Page 25 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
He lets out a short, incredulous huff—almost a laugh—then leans down to press his forehead to mine. And just like that, the leftover ache from Tavien’s cruel little barbs burns right away, replaced by the warm, heavy weight of something that might actually last.
CHAPTER 18
THORNAK
The trees here are old. Older than any memory I can conjure, older than the scars that crisscross my skin or the quiet ache in my chest that never quite fades. Towering pines, rough-barked oaks tangled up with drifts of moss. In the right light, they look like pillars of some long-forgotten temple, green and gold stained glass overhead where the leaves catch the sun.
I’ve taken to wandering deeper than usual lately. Past the well-worn lumber paths, up into ridges laced with stones gone slick from years of mist and shadow. I tell myself it’s for better timber—old-growth cedars up here fetch a fine price. But the truth’s simpler. I’m running.
Running from that warm little bakery with its sweet sugar air and laughter curling around every beam. From the orchard porch where Maddie watches me with eyes so bright and sure it damn near burns. From her.
Because lately it’s gotten too close, too real. The way she hums when she’s nervous, pressing those little pink lips together to stifle a smile. The way she fits under my arm at night, her palm spread over my heart like she’s trying to learn its beat by touch alone.
And gods, I want that. I want her like I want breath and bread and the steady push of blood in my veins. Which is exactly why I’ve been staying away.
The afternoon’s cool here beneath the canopy, the sunlight sifted into dapples that dance across the loam. A breeze curls up from the valley, heavy with the scent of crushed needles and damp earth. I breathe deep, hoping it’ll clear out the tangling thoughts, but it only seems to churn them up worse.
I set to work with my hatchet, each swing sharp and precise. Wood chips fly, the solid thunk traveling up through my arms into my chest. It’s honest work—demanding enough to silence everything else if I focus hard enough.
For a time, I lose myself in it. In the rhythm of breath and motion. In the way sweat beads on my brow and slips down my spine. In the muscle burn that’s clean, uncomplicated.
It’s only when I pause to shift my stance that I hear them—bright, tinkling voices just off the rise, where the underbrush thins out to a mossy hollow. Pixies.
I should’ve known. There’s a berry patch down there that draws them like moths to flame. They’re perched on a fallen log, wings glinting like tiny opals, legs swinging as they pass around a little corked bottle of something no doubt sticky-sweet and stronger than it looks.
I’m about to turn back to my work when a snatch of conversation catches me right through the ribs.
“Oh, didn’t you see her? The human girl—Maddie, the baker’s niece—laughing with him just the other market day. Holding his hand like it’s the most natural thing.”
Another snorts, fluttering her wings. “Oh, please. That’s darling for now. But she’s young yet. Human hearts flutter all over the place, then settle proper where they belong—some fine elf merchant with glossy boots and smooth words.”
“She did have a polished elf on her arm once,” a third pipes up, voice syrupy. “Tavien of the silver braid. Folk said they were near promised. Now she’s toying with an orc. Likely just a wild little phase before she decides on something safe and shiny.”
They giggle, a sound like tiny silver bells, sharp and bright. “Can you imagine her sitting on a grand city veranda someday, sighing,‘Remember that autumn I took up with an orc woodcutter? How dreadfully quaint!’”
Their laughter slices straight through me. I stand there, axe handle biting into my palm, every muscle gone taut.
I know it’s foolish to give weight to pixie gossip. They’ll spin stories out of moss and raindrops if it gets them a laugh. But it digs in deep, finds every old wound I’ve tried to bury.
Because they aren’t saying anything I haven’t whispered to myself in the dark. When I’ve got Maddie curled against me, breath warm on my neck, my hand spread over the small of her back like I’m terrified she’ll vanish.
How long before she realizes I’m just the storm before her calm? That I’m a crude, scarred creature who knows more about cutting down living things than building a future worth staying for?
By the time I haul the logs down the ridge, my thoughts are a snarl. I don’t take them back to Maddie’s like I promised—no neat stacks by her woodpile today. Instead, I trudge all the way to my cabin and dump them hard outside the door, not caring when one rolls off into the undergrowth.
Inside, the place feels emptier than usual. The hearth cold, the pile of shavings from last night’s carving scattered across the floor like tiny ghosts. I stalk to the table and shove the half-finished piece—some fox meant for the next orphan drop—out of the way.
Sit. Stare at my hands. Try to pretend they aren’t itching to go back to her. To rest on her hips, to curl into that wild hair, tohear her soft little sighs that make me feel like maybe I belong somewhere after all.
The forest hushes with evening. Long blue shadows creep through the cracks in the shutters. I light a lantern, watch the glow pool across the scarred table.
I should go to her. Should sit at her kitchen table with a mug of cider, let her fuss over me with those busy hands, tell her it’s nonsense—what the pixies said, what the deepest, ugliest parts of me keep saying.
But I don’t.
Instead I reach for my knife and a fresh block of oak, start carving not because I want to, but because it’s the only thing that stops the restless pacing. The blade moves, lines forming under my thumb, and before long I realize I’m making the curve of her smile. Not in the way a human woodcarver might—no delicate portrait—but in the suggestion of it. A little twist of leaves curling around each other, warm and twining, unmistakable to anyone who knows the shape of her joy.
I drop it halfway through, shove back from the table so hard the bench skitters across the floor.
