Page 9 of Saved By the Mountain Man Orc
Instead of answering, I pull back before I do something we'll both regret. Holding my breath, I walk past her into the cabin.
She follows me inside.
"I'll take you to the ridge tomorrow morning," I say without turning around. "It's as far as I can go safely."
Silence stretches behind me.
Then, so softly I almost miss it, she says, "And then what?"
I don't answer because I can't. Because if I do, I'll tell her the truth.
That once I let her go, I'll spend every night listening for her footsteps on the mountain path.
That I'll wake every morning hoping to catch her scent on the wind.
That the mountain gave me one chance to know what it's like to have someone who belongs to me… and I have to let it slip away.
Unless she chooses to stay.
But asking her that would mean admitting what she is to me. And once I do that...
I won't be able to let her leave.
Chapter 5
Jasmine
Sleepdoesn'tcome.
Every time I close my eyes, I see his face in the firelight. Feel the heat that radiated from his skin when he was close enough to touch. Smell that wild, clean scent that seems to cling to everything in the cabin.
Drak.
He said he'd take me to the ridge tomorrow. That it's as far as he can go.
And after that... I suppose I'll go back to my old life. Back to chasing photos and deadlines and the hollow feeling that I'm always searching for something just out of reach.
Except now I know what that something was.
And I'm not sure I can walk away from it.
I push off the heavy fur blanket and test my weight on both feet. My ankle still protests, but the sharp agony has faded to a dull throb. Whatever was in that tea he gave me, it's working.
The cabin is quiet except for the soft crackle of dying embers in the fireplace. Through the window, I can see him in the moonlight, chopping wood again with mechanical precision. Shirtless again, muscles bunching and releasing with each swing of the axe.
This time, I don't just look. Istudyhim.
The way his dark hair clings to his neck with sweat despite the cold. The network of scars that speaks to a life lived on the edge of violence. The careful control in every movement, like he's constantly aware of his own strength.
He's beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with conventional standards and everything to do with raw, honest power.
I ease the door open and step into the night air. It's crisp enough to make me shiver, raising goosebumps along my arms. The fur blanket helps, but not much.
His rhythm falters the moment I appear. He doesn't stop chopping, but his golden eyes track my movement like a predator watching prey.
"You're supposed to be resting," he says without breaking his steady pace.
"Couldn't sleep."
