Page 12 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
So I scoop up a handful of fallen leaves, all copper and gold, and toss them at Thornak’s chest with a mischievous little shriek. They scatter everywhere—some catching on his broad shoulders, a few clinging stubbornly to the tips of his tusks.
For a second he just stands there, stunned, looking down at the bits of leaf plastered to his shirt. My heart plummets. Oh gods, what if I’ve pushed him too far? What if he storms off into the woods and decides I’m more trouble than a thousand greedy developers combined?
Then he huffs out this rumbling sound, low and rolling, a laugh that vibrates straight through me. It’s rough and unpolished, like he doesn’t quite remember how to do it, but it’s so warm I could melt right into the earth.
“Reckless little menace,” he mutters, brushing leaves out of his hair.
I gasp in exaggeration. “Was that—did I just witness a genuine Thornak laugh? I ought to mark this date down forever. Have it engraved on a pie plate or something.”
“Don’t push your luck, sunshine,” he grumbles, but there’s a soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes that says he’s not truly annoyed.
We part ways at the porch, him trudging off toward the tree line while I watch his hulking silhouette melt into the shadows. The orchard seems to sigh around me once he’s gone, settling back into its gentle creaks and rustles. I press my palm to my chest, feeling my pulse flutter there, a little wild thing.
That night I sit cross-legged on my bed with my old leather journal balanced on my knee. The candle’s burned low, its wax dripping in crooked trails that remind me of lazy days spent frosting cakes. I twirl my pen between my fingers for a long moment, chewing my bottom lip.
Then I write.
He makes me feel safe. Even when he’s scowling like I’ve personally insulted his grandmother’s knitting or looming so large I get dizzy trying to look all the way up at him. It doesn’t make sense—he’s exactly the sort of man who should terrify me. The tusks, the scars, the growl that could rattlewindowpanes. But somehow, standing next to him feels like… standing under a great oak tree. Protected. Sheltered. Like even if the world tries to blow me apart, he’ll be there, rooted deep and unmoving.
I stop, nibbling at my pen cap, feeling my heart twist painfully.
I shouldn’t want that. Shouldn’t start craving something real when this is all supposed to be pretend. But gods, I think I do.
My eyes drift to the little wooden leaf on my nightstand, its curves catching the candlelight. I pick it up, running my thumb over the delicate veins Thornak carved so carefully, pretending it was scrap. As if I couldn’t see the way his hands hovered gentle on tiny things, so deliberate it made my breath catch.
I sigh, pressing the leaf to my lips for the briefest, foolish moment.
Then I set it back down with the utmost care, blow out the candle, and crawl under the covers.
Sleep takes me slow, wrapping me up in drifting images of warm pie, crackling fires, and the echo of a gruff laugh that feels like it was meant just for me.
CHAPTER 10
THORNAK
The sun’s barely up when Maddie comes skittering up the forest path to find me, curls bouncing, skirts swishing around her knees like she’s part of the morning mist. I’m in the middle of stacking fresh logs, sweat already trickling down my back because the day decided to be unseasonably warm, and of course she’d pick right this moment to interrupt.
She stops a few paces off, biting her lip. Her eyes keep darting to the woodpile, then back to my face, then back to the ground, like she’s fighting with herself.
“Out with it, sunshine,” I rumble, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my wrist. “Got that look like you’re about to beg a favor or confess to murder.”
Her laugh bursts out high and bright, hands fluttering like startled birds. “No murders, I promise. But actually—well, yes, a favor. Only if you’re not too busy! It’s the orchard’s front porch. The railing finally gave up and collapsed in a tragic display of splinters. I tried to patch it but apparently hammering nails at random angles doesn’t count as actual carpentry.”
I grunt. “Doesn’t surprise me. You’d probably try to fix it with frosting if left alone long enough.”
She gasps, presses a hand to her chest in mock outrage. “Excuse you, my frosting is multi-talented, I’ll have you know. But… yeah. The porch needs real help. I can pay you in pies. Or cider. Or eternal gratitude and not telling Liora your embarrassing forest secrets.”
I arch a brow at that. “Don’t have any forest secrets.”
She smirks, eyes dancing. “Then you’re no fun at all.”
I end up following her back to the orchard, tools slung over my shoulder. She chatters the whole way, telling me about new tart recipes she wants to try and the little fairy lights she’s planning to string up for the harvest dinner. I mostly grunt in response, half because it keeps me from saying anything stupid, half because her voice is enough on its own—soft and warm, winding around me like a trailing vine.
The porch is worse than she described. A good third of the railing’s missing outright, the remaining posts cracked through with dark rot. I crouch down, running a hand over the splintered wood, frowning.
“Could’ve killed yourself leaning on this,” I mutter.
She laughs, light but a little wobbly. “Well, that’s why I wanted the best muscle in the valley to come rescue me. You know, in case I decided to dramatically faint and needed catching.”
