Page 47 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
Moonlight stripes over Garruk's chest as he pulls me tighter against his sweat-cooled skin. One massive hand spreads possessively over my hip, the other strokes lazy paths along my spine. The scent of him—sandalwood, salt, the unique musk that is entirelyhim—fills every breath.
"Job offer still stand?" His voice rumbles against my temple, low and still rough at the edges. "Helping me manage the land trust?"
I trace the faint circular glyph-scar high on his bicep. "Depends. Is the position called 'Land Trust Manager's Significant Annoyance'?"
"Preferred title is 'Co-Conspirator'." His thumb brushes beneath my breast, achingly gentle. "You'd handle the lawyers, the arguments. I'd build. The orchards here need rebuildin', the saplings protected. We could..." He trails off, a rare hesitation. "We could make it... a refuge. Proper."
"For displaced orc kids hiding their tusks?" My voice is soft. We both know he means himself, the boy he was.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. He turns his head, pressing his lips into the tangle of my hair resting near his collarbone. "Maybe. Safer than a football locker room." He sighs, the sound heavy with the ghosts of mud-covered fields and sharp taunts. "Could add a cidery. Use the Windfall Maiden apples. Build the press from Thornwood oak."
His slow, bruising kisses after patrols flash in my mind. "Think Thornwood leases to orcs now?"
He taps my hip bone, a low growl vibrating in his chest. "Windfall Maiden apples make the best hard cider. Tart. Strong. Holds its ground." His fingers glide down to trace the faint silvery lines on my belly – relic of a fight to protect anendangered grove before Embervale. "Heard the lawyer wants them dried for spells."
"Dried apples aren't spells, you lumberneering brute. They're for… dried ingredients. Full stop." I poke his rock-hard stomach. "And my cider connoisseur would be sampling every test batch. Rigorous quality control."
He huffs something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "Wouldn't want to poison the refugees." His large palm cups the curve of my shoulder, his thumb stroking the hollow near my throat. The touch speaks without words:Protection. Shelter. Belonging."Bed & breakfast, too. Only a couple rooms. Open the forest to the world, but quietly. Out-of-towners stayin' pay for protective charms."
"Use my grandmother's iron-born designs?" The idea blooms, wild and real. Garruk building sturdy cabins with his own hands. Me coaxing magic back into the tired soil. Us standing shoulder-to-shoulder telling unwelcome developers exactly where they could stick their chainsaws.
"Less chance of anyone gettin' fire-gassed in the outhouse," he grunts, utterly serious. His thumb stills on my skin. The preceding silence stretches, filled only by our mingled breaths and the island night hum. "You'd... stay?" The effort it costs him to ask, raw and unpolished, cracks something open in my chest. This vulnerability is his bravest act.
Outside the open window, a lone firefly blinks, gold against the velvet dark. I curl into the heat radiating off him, my palm flat against the steady rhythm beneath his ribs. This heartbeat. This man. This place we could reclaim together. "Where else would a dryad-touch dreamer be, Garruk Thorne? Seems my roots finally caught deep soil."
He exhales – long, slow, a surrender to hope held tight. The arm encircling me tightens, pulling me even closer, our futureshimmering like the firefly drifting lazily towards the moon-silvered sea.
CHAPTER 30
GARRUK
The wind smells different today. It’s got that sharp, crisp edge to it—the kind that slips down the back of your neck and reminds you that time’s passing whether you like it or not. There’s a coppery scent under the apple-sweetness, the kind that comes when the trees start to bleed color from their limbs and send their leaves tumbling to the ground like slow, graceful regrets. Crimson, gold, rust—they fall in lazy spirals around us as Ivy threads her fingers through mine and pulls me down the trail toward town like it’s something we’ve done forever.
She’s humming some old tune under her breath, off-key but warm, the kind of sound that makes the air feel thicker with belonging. Her shawl keeps slipping off her shoulder, and she doesn’t bother fixing it. Every few steps, I reach over and tug it back into place without saying anything, and she smirks like she knows I’ll do it again before we’re halfway to the square.
“You know,” she says, crunching a leaf underfoot, “I’m pretty sure the orchard’s trying to seduce us.”
“Us?”
“Well, mostly me. But I assume you’re included by marriage.”
I grunt. “Jealous tree.”
She laughs, light and wicked, and tosses her braid over her shoulder. “If it grows any more red leaves, I’m going to start getting suspicious.”
The path winds through old birch trees, their white bark peeling like curled parchment, and every now and then a burst of wind sends a fresh wave of color skittering across the ground. It’s the kind of walk that doesn’t have a destination, just a rhythm. Boots hitting packed dirt. Her voice teasing. My silence saying more than I used to know how to.
We reach town just as the sun cuts through the clouds, casting everything in this golden glow that makes the rooftops look like they’re on fire and the bakery’s windows steam up with magic and rising dough. Ivy points out the ridiculous scarecrow that Lettie dressed like a mage this year—robes, floppy hat, and all.
“I swear, if it starts talking, I’m burning it down.”
“You say that about all inanimate objects that dress better than you.”
“Wrong. Just the ones with smug expressions.”
We loop around the square, past the market stalls that have swapped melons for gourds, and I feel her squeeze my hand when a kid runs past wearing a leaf-crown and yelling something about fall blessings. She’s always watching the children, even when she pretends she’s not. I catch her face softening, the corners of her mouth curling into something more instinctive than planned.
And then she says something that knocks me off my feet.
