Page 4 of Saved By the Mountain Man Orc
And watch.
Her face is more expressive in sleep than most orcs manage while awake. Her brow furrows occasionally, as if she's working through some problem. Her lips part slightly when she breathes, and I find myself wondering what her voice will sound like when she's not afraid.
The fire pops and settles, sending sparks up the chimney. Outside, night creatures begin their symphony—owls calling to each other across the valley, the distant howl of wolves that know better than to hunt in my territory.
I've never felt this before. This pull. Thisneedto protect and possess in equal measure.
The others talk about it sometimes, usually after too much fermented honey wine around the fire. They speak of instincts older than memory, of bonds that transcend species, of the day they'll scent their mate and know that their solitary days are over.
I always thought it was just talk. Legends whispered by old orcs who missed the days when our kind was numerous enough for such luxuries.
Until now.
I hear her heartbeat change before her breathing shifts, the steady rhythm of deep sleep giving way to the flutter of waking. Her fingers curl against the fur blanket, and her head turns slightly on the pillow.
I lean forward as her eyes flutter open. She blinks slowly, taking in the rough log walls, the dancing shadows, and the warmth of the fire.
And then she sees me.
She goes completely still, every muscle tensing like a deer that's spotted a predator.
I don't speak. Not yet. I want her to look.Really look.
At the tusks that mark me asother.At the scars that map my history across green skin. At the sheer size of me that speaks to the violence I'm capable of.
I want her to know exactly what I am.
What she's woken up with.
But when our eyes meet across the firelit space, she doesn't scream.
She breathes in sharply, her voice barely a whisper. "You're real..."
And there's no fear in her tone.
Only wonder.
Chapter 3
Jasmine
Ishouldbeterrified.
That's the normal human response, right? Wake up in a stranger's bed—anorc'sbed, no less—with your ankle professionally bandaged and your body cocooned in what feels like the world's most expensive fur?
Definitely time to have a complete breakdown.
But instead, I just stare.
He's sitting across the room in a chair that looks hand-carved from a single piece of oak, every line of it built to accommodate his massive frame. The firelight plays across skin the color of forest moss, highlighting the network of scars that tells stories I can't even imagine. His shoulders are broad enough to block out half the room, and his arms rest on his knees like he's fighting the urge to move closer.
He's enormous. Imposing. But completely still, watching me with golden eyes that seem to see straight through me.
He hasn't spoken since I woke up. Hasn't moved.
I don't know how long I've been unconscious, but I feel like I've been sleeping for hours. My ankle throbs with a dull, manageable ache instead of the sharp agony from earlier.
I swallow, my throat dry as dust. "You're real..."
