Page 22 of Vexing the Grumpy Orc

“Near dawn.” He stood, looming over the bed. “You need to drink something. Stay put.”

As if I could go anywhere. My legs felt like overcooked noodles. I watched him duck through the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the frame.

Alone, I took stock of my surroundings. The bedroom was small but simply furnished with wooden furniture that looked handmade, and windows framing views of the forest. A fire crackled in a stone hearth through the doorway, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

Isolated, yes. Spartan, definitely. But undeniably a place someone had built with care.

The bed creaked as I shifted, trying to swing my legs over the edge. The room tilted alarmingly, and I clutched the quilt to steady myself. Bad idea. Moving could wait. The ritual had taken more from me than I’d expected.

But it had worked. Digby was free.

Galan returned, a steaming mug in his massive hands. He frowned when he saw me half-sitting, half-sprawled against the headboard.

“I said wait.” He crossed the room in three strides, setting the mug on a small table before reaching for me.

“I’m fine.” The protest died as my arms gave out. I pitched forward.

Galan caught me, one hand on my shoulder, the other at my waist. The heat of his palm burned against my skin. His touch lingered, steadying me as he eased me back against the pillows.

“Stubborn witch.” No bite to the words. If anything, he sounded... amused.

A blur of black and white fur leapt onto the bed, wedging itself between us with a warning chitter. Digby’s small body vibrated with protective fury as he positioned himself squarely between me and Galan.

“He’s been a menace since you passed out,” Galan said, his tone surprisingly fond for someone describing what must have been hours of badgerharassment. “Wouldn’t let me near you without supervision.”

Digby chuffed in agreement, pressing his warm body against my side while keeping his beady eyes fixed on Galan.

“I wasn’t sure what to feed him,” Galan continued. “But the claw marks on my refrigerator made it clear the beast was hungry. Hope you don’t mind I gave him some beef meant for a stew.”

I stroked Digby’s fur, reveling in the familiar texture beneath my fingers. “Thank you for taking care of him. And me.” I took a sip of tea, the honey soothing my parched throat. “I didn’t expect the ritual to drain me so completely.”

“You looked like death when you collapsed.” He looked away, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t leave you out there.”

“You could have. Your duty was done.” I held Digby closer, feeling his small heart race against my palm. “Many would have.”

His eyes snapped back to mine, dark and intense. “I’m not most.”

No, he wasn’t. Most men didn’t help witches they claimed to hate. Most orcs didn’t share their territory, their food, their bed with outsiders. Most people didn’t look at me the way he was looking at me now, like I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve but couldn’t stop trying to.

My gaze caught on a fresh scratch running alonghis forearm. Three parallel lines, red and angry against his green skin. Exactly the width of Digby’s claws.

“He got you.” I set my mug down and reached for his arm without thinking.

Galan hesitated, then extended his arm toward me. “Your protector has sharp claws. It’s nothing.”

I closed my fingers around his wrist, pulling him closer to examine the wound. The nurse in me assessed it automatically—not deep enough for stitches, but it had broken the skin. The woman in me noticed other things: the warmth of his skin, the surprising softness beneath calloused palms, the way his pulse jumped beneath my fingertips.

“It should be bandaged,” I murmured, unable to resist another swipe of my thumb.

“For a scratch?” He snorted, but made no move to reclaim his arm. “I’ve had worse from tree branches.”

I looked up to find his eyes fixed on where my fingers met his skin. Something hot and wild lurked in their depths. My lips parted, my own heartbeat quickening to match his.

Digby growled low in his throat, but I ignored him. I couldn’t look away from Galan’s face, from the way his breathing had changed, grown deeper, more deliberate.

“Hannah.” Just my name, but the way he said it—low and rough—sent heat spiraling through me. “What you did… You were—are…”

His free hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushingmy lower lip. I should have pulled away. Should have remembered all the reasons this was a terrible idea—his hatred of witches, my focus on Digby, the temporary nature of my stay in Silvermist Falls.

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