Page 29 of Vexing the Grumpy Orc

The rage I’d inherited from him—the only true gift he’d ever given me—simmered just beneath my skin, hot enough to burn. My hands trembled with the effort of keeping them unclenched, of not becoming exactly what he’d raised me to be: violent, reactionary, ruled by anger.

“I thought my son would stand with me!” Coth roared. “Against the corruption of our traditions! Against the human filth invading our territory!”

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder. I felt their eyes on me, judging, waiting to see which side I’d choose. Always caught in the middle. Always the son of the traitor.

“There’s no honor in what you’ve done.” I forced myself to breathe through the fury, to find the cold clarity beneath it. To be better than him in this moment when it mattered most. “You talk of tradition while spitting on our most sacred laws. You speak of proper behavior while acting like a rabid animal.”

“She’s bewitched you too.” Coth’s voice dropped, disbelief etched across his features. “My own son.”

“No one’s bewitched me.” I stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gray in his beard, the lines time and bitterness had carved around his mouth. “I’ve just finally seen what true honor looks like. And it isn’t this.”

“You would choose them over your own blood?”Coth strained against the guards holding him. “You ungrateful whelp. After everything I’ve done, all the sacrifices?—”

“I would choose my mate.” The words left my mouth with surprising ease. “And yes, Father, she’s a witch.”

The crowd had gone silent, watching our confrontation with bated breath. I could feel their eyes on me, but for once, I didn’t care what they thought. This moment wasn’t about them. It was about finally breaking free from chains I’d forged myself.

Coth recoiled as if I’d struck him. “What?”

I expected anger. Disgust. The same hatred that had been drilled into me since childhood—witches were untrustworthy, dangerous, lesser.

Instead, a strange calm washed over me. Acceptance. Relief, even. The world hadn’t ended with my admission. The floor hadn’t opened beneath my feet.

“You heard me.” I squared my shoulders and glared down my nose at this weak excuse for an orc. “Hannah is my mate. My fated mate. And I choose her over you. Over your hatred. Over everything you stand for.”

“No.” He shook his head violently. “No son of mine would?—”

I turned my back on him—the ultimate sign of disrespect among our kind. A declaration that I viewed him too weak to be a threat, too dishonorable to be acknowledged.

His howl of rage followed me as I walked away, butI didn’t turn. Couldn’t. If I saw his face now, I might waver. Might fall back into the pattern of placating, of compromising, of denying what I knew to be true.

“You’re dead to me! Dead! No son of mine would bed a witch! No true orc would?—”

“Take him to the cells,” Osen ordered, his voice cutting through the noise. “Let him rot there until I decide what to do with him.”

I kept walking, spine straight, eyes forward. Didn’t stop when Zral stepped up to take Coth away, didn’t flinch when he clamped a hand on my shoulder in solidarity. Didn’t look back to see the pity in the eyes of my clanmates.

Pity was worse than judgment. Pity meant they saw me as broken. Damaged by my father’s legacy. And maybe I was. But there was one person who wouldn’t look at me that way. One person who saw me clearly, without the shadow of Coth hanging over me.

Hannah.

I needed her. Now.

The path to her cottage blurred beneath my feet. My mind raced with everything that had happened, with the irrevocable step I’d just taken. I’d publicly claimed a witch as my mate. Turned my back on my father. Severed the last thread binding me to a life that had never truly been mine.

The sun had begun its descent behind the mountains by the time I reached her porch, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry reds. The forest soundswashed over me—birds settling for the night, small creatures rustling in the underbrush. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to simply exist.

Her scent reached me first—winter air and mint—carried on the evening breeze. I lifted my head as she rounded the corner, Digby trotting protectively at her heels.

She froze mid-step, surprise flickering across her face before melting into a smile. “Well, well. The mountain comes to the witch.” She approached the steps, stopping just short of where I sat. “I was beginning to think I’d need to scry with bones and bind you with a poppet to see you again.”

I tried to smile at her teasing, but my face wouldn’t cooperate. “Wouldn’t work. I’m immune to your spells, witch.”

“Is that so?” Her smile faded, eyes narrowing as she studied my face. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing worth laying at your feet.” My voice came out rough, choked. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Today hasn’t been good.”

“I thought we were past keeping secrets.” Her voice was soft but firm. Just quiet insistence and green eyes seeing too much.

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