Page 3 of Tusk Love

Too rattled to speak, Guinevere settled for simply shaking her head.

He looked at her like she hadtwoheads.

A fiery branch came crashing down, feeding the conflagration and dissolving into it. The flames rose higher. There was no more time to argue. The stranger wrenched the trunk from Guinevere’s grasp and tucked it under his left arm, then he scooped her up, satchel and all, and effortlessly slung her over his right shoulder.

It all happened so fast. She was so shocked that she could do nothing more than cling to the satchel like her life depended on it—could do nothing more than stare at Lashak’s prone, twitching form as the stranger set a breakneck pace through the woods, leaving the campsite behind to be swallowed up by smoky veils of red and gold.

Chapter Two

Guinevere

This is so undignified,Guinevere thought as the half-orc warrior carried her through the dark forest like a sack of potatoes.

His steps over the grass were swift and sure. He shouldered his way through the undergrowth as though it weren’t there at all. Soon he had put so much distance between them and the fire that she could hardly see it anymore. Not once was there any indication that he was in danger of dropping her or the trunk.

She couldn’t help but be awed by his unflagging strength. He slowed his pace only when it began to rain—and she had never been so relieved to feel water on her skin. The fire would be put out. She would not be responsible for destroying an entire forest. And she still had some of the precious wares and the infinitely more precious trunk.

All things considered, it was an extraordinary stroke of good fortune.

Thirty minutes later, Guinevere wasutterly convinced that she’d betrayed her country in a previous life and the gods were punishing her in this one.

The rain came down in droves. She was cold and wet, her satin slippers covered in mud. The stranger had set her down once it became clear that the inferno was no longer a concern, and they’d been walking for what felt like an eternity in total silence.

She would have attempted to strike up a conversation—would have thanked him for saving her from the bandits, at the very least—but her teeth were chattering too much. Even if they hadn’t been, she lost her nerve every time she glanced at his imposing figure. He veritably towered over her.

“There’s a cave up ahead,” he suddenly announced, raising his voice to be heard amidst the deluge.

He led her to a small hollow cut in the base of a moss-covered rocky outcrop. Once they were inside, he dropped the trunk, and she immediately sat on it, out of some foolish notion to not dirty her white nightgown any further. She rubbed her freezing hands together for warmth, grateful to be out of the rain.

The stranger peered down at her, his shoulders hunched. He couldn’t straighten up fully without banging his head on the cave ceiling. Most of his features were shrouded in darkness, but she had the distinct impression that he was scowling at her.

At a loss for what to say, Guinevere resorted to pleasantries. Her tutors had assured her that discussing the weather always proved reliable in smoothing over any awkwardness.

“It truly is Fessuran, is it not, sir?” she said lightly, finding her voice at last. “Why, I don’t believe there’s been a shower as brisk as this all year—”

“What the hells are you talking about?” the stranger growled.

“The weather,” she persisted, a little helplessly. “The amount of rain and the evening chill, they are very much indicative of the autumn month of Fessuran…”

She trailed off when he knelt down and rifled through her satchel.He appeared to have no difficulty making out its contents in the oppressive gloom of the cave.

A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the stunned disbelief on his face when his gaze swiveled back to her.

“Jewelry.” He sounded slightly strangled. “Goblets. Figurines.”

Guinevere had no idea why he was reciting the contents of the satchel. “Pardon?”

“I thought there were supplies in here. I thought that was why you didn’t want to leave it behind.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” she said, pleased that they were clarifying a minor misunderstanding between them. “I mean, I definitely couldn’t leave the satchel behind, but those aren’t supplies. That is inventory.”

“Inventory,” he repeated in a near whisper.

“Yes. Goods to sell. My parents are merchants, you see, and I’m to meet them at—”

The stranger shot to his feet. There was a sickening crack as the top of his head slammed against the cavern ceiling. He swore loudly, rubbing his scalp.

Guinevere was torn between chiding him for using such language in her presence and checking to make sure that he wasn’t bleeding. Before she could do either, he spoke again, this time at a volume that bounced off the rocks.

---