radar.

Vanin departed with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows, and the silence stretched thin.

I wrapped my fingers around my glass. The frost threatened to return, feeding off my rising anxiety. “So. Clan chief?”

I shifted slightly to dangle one foot off the rest. Did I have any cash in my wallet to throw down as I fled? Not that it really mattered. Vanin could track me down by poking his head out the door and shouting for the address of the new broad in town.

“Recent promotion.” He winced and ran a hand along the back of his neck. “My father passed away six months ago.”

The grief in his voice struck a chord. I knew that ache, that struggle to rebuild after your world imploded. My fingers itched to reach for his hand and offer some small piece of comfort. I curled them tighter around my glass instead.

“I’m sorry.” The words felt inadequate, but I meant them. “Losing family… It leaves a hole nothing can fill.”

His dark eyes met mine, a flicker of surprise softening his features. “You speak from experience.”

It wasn’t quite a question, but I nodded. That lonely, aching hole in my chest threatened to open up and swallow the entire tavern.

“I left my c—family behind when I moved here.” The word ‘coven’ hovered on my tongue, but I swallowed it back and settled into my seat. “Sometimes starting over is the only way forward.”

I traced a bead of condensation down my glass. Family. The Sisters of the Serpent had called themselves family. I remembered Lisabet’s proud smile at my dark baptism, the way she’d stroked my hair as the unholy power coursed through my veins.

Mother, mentor, monster.

Osen took a long pull of his ale, studying me over the rim. I tensed, waiting for the inevitable questions. What happened? Who did you lose?

The low rumble of his voice washed over me. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not luring unsuspecting orc chiefs to bars?”

I snorted into my drink, earning another of those surprised, delighted looks from Osen.

Relief swept through me, and the last instincts to run quieted to a whisper. What harm was a drink or three? I’d already decided on this date. My wards were active at home. I couldn’t even be sure the Sisters were searching for me. Nothing had changed from the time I primped and preened and sang obnoxious getting ready songs to a very annoyed cat.

I still wanted to banish my loneliness. I still wanted that distraction.

“I run my own business. Small, but growing.” Pride crept into my voice. Every legitimate sale through Brewed Awakening felt like a step further from my past. “Natural beauty products, wellness items. Things that help people.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners. “A healer, then?”

I thought of the potions I’d mixed under Maura’s direction. Potions to lure. Potions to trap. Potions to kill.

“Something like that.” I sipped my ale, keeping my expression neutral. These days, I walked the line between mundane and magical—just enough power to work, not enough to raise suspicions. Never enough to bring trouble home.

“I’m surprised we haven’t crossed paths at Mist & Market.” Osen tipped back his ale, Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow. My eyes traced the flex of his throat, the powerful lines of his jaw. “You’d fit right in.”

“The farmer’s market?” I scrunched my nose and shook my head. “Oh, I’m not—Everyone is established there. I’m just small potatoes.”

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