Page 7 of Cider, Spice & Orcish Nights
Thornak’s eyes narrow, tusks twitching, and for a horrifying second I think he’s about to storm right out again. But then—blessed saints of awkward baker girls and surly orcs—he lets out the smallest, roughest snort. Almost a laugh, though it sounds like it pains him to let it escape.
“Oh stars,” I breathe, slapping a hand to my chest in exaggerated relief. “Did you just—was that an actual noise of amusement? Liora, quick, write it down. Historic moment.”
Liora fans her face dramatically. “I’m fainting, truly. Someone catch me. Maddie, see? He’s already halfway smitten.By the end of autumn, you two will be swapping love poems over cider.”
“Get out,” I squeal, grabbing a tea towel and snapping it in her direction.
She dances out of range, cackling. “Don’t mind me, I’ll just be telling the entire town council that my best friend is marrying a giant orc lumberjack for reasons that aretotallynot suspicious!”
When she finally waltzes out, leaving only the faint scent of her herbal perfumes behind, I sag against the counter and peek up at Thornak through my lashes.
“I promise I’ll keep her out of our hair. Mostly. Maybe. No guarantees. But seriously—thank you. For… agreeing to this. Even if it’s just to keep the orchard and your forest from turning into a horrifying spa retreat for rich elves with too many opinions on linen blends.”
He grunts, and for the briefest second there’s something almost soft in his gaze, though it disappears so fast I might’ve imagined it. “Don’t thank me yet. You might regret it.”
I give him a bright, wobbly smile anyway, because that’s who I am—sunshiney and reckless and maybe halfway doomed. “Guess we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
CHAPTER 6
THORNAK
Inever thought I’d be sitting in the middle of a sunlit bakery with my tusks scraping awkwardly against a dainty little porcelain mug, squinting at scribbled human legalese that talks about"mutual appearances of affection"and"duration of marital contract obligations"like we’re divvying up the last slice of a pie.
But here I am.
Maddie’s perched on the stool across from me, elbows on the counter, hair tied up in a messy knot that’s already escaping in fluffy curls. She’s so bright it hurts to look at sometimes—smiling even while worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, chattering a mile a minute about how they’ll probably need to make the engagement look authentic with at least a few public handholds.
I grunt into my cider, mostly to hide the ridiculous heat crawling up the back of my neck at the thought of my big, calloused hand swallowing hers.
“Alright, run me through this nonsense again,” I mutter, setting the mug down with deliberate care. My claws don’t play nice with delicate ceramic. Already chipped one of her cups lastyear when I came in to buy bread. She’d only laughed—said it gave it character—but it still makes me cautious.
She taps the paper with a flour-dusted finger. “Basically: we’re engaged for appearances. We attend a few town functions, drop by the council offices together so all the right busybodies can see us. We sign the marriage ledger by Halloween, which keeps the orchard from sliding into Reggie’s grubby hands. Then after a respectable period—six months, maybe a year?—we quietly part ways. No harm done.”
I snort. “You make it sound simple.”
“Well, itshouldbe,” she says, eyebrows flying up, “except, you know, for the minor detail where I’m faking a marriage to a brooding orc lumberjack who looks like he could bench-press my entire oven.”
“Can and have,” I grumble, but my mouth quirks despite itself.
I try to focus on the parchment, but it’s damned hard with the smell of this place wrapping around me. Warm yeast and caramelized sugar, a ghost of clove and butter hanging in the beams. It sinks under my skin, lodges deep, dredges up things I don’t like thinking about—quiet dinners that never happened, laughter that was never meant for me, hearths that never held my name.
Feels too much like home. Dangerous sort of comfort.
Still, I clear my throat, pick up her little pencil—gingerly, between two claws—and scratch my mark next to hers. The lead snaps halfway through and she just giggles, flipping it around to hand me another like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Sorry,” I mutter, ears burning.
“Don’t be,” she chirps. “You oughta see me try to fix a wheelbarrow axle. It ends in catastrophic squealing and splinters every time.”
When we’re done, she pushes a fresh mug of cider across to me, smile soft. “Thank you. Really. I know this is probably the last thing you wanted to get tangled up in.”
I grunt, sipping slow. The cider’s sweet, tangy, spicy enough it nips at the back of my throat. “It’s not just your orchard on the line,” I finally admit.
Her eyes brighten. “I know. Still. Means a lot that you’re willing.”
“Don’t get sappy on me, sunshine.”
“Too late. Entire personality hazard,” she says with a cheeky grin that makes something low in my chest twist hard.
