Page 34 of The Outcast Orc

Rage boiled inside me, licking my guts, urging me to bury my fist in his laughing, smug face. It would feel so good. The crunch of bone. The snap of a broken tusk. No, not just good—right.

But spill his blood now, and I'd never stand before Ul-Rott.

Raboth strode off, still laughing to himself, leaving me behind in the exercise yard. Not because he trusted me, but because there was precious little here I could see or do. There weren’t even many guards, just a pair at the gate and two more by the entrance to the main building. Why waste swords guarding a handful of mules and a warhorse no one could even touch?

I was about to turn on my heel and leave in disgust when the wind shifted—carrying with it the distinct smell of human.

No, not of any random human.

Of Quinn.

The sharpness of his sweat, the depth of his musk, all of it mingled now with the barnyard smell of grazing pack animals—but it was devoid of that hint of arousal I’d first scented on him out in the woods.

He was better off without me. The sooner he could make his own mark in the lodge so the clan could forget about who’d found him, the stronger his position.

But I couldn’t resist a quick parting look.

Sticking close to the stables, I made my way around the building and stood in the shadow of the roof’s overhang. Destroyer was trotting in a circle. The horse’s ears pricked as he spotted me, but Quinn didn’t notice. He stood at the trough in just breeches and boots, coated in dust, with sweat painting dark rivulets down his chest and ribs. No wonder his scent carried so far. He was covered in sweat, and the tangy salt smell set my mouth to watering. It was strikingly different from an orcish scent. But the orcs I knew wanted nothing to do with me, which only made this difference even more enticing.

Despite the dust and dirt, the hard chisel of his muscle was clear. Though Quinn’s human skin might be oddly smooth...he looked anything but soft.

As I watched, he grabbed a bucket from beside the trough and dipped it in, capturing some water. He upended the bucket right over his head, sluicing off the dirt and grit. And as he did, his scent blossomed, thick and heady. It filled the air with his utter humanness, welling around me, wreaking havoc with my common sense. I could practically taste the salt, feel the tang of him dance upon my tongue.

My breath quickened and my muscles tensed. Quinn threw his head back and shook out his long, dark hair. Droplets lit on his skin and hair like jewels, as runoff pooled beneath his boots. His scent should have been diluted. But it wasn’t. It was purified.

Want blinded my actions. I knew that he was in a pen with a horse capable of snapping my spine with a single, well-placed kick, but I barged ahead anyway, unable to quell my relentless, urgent need. I shoved past the pen gates, seeing nothing but water-slicked human flesh, smelling nothing but Quinn’s intoxicating human scent.

The sound of the gate startled him and he whirled around, spraying water. But though his heartbeat quickened, I smelled no fear on him. And as I crossed the pen, his expression shifted from surprise to curiosity. “Marok? Is everything okay—?”

I picked up speed as I strode toward him, and backed him up against the stable wall. His scent shifted. Not with fear—but with lust.

The regular beat of the horse’s hooves, soft thumps on the dirt of the pen, skittered to a stop. Quinn shoved me back with the flat of his palm and commanded the horse, “Roy, down!”

The warhorse pranced in place…but obeyed.

Quinn scavenged a crabapple from his pocket and tossed it to the horse, who snatched it up and gobbled it down immediately. Quinn then cocked his head toward the barn. “We might want to head inside—just in case Roy changes his mind about you. He packs one hell of a kick.”

“You gave the steed a human name.”

“Destroyer was way too much of a mouthful. Besides, I think he prefers it.”

I followed Quinn into the barn. Though light slanted in through the beams, it was dim and quiet inside, and the powerful smell of animal nearly blotted out the scent of Quinn—which only drew me closer, seeking more of that elusive, intoxicating human smell.

As I moved toward Quinn, he backed away, matching me step for step. Not trying to evade me, though, simply keeping me in his sights. The distance he put between us, in fact, was small enough for me to reach out and throttle him—or grab him and drag him closer.

“Don’t you fear me?” I asked.

“I can tell when something’s a threat—it’s what separates the average trainers from the great ones.”

“That would make a difference…if I were an animal.”

Quinn tossed his damp hair from his eyes and closed the gap between us with a decisive step. He pressed against me, stretched up on his toes, and whispered in my ear, “We’reallanimals.”

That whisper exposed Quinn’s tender neck—did he know what that did to me? I’m told only orcs give the baring of the throat such meaning—show your neck to a goblin and they’ll tear out your jugular. But humans had no fangs, no tusks, so it might not mean the same. Even so, I dropped my face to the crook of his neck as I would with a lover, and I buried myself in his heady scent.

Which immediately turned musky and rich.

“You have some velvety fine whiskers I can’t really see,” he gasped. “And they feel…uh…. Wow.” With a shaky breath, he squeezed a hand between us to reach down and adjust himself. His nimble human fingers then slid between the chinks in my armor, then paused over the wound I’d taken the night we met. “Is this okay?”

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