Page 21 of Bound to the Orc Hunter

“Blood!” I yank my hand away.

She laughs, throwing her head back in a whinny. “What did you think a unicorn horn was for, human?”

“I don’t know… Being pretty?”

“It’s my sword.” She stamps at the ground, kicking up the patch of grass she just cropped short to show bare dirt. Her hooves aren’t shoed, and the front edge is sharp. “I am a warrior.”

God, I can believe it. If she’s actually a unicorn, then she’s nothing like the sweet stories teenage girls love to read.

She rips up more of the grass, over and over, setting it aside instead of chewing. “There. You can dig your fire pit now.”

“Thanks.” I jab the knife into the ground. Now that some of my anger has left me, I realize it’s probably horrible to do this to the blade, but Branikk gave it to me for this, so I keep going until I’ve cleared a three-foot wide circle. “That should do it, right?”

Aurora looks up from the pile of grass she’s now eating. “It’s fine. I’ll stay here close to the trees while you gather wood.”

It’s weird, but I actually feel touched that she cares. Then I shake my head and stomp into the forest. Stop being a fool. None of this is real.

Branikk returns with two rabbits, already skinned and cleaned. They even have what look like arrow holes in their sides. It’s a nice touch. Whoever fixed them for him did a good job.

Yet he handles them with ease, rubbing salt and spices into their surfaces and threading them onto branches. He also starts a fire easily, building a little cone of twigs stuffed with dried grass that he lights with a crystal that looks kind of like the one on my necklace.

I open my mouth to ask how it works, then snap it shut, knowing he’ll say it’s magic.

Then he adds larger and larger sticks, pulling from the collection I gathered. Soon, he’s got a healthy fire crackling and sending sparks shooting up into the darkening sky. He cooks the rabbits like he knows what he’s doing, turning them on the improvised spits until the smell of meat fills the air, setting my stomach grumbling.

As soon as they’re done, he sets the rabbits on pewter plates. Then he picks up two oblong leaf- and vine-wrapped packets and tosses them into the fire, using a large branch to drag coals over them.

“What are those?”

“I found a patch of carrots while hunting and thought you might like a little variety.” He uses his huge knife to carve up one of the rabbits, handing me a plate with two meaty thighs.

My teeth break through the slightly charred crust and sink into tender meat. It’s hot and salty and seriously delicious. It also tastes real and satisfying in a way all the highly processed carnival food never does.

I eat several bites as quickly as the hot meat will allow, far from graceful and dainty, before I remember I have an audience.

Instead of disgust, Branikk looks at me with approving eyes and takes his own large bite of rabbit, using his tusks to rip away a hunk of meat.

When we finish with the rabbits, him devouring one and a half of them in a way that makes me stop worrying about my own healthy appetite, he fishes the packets from the fire. His knife slices across the charred vines and leaves, exposing steaming orange carrots, which he sprinkles with salt. They’re only lightly cooked and still crunchy, but more flavorful than any carrot I’ve ever eaten.

We’re quiet, both too interested in eating to talk. The wind sighs through the trees, and a few birds let out final sleepy chirps. It’s nice after all the lights and noise of the fairgrounds, and I relax more than I have in months.

Finally, Branikk offers me blueberries, but I’m too full. He tucks them away in a saddlebag. “Breakfast, then.”

He finds a clear spot just inside the cover of pine trees and smoothes the needles to flatness. “This will cushion us nicely.”

He sets down the other saddlebag and pulls out a large piece of leather and various poles. With the speed of practiced familiarity, he erects a tent and spreads several fur pelts inside. When he stands, he throws me a wicked grin. “Although it might be nice if you wanted to make us some of those pillows for a softer bed.”

I gape at him. “You can’t seriously think we’re going to share a bed!”

“I have only one set of furs, my bride.” He imbues the word with heat and promise, his tongue curling around the sound.

“Don’t call me that!” I press my hands to my hot cheeks. God, I’m so flustered, my body eager while my mind keeps shouting to be wary.

“What should I call you then?” His voice drops deeper as he steps closer, coiling a lock of my hair around his finger. “My wife. My mate. My moon bound.” He brings my hair to his nose, his nostrils flaring on an inhale.

My hands drop. God, is he smelling me? Why is that hella hot?

“Mine,” he growls, his voice losing all playfulness.

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