Page 18 of Vexing the Grumpy Orc

“My idea of fun usually involves fewer splinters.” I gestured to the tear in my jeans. “And more alcohol.”

“Humans and their weak tolerances.” He snorted, but his eyes lingered on my legs before snapping away too quickly to be casual.

I bit back a smile and returned to my work. The memory of his hands on my body during that first ritual flashed through my mind. His rough palms cupping my breasts. His teeth grazing my neck. How magic had surged between us, wild and demanding. How easily I’d surrendered to it. To him.

Not that I planned on a repeat performance. I had enough distractions without dwelling on how his eyes tracked my movements, or how his scent—mountain rain and moss—made my pulse skip every time the wind shifted.

“You navigate these trails like you were born on them,” I said, watching him from under my lashes. “Most people would need a map and compass to find these spots.”

His shoulders stiffened at the observation, but I caught the brief flash of pleasure in his eyes before he masked it with indifference.

“Most people aren’t orcs.” The rigid line of his jaw softened, just slightly. “These mountains have been Sombra territory for generations. My great-grandfather carved his home into the rocks while your kind was still debating whether to burn us or study us.”

“And you?” I frowned down at my harvest. The basket held a decent haul, but not enough. Not for what I needed to do. “How do you, Galan, orc of the long-established Sombra clan, know these spots so well? I doubt the entire clan spends their free time tracking magic mushrooms.”

He shifted his weight, a gesture I was learning meant he was weighing his words. “I spent a lot of time out here as a child.”

“Playing hooky from orc school?” I couldn’t help the teasing tone. His ears actually twitched.

A flash of violet caught my eye further up the bank. Another patch. Without hesitation, I charged toward it, splashing through the shallow edge of the stream.

“Impatient witch,” Galan cursed under his breath, following with footsteps nearly silent despite his size.

I flashed him a grin over my shoulder. “If not hooky, then what? Bootlegging? Muscle for a sprite mafioso?”

When no response came, I glanced back. He’d stopped at the water’s edge, his gaze fixed on something I couldn’t see through the trees. The playful moment evaporated.

“Just... existing.” His massive shoulders hunched slightly, making him look younger despite his size. “I don’t always fit with the clan.”

The admission seemed to cost him something—pride maybe, or the carefully maintained distance between us. His hand drifted to a clan tattoo on his arm, fingers tracing the marks of belonging even as he spoke of not belonging.

“Don’t fit?” I frowned. “You’re literally of their blood.”

“It’s complicated.” He picked up a stone, turning it over in his massive hands. “My father has certain expectations. Traditions that matter to him. I’ve never quite...” He trailed off, shrugging those broad shoulders. “And I definitely don’t fit in town. Too big. Too green. Too many tusks for human comfort.”

The raw honesty in his voice struck something inside me. For all his intimidating presence, in that moment he seemed more vulnerable than I’d expected. More real.

“That’s a very human opinion,” I said, “thinking you have to fit somewhere.”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that humans are obsessed with belonging.” Iselected another mushroom, examining its gills before adding it to my basket. “We’re pack animals. Social creatures. We need to fit in somewhere, with someone. It’s exhausting.”

“And witches don’t need that?”

I thought of the covens I’d been invited to join over the years. The Sisters of the Serpent. The Lunar Collective. Groups that promised belonging, never mentioning the fine print of conformity.

“Some do,” I admitted. “But the best witches I’ve known carved out their own spaces. Found their own paths.” I met his gaze. “There’s no shame in wanting peace, Galan. Or in creating a place where you can just... breathe.”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, that I understood. That I wasn’t mocking him. He looked away first, focusing on a point somewhere over my shoulder.

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the gentle gurgle of the stream and the soft sounds of my harvesting. When I finally stood and dusted off my pants, my basket overflowed with purple caps.

“You’re done?” Galan asked, pushing away from his tree. He sounded almost disappointed.

“With this part.” I hefted my basket. “Now comes the fun bit. Setting up the ritual circle.”

His posture shifted subtly, a tension entering his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. The tips of his pointed ears darkened slightly.

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