Page 31 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
He looks away, jaw clenching, tusks shifting against his lip. “Because I thought I was protecting you. From… from all this.”He gestures at himself—big scarred arms, battered hands, that brooding brow. “I’ve spent most of my life convincing myself I’m easier to stomach at a distance. That it’s better for everyone if I keep to the shadows where I belong.”
I can’t help it—I step forward and slip through the fence rails so I’m right in front of him. Close enough to see the tiny tremor in his hands, close enough that my chest nearly brushes his when I breathe.
“That’s not what I want,” I say fiercely. “I’ve never wanted distance from you. I want mornings with your scowl across my bakery table, your boots tracking mud through my hall, your hands on me when the day’s done and we’re both half asleep. I’m terrified, Thornak, because I’ve never wanted something so badly in my whole stupid life. Not the orchard, not this bakery. You.”
His eyes slam shut, breath shuddering out. One big hand comes up to cup the side of my face, thumb rough but achingly tender as it sweeps across my cheek. “Sunshine, you don’t understand what you’re tying yourself to. I’m not gentle. I’m not soft. I’m a pile of old hurts that never healed right. I was scared I’d… taint all the bright things in your life. That loving me would dim that light in you.”
My throat goes tight, tears welling. I press my palm over his, turning into it so I can kiss the base of his thumb. “Don’t you see? It’s not your darkness that scares me—it’s the idea of losing you. Of standing in that kitchen ten years from now wishing I hadn’t let my fear keep me from everything I wanted. You don’t dim me, Thornak. You make me feel braver. Bigger.”
He lets out a sound, half strangled, and pulls me hard against his chest. I bury my face there, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and sawdust and him, that wonderful grounding weight that makes everything else in the world feel far away.
His voice rumbles over my hair. “I’ve been carving this for days. Couldn’t even stop when I tried.” He draws something small from his pocket, presses it into my hand.
I pull back just enough to look. It’s a tiny pumpkin, perfectly imperfect, with delicate little vines curling around it. And right in the middle, nestled among the twists of wood, is a tiny carved heart.
“Oh,” I breathe, tears spilling freely now. “Thornak, it’s beautiful.”
“It’s me trying,” he says hoarsely. “Trying to say I want this to be real. All of it. I want you—your reckless hope, your silly pies, your heart that’s too damn big for this orchard. If you’ll still have me.”
I throw my arms around his neck so fast he makes a surprised grunt, nearly losing his balance. “Of course I’ll have you, you stubborn, wonderful brute. I’ve been yours since the first time you fixed my porch railing and pretended not to care when I kept sneaking peeks at your arms.”
That pulls out a low, startled laugh that vibrates all the way through me. His arms tighten, one huge hand cradling the back of my head like he’s afraid I might vanish.
“I’ll try not to run anymore,” he murmurs, tusks brushing my temple. “Not from this. Not from you. But you gotta promise to keep pulling me back if I do.”
“I will,” I say, voice muffled against his throat. “Even if I have to chase you all the way into the deep woods and drag you home by your beard.”
We stand there like fools under the rustling branches, sun slanting through in gold ribbons, leaves drifting down around us like blessings. I feel him exhale, long and rough, like he’s finally let go of something heavy. My heart feels steady.
Because this isn’t the neat, tidy love story I once imagined. It’s messy, tangled with old fears and new promises. But it’s ours.
And that’s worth every terrifying, wonderful step.
CHAPTER 24
THORNAK
The world shrinks to the salt-sting of tears on her cheeks. I meant to be careful. Gentler. But she's rising on tiptoes, calloused fingers digging into my tunic's collar, and thirteen weeks of starving snap like rotten timber. My mouth crashes into hers harder than intended—a question and apology and claim all at once. She doesn't flinch. Just swallows my growl and gives back a hum that sets my veins alight.
Her apron's still gritty with flour between my fingers. Harvest-soft hips press closer as she twists, bootheel catching on a root. We go down in a flurry of laughter and cracking oak leaves, sunlight fracturing through branches as my forearm slams into dirt to cushion her fall. She lands half atop me, apple-sweet breath huffing against my neck.
"For a carver," she pants, "you're awful bad at taking it slow."
My thumb finds the hinge of her jaw. "Keep talking, sparks, and I'll show you how orcs court proper."
Her retort dies against my teeth. I taste honeycakes and the black tea she guzzles every dawn, learn the curve of her lower lip like it's a valley I've wandered a hundred times. When her nails scrape up my nape, my control frays—tusks drag her earlobe, hands tightening on her waist.
She shifts and my brain whites out.
Hairpins scatter. Chestnut waves spill over green knuckles. She freezes.
"Thornak…"
Her hands are already working the buckle of my belt. I should stop her—should ask if she’s certain—but her palms flatten against my chest, silencing words and reason. "Enough talking, carver." The challenge in her gaze burns hotter than summer lightning.
She yanks fabric until my cock springs free, her breath hitching. Those clever fingers grip me with no ceremony, no coaxing. Just a firm stroke that makes my hips jerk upward. Before I can warn her about the size difference, she’s straddling my thighs, skirts hiked to her waist. The slick heat between her legs glistens as she rises up, knees digging into leaf litter.
Her pupils swallow the honey-brown as she sinks down, taking me inch by ruthless inch. No coy sighs—her mouth parts in a silent gasp, thighs trembling but relentless. I grip her hips hard enough to bruise, tendons screaming to thrust, but she slaps my wrist.
