Page 5 of Orc's Pretend Mate

I have no idea where I’m getting the guts to be so snarky but he doesn’t seem to mind and I’m rolling with it on that alone. He snorts. It makes his wide nose wrinkle which makes me notice his face.

Sure, I saw his face before, but seeing it and noticing it are two different things. At least for me, in this moment, it is. Noticing his face, I see that he’s actually kind of good looking. In a rugged, exotic, alien way.

“Zmaj, fine,” he says, raising and dropping his hands. “You know word ‘no’ then?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then no.”

“Gah!” I exclaim, throwing my hands in the air with frustration. “’No’ what? You can’t just say ‘no’, it has be… I don’t know. Aimed at something. No what?”

He grunts as he rolls his eyes.

“You bed,” he says, pointing at the ceiling.

“Did you just roll your eyes? Seriously?” I don’t know what has gotten into me. I’m barking and defying him like I’ve gone crazy. But I can’t stop my mouth, which seems to be running on its own agenda. “Are you eight?”

His frown deepens. He shakes his head.

“You go to bed,” he says. “I sleep there. Better?”

The defiance bleeds out, leaving behind nothing but emptiness and the fear that has been my constant companion since I set out on this stupid mission.

A tremor races down my spine then takes up residence. I cross my arms and rub them, trying to hide the fact that I’m shaking. Tears well in my eyes and the pressure of trying not to sob is making my head throb.

He is watching. His lips purse and the deep frown eases, changing into something unreadable. He rocks forward as if he’s going to come closer and I make a noise that sounds like “peep”. Stupidest thing ever, I self-berate, but it happened.

He doesn’t move. I can’t keep my eyes on his. I drop my gaze and turn just enough so that it feels less awkward but at an angle that I can keep an eye on him in my peripheral. He grunts and then steps away.

He goes back to the cabinet. I move out of his way when he comes close but he doesn’t even glance at me. He gets two new mugs out then pulls out what looks like a stoppered vase.

He puts the two mugs on the table, unstoppers the vase, and pours a black looking liquid into them. He replaces the stopper, sets it down, then moves one mug across the table from himself.

“Drink.”

It’s an order, not a request. And I obey. Feeling unsure and reluctant, still I move to the table. He motions with one, large, green hand at the mug. My fingers are numb as they close around the fired clay mug.

He watches with hooded eyes, raising his own mug. He sips then motions his mug in such a way to encourage me to do the same. The smell is unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before. I’m not sure what to make of it, but it comes across as kind of foul.

My hand trembles as I press my lips to the edge of the mug. Slowly tilting back until the liquid enters my mouth. I spit the moment it hits my tongue. It feels like I just put a lit match onto it.

“Gah!” I shout.

Then I realize that I just sprayed Vapas with the liquid and my own spit. He stands there staring as liquid trails down his face and drips off his square chin. He doesn’t speak or move, but he blinks once.

“Oh… shit,” that’s a common word but we humans have hybridized Common and Zmaj. “I’m, shit, I’m sorry.”

He blinks once more, but still doesn’t move or speak. I break the paralysis that has had me locked in place. I run over to the counter and desperately look for a towel or something to clean him and the mess I made. I hear him behind me, turning around at the same time I pull open a drawer. A towel rests inside and I grab it, spinning to face him.

The alcohol is still dripping. His frown makes deep lines around his mouth while his eyes watch me in disbelief. I dab the towel on his chest but I’m so nervous that I’m trembling.

As I pat the towel across his chest he places his hand over mine, stopping me. I lift my eyes back to meet his. He has dark eyes, but inside of them there is a fire burning. His hand is hard with callouses, but warm. My mouth is suddenly dry. So dry that I can’t swallow.

I blink, desperate to moisten my eyes. He doesn’t blink. The pressure of his hand on mine slowly increases, not uncomfortably but strong and definitive. I manage to swallow. The butterflies dancing in my chest tell me to look away. Years of being demure, knowing that many men would take direct eye contact as an invitation, scream for me to drop my eyes. To look anywhere but at him.

I can’t, though. No, I don’t want to. There are wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Worry lines as my grandma would havecalled them. Of course he worries. Look at what’s happening to the Urr’ki.

His lips part. I know it’s not this way but for me they split apart slowly. As if this moment is stretching and giving every micro gesture a sudden significance. My heart speeds up, but even that feels as if it’s happening slow. Thump, pause, wait, thump, pause, wait, thump.

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