Page 33 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
We freeze.
Maddie's hand dives under my tunic for the knife sheathed at my ribs. Unnecessary—two deer crash through the underbrush thirty paces west—but gods, the way she moves...
I pin her wrist to my chest. "Easy, sparks."
Her pulse thunders against my thumb. "Could've been bandits."
"People tend to announce themselves before stumbling onto rutting orcs." My chuckle rumbles through her. "Most scream first."
She full-body eye-rolls, a skill honed through months of needling me. "Keep laughing. You'll wheeze when I carve tally marks into your workbench." Her fingertip sketches nonsense on my sternum. "One for every time you've nearly scared me to death."
I catch her hand mid-scribble. "If we carve for near-death..." My lips graze her knuckles. "You need bigger lumber."
The sky bruises toward twilight. Frost creeps across fallen leaves where our clothes lie scattered. Maddie twists, reaching for her chemise. A maple key spins down, lands in her hair like some absurd crown.
"Leave it," I rumble, hating how her warmth retreats. "We've got time."
She pauses, linen halfway over her head. Blinks at me through the fabric. "Thornak. Was that a request?"
Teeth sink into my tongue. Too tender—too close to the raw thing howling in my chest.
Her stockinged foot hooks around my calf. "Say please."
"Never."
CHAPTER 25
MADDIE
The orchard’s all aflutter with the final scraps of autumn, like it’s throwing one last glittering party before winter sweeps through and hushes everything in white. The apple trees stand nearly bare now, their dark arms stretched out as though waiting for snow to settle gentle across their knobbly shoulders. A few stubborn leaves still cling to high branches, bright rust and amber, catching every bit of late afternoon sun until they almost glow.
It’s perfect. So perfect it makes me ache right under my breastbone, in that tender spot where all my brightest hopes have been crowding for weeks now.
Because I’ve decided—I don’t need grand. I don’t want grand. I just wanthim.
So that’s exactly what I plan. A simple wedding, right here among my trees. The orchard’s been my whole world for so long—full of sticky-sweet summers, rustling golden harvests, and long quiet winters where I dreamed about what could be. It only feels right to make it the place where everything truly starts.
I’m knee-deep in plans, humming to myself as I sort through bolts of fabric on the long bakery prep table. Bits of lace and warm russet linen lie scattered like fallen leaves. Liora’s perchedon a stool nearby, peeling apples for turnovers, half-listening, half-pretending not to be completely charmed by my giddy rambling.
“So I was thinking lanterns,” I say, holding up a length of creamy fabric, trying to imagine how it’ll look under moonlight. “Little floating enchantments that bob just over our heads, you know? Soft like fireflies but bigger. And strings of cloves and dried oranges, so it all smells like warm spice even if the night gets cold.”
Liora snorts, slicing another apple with exaggerated care. “You could wed him under a goat cart and he’d still look at you like you’d personally pinned up the stars just for him.”
My grin stretches so wide it nearly hurts. “Stop it. You’re going to make me start swooning right here, and I still need to finish half a dozen tarts before the dinner crowd comes knocking.”
“Please do swoon,” she teases. “It would liven up my afternoon. Maybe knock a pie onto the floor for good measure.”
But the truth is I feel like swooning most days now. Especially every time I picture Thornak standing under those lanterns, big hands a little awkward at his sides, eyes soft and watchful in a way that’s only ever meant for me.
That’s what gets me to do something I’ve never dared before. I decide to sew his wedding shirt myself.
I’ve never been much with a needle—more likely to stick it under a fingernail than pull a neat stitch. But there’s something that feels… important about this. Like every careful pass of thread is a tiny promise I’m tying right into the fabric.
So that night, after the bakery’s emptied out and the hearth’s crackling low, I set up by the window with a pot of tea and the lantern burning soft. The linen’s a rich, deep moss green—almost the exact shade of Thornak’s favorite flannel, though finer, smoother, meant for special things.
My hands move slow. I work by instinct more than skill, tiny stitches that wander now and then before I pull them back on course. It’s silly, but I talk to the shirt while I sew.
“You’re going to make him look so handsome he’ll scowl for days just to keep the old village biddies from swooning,” I murmur, tugging the thread taut. “Not that it’ll work. He’s the sort of handsome that sneaks up on you—big and quiet and rough-edged until he smiles, and then it’s all over.”
