Page 2 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
“You still squatting here?” I ask without turning.
“Barn,” he says. Just that.
I whirl around, arms folded. “You’re living in the barn?”
He nods once. “Your father let me. Said the land liked me.”
“Yeah? Did it write you a love letter?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. I hate that it makes my stomach flip. I hate that I notice.
I push past him again. “Well, congratulations. The land can keep you. I’m just here to collect the bones and burn the rest.”
His voice follows me as I climb the stairs. “It won’t let you go that easy.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have time for riddles, for warnings, for Garruk and his slow, thunderous silences.
But as I reach the top of the stairs, the light flickering through the hallway window catches on something in the dust, and for a heartbeat, I swear I see movement in the glass—leaves blooming where they shouldn’t, shadows curling in unnatural shapes.
No.
I blink, and it’s gone.
Not here for magic. Not here for memories.
Just here to finish what’s been forced into my hands.
And then I’m gone.
CHAPTER 2
GARRUK
Iwatch her from the shadows, where the orchard thickens and light doesn’t quite settle right. The space between trees warps in quiet ways most folks overlook—leaves that turn toward her before the wind catches them, vines that slither closer when she walks past like they remember the shape of her.
Ivy Morrell doesn’t belong here anymore. She walks like she’s afraid to be claimed, chin high and shoulders set like armor, her sharp mouth loaded with barbs. But the land disagrees. It’s been restless ever since the letter came announcing her father’s death—roots turning underfoot, petals blooming in the dead heat of fall, dreams that don’t let me sleep clean. This place knows its own.
And Ivy’s more of this orchard than she’ll ever admit.
I lean against the gnarled base of the old ash tree, arms crossed, muscles twitching from a morning spent hauling fence rails no one will ever see. She doesn’t see me yet, not until she slams the car door and starts muttering under her breath like the weeds offended her personally. She’s all dust-smeared jeans and scuffed boots and that same damn scarf knotted up in her hair like she’s trying not to look like someone who used to belong here.
But she did. Once.
She moves with the same wary grace I remember from years ago, all those hidden glances and half-spoken things hanging in the orchard air between us. She was sixteen then—brighter, younger, still full of that big city hunger. I turned her down and told myself it was the right thing, the only thing. Orcs like me don’t get the girl, especially not the one who dreams in daylight and bleeds stubbornness.
But watching her now, I can’t shake the sense that I made the wrong choice. Maybe I’ve been making it every day since.
I step out from under the tree, boots silent against the carpet of fallen leaves. She startles when she sees me, scowl already in place like she was waiting to be pissed off.
“Thorne,” she says, voice flat as a shovel blade. “You haunting the gate now or just lurking for fun?”
“You’re early.” I don’t bother softening it. She never liked when I played polite.
Her eyes narrow. “Yeah, well, death doesn’t run on a tight schedule. I came to sort the will, not make new friends.”
I glance past her at the orchard. The trees lean in, just slightly, toward her. “You planning to sell it?”
She snorts, brushes a leaf off her jacket like it’s insulted her. “You think I came here to rediscover my roots? This land’s a cash pit wrapped in ghosts. I’d rather torch it than sleep here a week.”
