Page 5 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
It should be easy to lose myself in the work. Usually is. The smooth give of the wood, the gentle resistance when I twist the blade just so, the way shapes emerge under my thumb—it’s always been the surest path out of my own head.
But tonight, my thoughts circle like wolves around a wounded deer, restless and hungry for something I can’t name.
It’s her fault. Maddie Quinn, with her hair full of leaves and that ridiculous grin even when she’s flat on her back in the dirt talking to herself like the orchard’s gossiping with her. I swear, the sound of her laugh has lodged under my ribs, stuck there like a thorn I can’t dig out. Keeps echoing back to me no matter how I try to bury it under the scrape of knife on wood.
I set down the carving—a tiny bear again, though this one’s got its paws raised like it’s about to dance—and rub a hand over my face. My palm comes away dusty with cedar shavings.
“Bloody fool,” I mutter. “Letting a slip of a human tangle up your mind like this. Don’t you have bigger worries?”
The letter from those slick developers sits on the edge of the table, weighted under a small boulder I use as a paperweight. I keep it there to remind myself of the real threat—people with fat purses and prettier words than scruples who’d see this forest flattened for a line of fancy guest cottages with glittery tile roofs.
And yet, even with that looming, it’s Maddie’s bright, exasperated little smile that keeps circling back. Like maybe she’s part of this place too, stubborn roots dug deep even if she doesn’t realize it.
The next morning dawns with a low fog clinging to the treetops, curling around trunks like it’s reluctant to let go. I’m outside by first light, splitting logs for winter. Each swing of my axe comes down hard, neat, deliberate. The crack of wood breaking is a kind of punctuation that clears my head, lets me think in blunt, honest beats.
I’ve got a pile going taller than my shoulders when I hear someone crashing up the path. Not the silent tread of a fox or the three-note whistle of the local wood sprites. This is human—two feet, careless, breath coming quick.
Then she’s there, practically stumbling into my clearing, cheeks flushed, hair an absolute mess of curls that catch the morning light like spun gold. Maddie Quinn, bundled up in that enormous cardigan again, breath puffing out in little white clouds.
“Morning,” I grunt, because apparently my first instinct is to greet trouble politely.
She plants her hands on her hips, tries to look fierce, and fails spectacularly because she’s still catching her breath and smiling all at once. “Hi. Okay. This is going to sound completely absurd, and you’re probably going to think I’ve lost every last crumb ofsense I ever had, which—fair, honestly—but I’m just going to say it before I lose my nerve.”
I blink at her. “You’ve already lost me, sunshine.”
She makes a little strangled noise, then blurts out, “I need you to marry me. Or, well, fake marry me. Temporarily. To save my orchard. Which might also keep your forest safe, incidentally, from greedy developers who want to turn everything into a garish holiday resort with overpriced lavender foot baths and enchanted karaoke bars.”
It’s a lot. Even for someone who’s had to dodge charging boars and drunken dwarves with axes bigger than Maddie.
I lean on my axe handle, narrowing my eyes. “You run that past me again. Slowly. Without the frills.”
She huffs, cheeks going even pinker. “There’s a clause in Aunt Hester’s will. If I’m not married by Halloween, the orchard goes to Reginald Cartwright, who’s already half in bed with those developers drooling over your trees. So if I lose the orchard, you lose the natural buffer protecting your forest. And I figured—well, I didn’t exactlyfigure,more like Tessa half-jokingly suggested—you might be willing to, you know, fake marry me. For a few weeks. Then we can part ways, annul it, and everything goes back to normal. Ish.”
She stops. Sucks in a shaky breath. Looks at me like she’s trying very hard not to bolt.
I let the silence stretch on purpose. Partly because I’m not in the habit of dancing around people’s frantic schemes, partly because watching her squirm is unexpectedly… amusing.
At last I rumble, “Humans shouldn’t tangle with monsters, Maddie Quinn. Not even pretend. Gets messy.”
Her eyes widen. “You’re not a monster, Thornak. You’re?—”
I cut her off with a short bark of a laugh, no real humor in it. “That’s where you’re wrong. People see tusks, scars, green skin, they make up their minds real quick. Doesn’t matter how manytoys I carve for the village brats or how careful I take down a tree so the undergrowth doesn’t choke. At the end of the day, I’m just a brute in their eyes. And you? You’re the sunniest damn thing in this valley. No sense ruining yourself by tying even a fake knot with the likes of me.”
Her mouth works, hands opening and closing at her sides. For a heartbeat, I think she’s going to give up and run right back down the path. Then she steps forward, chin lifted stubbornly.
“You know what? That’s not your decision to make for me. I’m perfectly capable of deciding whose company ruins me, thank you very much. And I’m telling you this isn’t about appearances—it’s about saving the orchard. My aunt poured her heart into that place, and it’s more than fruit trees and fences, it’s stories and memories and afternoons drinking cider on the porch. If it goes, everything changes. And if the orchard falls, the developers get bolder. Your forest might be next.”
The way she saysyour forestmakes something twist low in my gut.
I rub a hand over my jaw, teeth grinding. “You’re stubborn.”
She beams at me through a hopeful little wobble. “Thank you. I try.”
I sigh, low, like a growl. “I’ll think on it.”
Her face lights up like I’ve promised her the whole damned orchard wrapped in golden ribbon. “Really? That’s all I ask. Think it over. I’ll even bring you some of those pecan maple scones you like. As… incentive.”
I grunt, turning back to my pile of split wood so she won’t see the way my mouth threatens to betray me with an actual smile.
