Page 53 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
“Tess.” His voice is a low rumble against the crown of my head, deeper than the sighing night breeze through the ancient oaks. His breath stirs my riotous curls, snagged now with stray oak leaves and pine needles from the moss bed. He doesn’t say more. Just my name, holding it in the quiet like a secret prayer, rough velvet against the stillness.
His hand begins to move, not demanding, but tracing. Calloused fingertips whisper down the curve of my bare arm, mapping the sweep of my hip, the dip of my waist, rising to feather-light strokes across the slope of my shoulder. Each touch is a lazy, unhurried rediscovery. Wonder settled deep in the pads of his fingers.
“Warm,” I murmur back, my own voice thick with spent pleasure and something thicker, sweeter. My palm flattens against the hard plane of his stomach, feeling the muscles shift and ripple beneath smooth, gray-green skin as he takes a deeper breath. My fingers trace the subtle striations patterning hisribs, older stories etched beneath the new, never lingering, just following the strong lines that make him. An anchor.
He hums agreement, a vibration I feel against my temple. His large hand cups the back of my thigh, his thumb drawing absent, soothing circles near the sensitive crease where leg meets hip. I snuggle impossibly closer, seeking more of his heat, inhaling the lingering scent of my rosemary and dried orange peel clinging faintly to his skin now, mingling with his own deep scent. His chin rests gently atop my head, the curve of his lower tusk brushing the shell of my ear.
Our breathing syncs in the quiet cathedral of the woods. Silent communion. His hand finds mine where it rests on his stomach, brawny fingers intertwining with mine, dwarfing them, holding them securely against his skin.
No grand declarations shatter the peace. Just the dense weight of him around me, the slow dance of his wandering fingers, the shared breath, the bone-deep warmth radiating where we touch. The sheer, towering presence of him sheltering me. Belonging settles deep, quiet and unshakeable, warming me from the inside out. This ground, this moment, this massive orc slowly drifting asleep beneath the stars with me wrapped in his arms. This is where I’m meant to be. Held. Safe. Home.
CHAPTER 28
DROGATH
The first snow always comes quietly.
Not with a roar, not with drama—just a slow hush that seeps in before you realize the world’s changed color. The trees go still. The lanterns flicker lower. The usual sound of laughter and windchimes outside the shop gets swallowed up in the soft fall of flurries that kiss rooftops and windows like secrets only the season can understand.
I don’t even mind the cold anymore.
I’m standing just outside Maple & Mallow, breath fogging the air, bundled in one of those ridiculous scarves Tessa knitted me last month—the one with the tiny embroidered acorns she claims are “protection charms,” though I suspect they’re just her way of making sure I never look too intimidating while picking up dried sage. I don’t argue. Mostly because I like the way her eyes crinkle when she sees me wearing it.
Behind me, the windows of the shop glow warm and golden, little flickers of firelight and magic dancing across the glass. The scent of cloves, roasted apples, and that ever-present undertone of rosemary clings to the wood like the walls themselves are breathing. Inside, I can hear faint chatter—Tara fussing with the enchanted wreath display that keeps retying itself in differentbows, Glenna laughing over tea, Bramley muttering curses about the “cursed pinecones” that keep falling on his head whenever he stands near the enchanted garlands.
And then I hearherlaugh.
It cuts through everything—sharp and warm and familiar as my own heartbeat.
I turn just as she steps out of the shop, cheeks flushed, curls wild, her cloak dusted with the beginning of snow like powdered sugar on a harvest tart. She’s cradling a tiny jar in one hand, the other already reaching for me like she couldn’t help herself if she tried.
“You didn’t tell me it was snowing,” she grins.
“I figured you’d come out eventually.”
She narrows her eyes. “You lured me with spiced honey balm samples and didn’t mention the snow on purpose, didn’t you?”
I reach for her, one arm going around her waist, the other lifting her straight off her feet in one motion that earns me a surprised yelp and a laugh that rings out across the quiet square.
“Maybe,” I mutter, voice low against her ear. “Maybe I just wanted to twirl you under the lanterns first.”
She leans back in my arms, breathless and radiant and more beautiful than any moment has a right to be, and says, “Well, you’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”
I spin her once, slow and steady, careful with the weight of her and the little one curled safe and warm beneath her winter layers. The snow drifts down around us like confetti from the gods, soft and sparkling, and for the briefest moment, the whole world feels suspended. No past. No future. Just this—her smile, the warmth of her body in my arms, and the quiet certainty that I’ve landed exactly where I was always meant to be.
When I set her down, she doesn’t let go. Her hands stay curled in the front of my coat, and I swear she’s not even cold—her whole body radiates warmth like she’s stitched out of hearth embers and cinnamon.
“You know,” she murmurs, voice almost lost in the quiet, “next fall, there’ll be tiny feet rustling through these leaves with us.”
My throat tightens. I don’t answer right away. Can’t. I just pull her in closer and press my lips to her forehead like it’s the only way I know how to speak when the words feel too big to say aloud.
“Yeah,” I finally whisper. “There will.”
She grins, bright and unfiltered, eyes sparkling with more mischief than a woman this pregnant should be allowed to wield.
“Think they’ll have your scowl or my charm?” she asks.
I grunt. “If they inherit your charm and my shoulders, we’re doomed.”
