Page 11 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

“I can make camp,” he said awkwardly. “The woods are?—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She cut him off, her voice sharp but with an undercurrent of something softer. “It’s going to rain tonight. I can smell it in the air.”

He glanced up at the darkening sky. No clouds yet, but the air did have that heavy stillness that preceded a storm. Still, he hesitated. It would hardly be the first time he’d spent a night in the rain.

He shifted his weight, acutely aware of his size, his otherness in this human village. “People might talk if they see?—”

“Let them.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve never cared what they think before, and I’m not about to start now.” Her eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re worried about your reputation?”

The absurdity of it—him, an orc warrior, concerned about village gossip—almost made him laugh. Almost.

“Come on.” She turned and opened the door to her cottage. “I have questions, and you’re going to answer them. All of them.”

He took a deep breath and followed. Each step felt like crossing a boundary he’d convinced himself would remain forever closed. The cottage was small by any standard, but well-kept with flowers lining a neat stone path and drying herbs hanging from the eaves.

She paused and looked back at him. For a moment, her expression softened, and he caught a glimpse of the girl he’d once known.

“You’ll have to duck,” she warned as she stepped inside.

He bent his head and stepped across the threshold, immediately conscious of how his big body dominated the small space. His shoulders nearly brushed the doorframe on both sides, and he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams. He shouldn’t be here—every instinct told him so—yet he couldn’t bring himself to turn away.

The cottage was warm, inviting in a way that he’d never achieved in his own cottage. More dried herbs hung from the rafters, filling the air with an earthy fragrance that mingled with honey and the faint scent of fresh bread. A small hearth glowed with embers in one corner, casting a gentle light across simple wooden furniture. Everything had its place—jars of preserves lined neatly on shelves, a small table with two chairs, a rocking chair beside the fire with a half-finished blanket draped over it.

“You can put your pack there,” she said, gesturing to a corner.

Egon carefully removed his weapons and travel pack, placing them gently against the wall, trying to make himself smaller somehow, less intrusive. His calloused fingers, built for battle, seemed too rough for this place of peace she’d created.

“It’s… nice,” he managed, the words inadequate. “Your home.”

She couldn’t quite hide her smile as she followed his gaze around the cottage.

“It suits me.”

She was right. Even after so long, everything felt intensely, intimately Lyric.

Turning away she stirred the fire to life and hung a kettle over the flames. Her movements were fluid, confident—she belonged here. He did not.

He remained standing, afraid to sit on furniture that might break under his weight, afraid to touch anything that might shatter in his hands. The domesticity of it all felt foreign, like a language he’d never learned to speak. This was a world of gentle things, of small comforts carefully tended. His world had always been one of survival, of blood and battle. Even after he’d come to live with his brothers, he’d never quite managed to achieve that level of quiet comfort.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she asked without turning from the fire.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t find the words.

With a sigh, she turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

He hesitated, then gingerly sat on the edge of a wooden chair, ready to leap to his feet if it showed any signs of buckling under his weight.

She shook her head, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “You’re not a ghost. Stop hovering.”

The kettle whistled, and she busied herself preparing tea. He watched her, fascinated by her sure movements, the grace in her hands. She was so different from the waif he’d known before. He’d found her on the street, held down by two males three times her size and age. Despite that she’d been fighting with every ounce of strength in her small body. He’d pulled them off of her, sending one head first into the alley wall, the other smashing to the ground.

She’d looked up at him, green eyes wide, and he’d expected her to flee—even then he was big and scarred. Instead she’d smiled up at him.

“Thank you,” she said, as politely as any noble lady.

Then she’d held up her arms and he’d found himself picking her up and carrying her back to his hideaway. He’d spent the next six years protecting her—until he couldn’t protect her any longer. The painful memory made his shift uncomfortably and the chair gave an ominous creak.

Another hint of amusement crossed her face before she sliced a loaf of bread and ladled a fragrant stew from a pot that hung near the hearth.

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