Page 16 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

She closed the hive, remembering Matilda’s weathered hands guiding hers, the old woman’s patience as Lyric fought through her fear of the stinging insects.

“I had to move on when she died,” she continued, her throat tightening unexpectedly. Matilda’s son had lost no time in disposing of the bees. He’d made it clear that the only way she was welcome to remain was in his bed.

He remained silent, but she felt his eyes on her through the veil. She hadn’t meant to share that much—hadn’t talked about Matilda to anyone in the village. Something about his quiet attention drew words from her that she usually kept buried.

“The bees were my first real accomplishment,” she admitted, moving to the next hive. “Even before this cottage. They taught me that I could build something, protect something. That I had value beyond…” She trailed off, unwilling to venture into darker memories.

“Beyond what others saw in you,” he finished softly.

She looked up sharply, meeting his eyes through the mesh of their veils. He understood. Somehow, despite everything that had changed between them, he still understood.

As she closed the final hive, a familiar bleating sound caught her attention. She turned to see Barnabas, her neighbor’s goat, trotting determinedly toward her garden with mischief in his eyes.

“Oh no you don’t,” she muttered, hastily setting down her smoker. “That’s the third time this week.”

Before she could move, Barnabas changed direction and charged straight for the newly repaired fence. The goat launched herself at Egon’s handiwork, front hooves landing on the top rail with a decisive thud. The wood creaked ominously.

“No!” she cried, but it was too late.

Barnabas’s weight sent the top plank crashing down. The startled goat bleated in alarm, then somehow tangled himself in Egon’s tool belt, which he’d left hanging on a post. In his panic, he dragged it through the mud, scattering nails and sending the hammer flying.

Once again she expected his temper to flare. Hours of careful work undone in seconds by a wayward goat would test anyone’s patience.

Instead, he looked at the destruction, then at the goat—now wearing his tool belt like some bizarre harness—and burst into laughter. The sound rumbled from deep in his chest, rich and unexpected.

“Your village has some strange warriors,” he said, still laughing.

The absurdity of it hit her then—this massive orc warrior brought low by a stubborn goat barely reaching his knee. A giggle escaped her, then another, until she was laughing alongside him, harder than she had in years.

“That’s Barnabas,” she managed between breaths. “Terror of gardens everywhere.”

He approached the goat with slow, deliberate movements. “Easy now, little warrior,” he murmured. “Let’s get you untangled.”

She expected Barnabas to bolt—the goat barely tolerated her touch on the best days. But something in Egon’s calm demeanor seemed to soothe the animal. He knelt beside him, his big hands gentle as he worked the leather strap free from his horns.

“You’ve caused quite enough trouble for one day,” he told the goat conversationally, as if they were old friends. Barnabas responded by butting his head against his palm.

She shook her head in disbelief. “He hates everyone. How did you do that?”

He shrugged, scratching behind Barnabas’s ears. “Animals know when you respect them. Even the troublemakers.”

Reaching for the goat’s frayed harness, she smiled at Egon. “I’ll take him home before he decides to fight any more fences.”

His laughter followed her out of the garden.

Late that nightshe tossed in her bed, the sheets tangling around her legs as the night deepened. The cottage creaked and settled, punctuated by Egon’s deep, steady breathing from the main room. She’d left her bedroom door cracked open—for safety, she told herself, though she knew the truth was more complicated.

She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling beams barely visible in the darkness. Why couldn’t she sleep? She’d worked even harder than usual today, and she should have been exhausted. Instead, her mind raced with images of Egon’s scarred hands gently cradling the honeycomb, his unexpected laughter when Barnabas destroyed his work, the way his eyes had softened when she mentioned Matilda.

This wasn’t the Egon she remembered. The young male who’d disappeared from her life had been volatile, passionate, unpredictable. This Egon moved with deliberate care, as if constantly aware of his own strength and the fragility of everything around him.

What had happened to him in those years between?

She turned onto her side, punching her pillow into a more comfortable shape. It shouldn’t matter. Whatever life had done to reshape him wasn’t her concern. He was just passing through, helping with repairs in exchange for shelter. Nothing more.

Yet she couldn’t stop remembering how it felt when their fingers brushed over the water cup. The strange sense of recognition that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with something deeper, more primal.

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending a brief glow through the crack in her door. In that momentary light, she caught a glimpse of his sleeping form. One massive arm was thrown above his head and his face was relaxed in sleep, vulnerable in a way that he kept carefully concealed in waking hours.

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