Page 7 of Claimed By the Mountain Man Orc
She twists in my arms until we're face-to-face, her hands coming up to rest against my chest. "Then tell me."
The fire crackles. Outside, snow drifts past the window in lazy spirals, the world cold and endless and uncaring. In here, it's just her breath mingling with mine, just the heat of her body against mine, just the two of us and the truth I can't hide anymore.
I could lie. I could send her away with some story about solitude and danger and reasons she needs to leave.
Instead, I tell the truth.
"I'm an orc. And you're my mate."
Her lips part, eyes widening. "Your... what?"
"Thurok'hai," I murmur, the old word feeling right on my tongue. "The bond. It chose you. I felt it the moment I saw you on the trail, before you even fell. It's why I followed you. Why I couldn't let you die."
Silence stretches between us, thick as the heat rolling off the fire. I watch emotions play across her face—surprise, confusion, wonder.
Her breath catches, and I feel it against my chest. "Varn..."
I force myself to look away, to loosen my hold before I forget what restraint feels like, before I do something we're not ready for. "Sleep, Mazie. You're safe here."
She settles against me again, head resting on my chest, fitting perfectly into the space between my arm and my heart. I listen to her breathing steady, to the soft rhythm that matches mine, and feel the bond settling around us like a second skin.
By the time she drifts off, my arms have already decided what my mind refuses to.
I'm not letting her go.
Chapter 5
Mazie
WhenIwake,thecabin is quiet except for the sound of wood settling in the stove and the deep, steady rhythm of his breathing.
Varn is sitting cross-legged near the fire with that same piece of wood, carving with methodical precision. The scraping of his knife is hypnotic, rhythmic. I don't know if he slept at all, or if orcs even need sleep the way humans do.
He glances up, and those gold eyes catch the morning light filtering through the window. "You're warm now."
"Thanks to you." I pull the fur closer, suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing beneath it. Nothing but my bra and underwear. My clothes are draped over a chair near the fire, dry now. I clear my throat, suddenly nervous. "You could've just built a bigger fire, you know.”
His mouth curves—half amusement, half warning. "Fire can't wrap its arms around you."
Something in my chest flips, a sensation like falling even though I'm perfectly still.
I push the blanket aside, along with my self-consciousness, and kneel next to him, ignoring the way the cold floor bites at my knees. "You keep saying I shouldn't be here. That I don't understand what you are."
"You don't." His knife slows, the blade catching on a knot in the wood. His eyes run up and down my body in appreciation, making me shiver. "If you did, you'd run."
"Maybe I'm tired of running." I reach out, tentative, and touch his arm. His skin is warm beneath my palm, the muscle beneath solid and real. "I've been running my whole life, Varn. Running from what I saw as a child. Running from people who called me crazy. I'm exhausted."
The air thickens. The only sound is the soft rasp of his breathing and the faint crackle of sap in the flames. His eyes track to where my hand rests on his arm, and something in his expression shifts…softens.
I reach for the carving in his other hand. "What's this one?"
He lets me take it, watching as I turn it in the light. It's a pair of intertwined figures, smaller than the rest, their hands joined over a swirling pattern carved to look like wind and snow. The detail is exquisite—every finger defined, every curve deliberate.
"You were making this when I woke up," I say softly. "Is it us?"
His voice drops low, barely above a whisper. "It could be."
I lift my eyes to his. "Then show me."
