Page 2 of Vexing the Grumpy Orc

The casual dismissal hit like a slap. “Those mushrooms are sacred to my people. You’re trespassing.”

“Sacred, yes. Yours? Debatable.” She carefully placed another cap, then traced some symbol into the dirt. “The land doesn’t recognize property lines.”

“The clan’s claim goes back generations.”

“Fascinating.” Her tone suggested it was anything but. “Did the mountains sign off on that arrangement?”

I advanced, using my height to loom over her. Most humans had the sense to back down when faced with an angry orc. She just tilted her head, finally meeting my gaze with sharp green eyes as vibrant as any venomous snake.

The impact knocked the breath from my lungs. Her scent crashed over me—the bite of winter frost and mint, the richness of freshly turned earth, and beneath it all, the thick honey sweetness that made me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe until I drowned in it.

No. Absolutely fucking not.

“Get. Out.” I growled past the sudden desert in my throat.

She rose slowly, brushing dirt from her knees. Red-gold hair caught the fading light like sun fighting through mountain mist, making my fingers twitch with an urge I immediately wanted to cut off at the root. Even standing, she barely reached my chest. But theway she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin spoke of steel beneath her hourglass proportions.

“Make me.” The words came soft and deadly serious. “I have work to do here. Important work. So, stay out of my way.”

“You dare?—”

“I dare quite a lot, actually.” Her smile held no warmth. “Now, are we done with the territorial pissing match? Because these mushrooms need to be placed before moonrise, and your brooding is blocking my light.”

The headache exploded behind my eyes. Of all the nights for this—when I still had to make the weekly trek to visit my exiled father. When relying on another witch for relief still rankled. When everything in me screamed to either strangle this infuriating woman or slam her against the nearest tree and devour that poison-laced tongue.

“The mushrooms stay.” I stepped closer, satisfied when she had to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. “You leave. Final warning.”

“Or what?” She didn’t retreat an inch. “You’ll throw me over your shoulder? Drag me away? Because I have to warn you—” Her hand shot out, faster than I could track. Something cold pressed against my side. “I don’t play damsel very well.”

I glanced down. The metallic glint of a blade kissed my ribs through my shirt. Not steel—silver. The witch came prepared for monsters.

“Last I checked, silver doesn’t affect orcs.” But I kept very still, recognizing the expertise in her grip. This was no amateur playing with daddy’s hunting knife.

“True.” That dangerous smile again. She pressed the blade harder, just shy of breaking the skin. “But I infused this one myself. Care to test what else it might do?”

Fucking witches. Always with their clever tricks and sharp tongues and the way they turned your world upside down without even trying. The way this one’s pulse jumped in her throat when I growled. The way her scent deepened with something that wasn’t entirely fear.

But she was right. One overzealous orc led to a dead human hiker, and the consequences snowballed into a shaman and my father plotting a losing coup. The clan had suffered enough, and Osen—with his witch mate and human sympathies—would never stand with his kind against one of theirs.

My hands clenched at my sides. Unless I wanted blood on them, there was nothing I could do to force her off the land. The realization tasted like ash.

“Be gone when I return.” The words scraped past my teeth. “Then we’ll see if you’re as good with that knife as you think you are.”

I stepped back. Turned away. Ignored every instinct screaming to stay. To act.

To prove I was the monster she clearly expected.

Her soft laugh followed me into the trees. “Looking forward to it.”

I lengthened my stride, trying to outrun her scent, the lingering tingle of her magic, the memory of those fierce eyes dismissing me like I was nothing.

The sun had fully dropped behind the peaks by the time I reached my father’s cave. Sweat cooled on my skin despite the autumn chill. The climb should have settled my temper to a familiar simmer, but it hadn’t. If anything, I felt worse. Brittle. Edgy.

And I knew why. That witch’s frosty scent clung to my clothes, making it hard to focus.

“You’re late.” My father’s accusation carried from the shadows of the cave. “I expected you an hour ago.”

No greeting. No warmth. Just disappointment wrapped in judgment. Even exiled, he kept score of every perceived slight.

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