Page 4 of Claimed By the Mountain Man Orc
Chapter 3
Mazie
ThefirstthingIfeel is heat. A solid, all-encompassing warmth that seeps into my bones and makes them ache in relief. The pain is almost worse than the cold was, fire burning through frozen limbs as sensation returns.
The second thing I feel... is not the ground.
I blink, squinting at rough-hewn rafters above me, logs stripped and notched together with expert precision. Then I roll onto my side, and the movement sends pain lancing down my shoulder where I must have hit a rock in the river. I groan softly, the sound loud in the quiet space.
My coat is gone. My clothes are gone. My skin is covered by a thick fur draped over me like a bear pelt—which it might actually be, based on the size and weight of it.
My camera is nowhere in sight. Neither is my backpack. For a moment, panic flutters in my chest, the journalist in me mourning lost equipment and footage.
But he's here.
He sits by the fire, massive shoulders hunched forward, carving something small and delicate from a piece of wood. His tusks glint in the light, catching and reflecting the flames. He's wearing rough clothes that look handmade, leather pants and a loose shirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders. His long dark hair is tied back with a strip of leather, revealing the strong line of his jaw and the tribal tattoos that curve up his neck and disappear beneath his collar.
Not a dream. Not a trick of the snow. Not hypothermia-induced hallucination.
I saw him. He saved me. And he'sreal.
"You're awake."
His voice is deep enough to rumble in my chest, to resonate in my ribs like I'm standing too close to a bass speaker.
"Guess so," I manage, clutching the fur tighter around me. My voice comes out rough. "Unless this is a very weird hypothermia hallucination. Are you going to turn into a talking rabbit or something?"
He glances over his shoulder, and I get my first clear look at his face in the firelight. Strong features, sharp but not cruel. His skin is a deep forest green, darker than I'd seen through the snow, with undertones that shift between emerald and olive depending on how the light hits him. His eyes are gold—true gold, like shining coins—and they fix on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"You nearly drowned," he says simply, turning back to his carving.
"Yeah. Thanks for the rescue, by the way." My voice cracks on the last word, emotion threatening to overwhelm me. I could have died. Would have died, if not for him. "I owe you my life."
"You owe me nothing."
The words are flat, dismissive. I push myself upright, ignoring the way my head spins and my muscles protest. "You're—uh. You're not exactly what I expected to find out here."
"Then leave," he says simply, his knife never pausing in its rhythmic work.
I swing my legs over the side of what looks like a handmade bed frame, thick logs lashed together with rawhide strips that still have fur attached. The craftsmanship is remarkable, each piece fitted together with precision. "Just like that? No introductions? No questions about why I was half-frozen in a river?"
He doesn't answer, the only sound the scrape of blade against wood and the crackling of the fire.
Fine. Two can play that game. I stand on shaky legs, keeping the fur wrapped around me, and edge closer. My boots are drying by the hearth, propped up on stones to keep them from scorching. My camera sits nearby on the table, wiped clean of mud and carefully placed where it won't be damaged.
He didn't destroy it.Interesting.
I edge closer, drawn by the rhythmic scrape of his knife against wood, and peer over his shoulder. "What are you making?"
"It’s just a habit," he says without looking up.
"Not an answer," I mutter, but I step around to his side anyway, curious despite myself.
The carving is beautiful—rough but intricate, each line deliberate. A mountain peak rises from the base, all sharp angles and weathered stone. An animal crouches on a ledge, small and detailed. My heart twists when I look closer. It’s not an animal. It'sme.
Or close enough.
My own nose, slightly too large. My wild hair captured in a few deft strokes. Even the shape of my parka, rendered in miniature.
