Page 30 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
I sit down hard on the step, elbows on my knees. The frost soaks straight through my trousers but I barely feel it. I pick up one of the turnovers—still steaming faintly in the morning chill—and take a bite.
Stars above. It tastes like everything I’ve been starving for. Sweet apple, rich spice, butter melting right across my tongue. I take another bite, slower, letting it crumble into my beard because I can’t quite bring myself to care. Each mouthful feels like it’s stitching something raw inside me back together.
By the time the box is empty, I’m no less scared. But I’m… clearer.
I set it aside with care, thumb brushing over the checkered cloth, then haul myself back to my feet. My legs feel heavy, like I’ve been carrying logs half the morning.
Inside, my cabin looks smaller than it ever has. The hearth’s burned low, embers winking sullen red under a bed of ash. My worktable’s cluttered with scraps—half-carved animals, bits of knotwork I lost heart on. The contract sits right at the edge, still folded where I’ve kept it all this time like it’s worth more than it is.
My eyes land on a small block of maple, pale and smooth. I cross the room without thinking, pick up my knife, and start to carve.
It’s slow going. My hands keep pausing, the blade hovering, because I’m trying to get it just right. A small, round pumpkinfirst—lines etched carefully down the sides so it looks plump, soft, a little uneven the way hers always are. Then I add curling vines, tiny leaves that twist together until at their center they knot around a tiny heart.
Not perfect. Never was much for fine art. But it’s honest. It’s me, trying to say all the things my mouth can’t seem to get out.
When it’s done, I sit back, turning it over in my big hands. The little pumpkin warms against my palm, delicate in a way that almost makes me ache. Because this is it. The last piece of running I’ve got in me. If she’ll take this—if she’ll takeme—then maybe we can stop pretending.
Maybe we can finally let it be real.
I slip it into my pocket, take a long breath that rattles on the way out. Then I step outside again, pulling the door shut behind me. The cold clamps down quick on my skin, but I hardly notice.
Because all I can see is the orchard ahead through the trees, boughs heavy with dying leaves that drift down like whispered blessings.
I start walking toward her. Every bootstep through the frost feels loud, final, like it’s hammering a promise into the earth.
Because I’ve had enough of half-measures. Enough of pretending keeping my distance is kindness.
If she’ll have me—scars, fear, big rough heart and all—I plan to stay.
CHAPTER 23
MADDIE
I’ve been trying to keep myself busy all morning—kneading bread dough with more force than necessary, scrubbing the bakery counters until they practically shine, even fussing over the little patch of mums I planted by the front step. Anything to keep my mind from racing straight down the path to him.
It doesn’t work. Not really. Because every time the door creaks, my heart leaps so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t bust clean through my ribs, expecting Thornak to be there with that hulking frame and wary, searching eyes. When it’s just Liora dropping off a parcel or old Mrs. Tallow wanting tea, I paste on a smile, but inside it feels like something hollow is echoing around, waiting to be filled.
The orchard’s glowing out my kitchen window, all coppery leaves catching the sun like tiny lanterns. A soft wind rustles through the branches, sending a shower of gold drifting down to the grass. It looks so heartbreakingly lovely that it nearly undoes me.
I step outside just to breathe it in, apron still dusted with flour, hands wiping nervously against the fabric. The orchard air is cool and sweet, thick with that familiar scent of bruised applesand damp earth. I start down one of the rows without thinking, letting my fingertips brush along the gnarled trunks as I go.
And that’s when I see him.
He’s leaning against the old split-rail fence at the edge of my property, half-shadowed by a big oak whose branches shiver overhead. For a moment, I’m so sure I’m dreaming my knees actually go a little weak. He’s got his head down, thumb worrying over something small in his huge hands—so gentle it makes my breath catch.
I stand there frozen for what feels like a lifetime, heart flipping and crashing all over itself. Then my feet decide for me, carrying me across the soft grass until I’m right there on the other side of the fence, staring up at him.
“Thornak,” I whisper, voice cracking.
His head snaps up, eyes going wide and raw in a way that nearly breaks me. For a heartbeat he doesn’t say anything, just drinks me in, like maybe he’s been starving and forgot what full felt like.
“Maddie,” he rumbles, low and rough, like he’s fighting every word.
“I was so scared you’d never come back,” I say before I can stop myself, the words tumbling out all tangled. “That maybe I pushed you too hard, or said the wrong thing, or just—just loved you so much it turned into something heavy you couldn’t carry.”
He makes a sound almost like a growl, but it’s not angry. More like it’s tearing him in two. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare think this is on you.”
“Then why?” I ask, voice rising, hands twisting in my apron. “Why did you stay away? Why let me stand in that kitchen every night hoping you’d come through the door, only for it to stay empty?”
