Page 3 of Bewitching the Orc Chief

My stomach clenched. I’d purposely avoided the weekly market, wary of drawing attention. Besides, an online business was easier to relocate than a physical storefront. No rental agreements to break, no explanations needed. Just pack up my supplies and vanish into the night. Again.

His brow furrowed. “Potatoes?”

“Everyone knows everyone here.” I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “I don’t want to step on any toes or break unspoken rules.”

“Ah.” Osen nodded, but his eyes held a hint of skepticism. “I hope you’ll give it a chance. Nothing builds community like haggling over root vegetables.”

My snort-laugh echoed across the bar. I grabbed my drink and tried to hide behind it, wishing the floor would swallow me whole.

“That’s three times now.” Osen’s grin lit up his face, making his tusks flash in the tavern’s dim lighting. “I like that sound.”

My cheeks burned. Goddess above, he was handsome. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s honest.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You know how rare that is? Honest things?”

My breath caught on the sudden lump in my throat. His dark eyes held mine, pupils blown wide. That stare should have made me excited. Butterflies and first date jitters and the nerves of a woman having a laugh with an interested man.

Shame flooded my system instead. I’d told so many lies over the years—some half-truths, some complete fabrications. Lies by omission, lies of convenience, lies of survival. I’d scrubbed myself clean of the Sisters of the Serpent, but that didn’t undo all the damage.

And here sat this stranger, finding authenticity in my most embarrassing trait.

If Osen noticed my discomfort, he didn’t let on. Instead, he flicked his eyes across the bar to where Vanin prowled closer in his ceaseless patrol for empty pint glasses. “Have you tried the Moonberry Stout?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I hear the recipe came from someone who actually knows which end of a brewing barrel is up.”

Vanin sniffed loudly and strode to the other end of the bar.

A surprised laugh bubbled up. “Can’t say I have.”

“Criminal oversight.” Osen’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “We’ll have to remedy that next time.”

Next time. The casual implication sent a warm flutter through my chest. I tried to smother it, reminding myself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. But then I glanced at Osen, the heat of his thigh warming my own, and… fuck. My objections melted away like snow in spring.

“I’d like that,” I admitted.

Just like that, the awkwardness evaporated. Our conversation flowed as smooth as the ales, one story tumbling into the next. His misadventures in brewing had me snort-laughing again. And again. Each time, he looked more pleased with himself.

Despite my better judgment, I found myself sharing stories of my own. Of leaving an office job to build something real and meaningful. Carefully edited customer mishaps and bizarro special order instructions. Anything but witches and covens and betrayal.

Half-truths. Always half-truths.

But with each laugh, each casual brush of hands, I found myselfwantingto tell him more. Osen listened with his whole body—leaning in, nodding, asking thoughtful questions. His dark eyes tracked my movements like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

When his hand found my knee under the bar, heat pulsed between my legs. His thumb drew circles on the hem of my dress, stroking just shy of bare skin. Magic flared in response, fizzing through my veins like the bubbles in my glass.

Osen’s eyes dropped to my lips, lingering before dragging up to meet my gaze. He opened his mouth and?—

Cold. Cold flooded my lap.

“Whoops!” The slurred voice barely registered through my shock as icy liquid soaked through my dress.

Osen was on his feet in a flash, his massive frame wedged between me and the drunk. The movement was smooth, almost casual, but he radiated the kind of energy that froze prey in their tracks.

My magic stirred in response, a slow curl of heat beneath my skin.Down, girl.

“S-sorry!” the shifter slurred, backing away from Osen’s quiet growl.

Heavy boots thudded behind the bar. Vanin loomed over us, taking in the aftermath with a scowl that could curdle milk. His dark eyes swept from the puddle of beer on the floor to my soaked dress, then to the shifter who was still backing away from Osen’s imposing form.

“Alright, that’s it. Settle your tabs. Get your asses out.” A few grumbles rose from the remaining patrons, but one look at Vanin’s expression had them gathering their things. “Need to clean this shit up before it ruins my floors.”

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