Page 3 of Claimed By the Mountain Man Orc
I don't think—I dive. The icy water bites hard even through my thick skin, the current strong enough to challenge even my strength. But she's small, fragile, flailing against the water like a bird caught in a storm. Her head goes under once, twice, and terror floods through me—sharp and foreign and overwhelming.
Mine.The bond screams it.Mine to protect. Mine to save. Mine.
I catch her before she goes under a third time, arms wrapping around her waist, and lift her clear of the water. She fits against me like she was made for it, like every curve of her body was designed to press against mine.
I haul her out, lifting her easily despite the current trying to drag us both downstream, and carry her to the bank. She's shivering hard, lips blue, eyes fluttering but open just enough to stare straight at me.
Not screaming. Not fainting. Just... staring.
Humans have screamed before—back when my brothers and I were foolish enough to wander close to their roads, when we were young and curious about the creatures who looked almost like us but weren't. They saw tusks, green skin, power—and theyran. Or worse, they attacked, throwing rocks and curses and occasionally bullets. This one doesn't.
Her eyes—brown, flecked with gold in the fading light—track across my face. She's trying to focus, fighting against the cold and shock that wants to pull her under.
"You shouldn't be here," I tell her, voice rough. It comes out harsher than I mean it to, edged with the fear that still hasn't left my chest.
Her breath catches, a small sound of surprise or pain or both. Then her eyes roll back, and she goes limp in my arms.
I curse under my breath and gather her against my chest. She's light as a fawn, cold enough to scare me. Her skin has gone pale beneath the red of windburn, and her lips are taking on a gray tinge that speaks of real danger.
The cabin isn't far. My boots crunch through the snow as I carry her, the forest watching in silence. The Thurok'hai bond burns brighter with every step, no longer a hum but a roar, filling my chest with certainty and fear in equal measure.
It's real.She'sreal. After all these years of carving tokens for a mate I never thought existed, of watching my brothers find their happiness while I remained alone—she's here.
And she might die because I wasn't fast enough.
Inside, I lower her near the fire, my hands moving with practiced efficiency born of years living alone in the wilderness. I strip off her soaked coat first, the fabric so saturated it weighs nearly as much as she does. Her boots come next, and I swear again when I see they're not even waterproof. City boots. Decorative. Her gloves are the same—thin fashion items that wouldn't keep anyone warm in true winter.
What was she thinking?
I drape her in furs—bear and wolf, thick enough to hold heat—then kneel to stoke the flames higher. The fire roars to life, filling the small space with warmth and the scent of burning pine.Steam begins to rise from her hair, dark curls plastered to her skull, and I watch anxiously for signs of life beyond the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
Her lips move faintly, whispering something I can't catch. I lean closer, bringing my ear near her mouth.
"Real," she murmurs, the word barely audible. "You're real."
I freeze.
She saw me. She knows.
And still she doesn't fear me.
The heat from the fire brushes my skin, but I'm cold inside, cold with the weight of what this means. I've spent years carving tokens for a mate I never thought existed, whittling small figures from wood during long winter nights when loneliness felt like a physical weight. The other brothers teased me for it. Garruk said I was chasing ghosts, that I should accept my solitude and make peace with it like he has.
But here she is… flesh and blood and shaking in my furs.
I sit back against the wall, watching her breathe, watching color slowly return to her cheeks as the fire does its work. Her scent fills the cabin—sweet, wild,maddening. It wraps around me until I can barely think straight, until the bond pulls so hard I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching out.
I could reach out. I could touch the curve of her cheek, trace the pulse at her throat where it flutters like a bird's wing, feel the reality of her beneath my fingertips.
But I don't.
Because if I start, I won't stop.
So I just sit there in the flickering firelight, pulling out my knife and a small piece of wood, carving her face from memory. The curve of her nose. The shape of her eyes. The way her hair falls in wild tangles that make my fingers itch to smooth them back.
The bond hums like a heartbeat between us, steady and sure, a rhythm that matches my own pulse.
And for the first time in my life, I start to believe in fate.
