Page 2 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

“If not me, then who?” He stepped away from Wulf’s hand. “I’m the best tracker we have. Even with a cold trail I should be able to find something.”

His throat tightened as his brother’s expression softened. He recognized that look—pity mixed with understanding—and it made his skin crawl. He’d rather face Lasseran’s entire army than this conversation.

“That’s not all of it, is it?” Wulf asked, his voice gentler now. “This isn’t just about Lasseran’s plans.”

He turned away, staring up at the mountains surrounding the village, the weight on his shoulder unrelated to his pack.

“I’m happy for you,” he finally said, the words rough. “For you and Kari. For Lothar and his mate too.”

“But?”

His jaw clenched. “No ‘but.’ You both deserve happiness.”

“And you don’t?”

The question hung in the air between them, and his fingers tightened around his pack strap until the leather creaked. He was genuinely happy for his brothers, but it only made his own situation that much harder to bear. Returning to his cottage after Lothar and Jana had moved into a new home had somehowmade it that much worse. The cottage felt cold, empty, solitary. After a week of sleepless nights he’d decided he had to leave.

“It’s not about deserving a mate,” he muttered. “It’s about reality.”

Wulf waited, patient as always. Damn him for that.

“It’s too much right now,” he admitted, the words like stones in his mouth. “Watching you both with your mates. The way they look at you. The way you…” He trailed off, unable to find the right words.

“The way we what?”

“The way you fit together. Like missing pieces found.”

He turned back to face his brother, forcing himself to meet Wulf’s eyes. “There are so few females, Wulf. Even fewer who would look twice at—” He gestured at his scarred face, his huge body—he was built for war, not romance. “At this.”

The admission cost him, each word torn from somewhere deep and carefully guarded. He’d never spoken of this emptiness before, this hollow ache that grew sharper with each passing day, even though he was sure his brothers had guessed.

“Why would any female choose me when there are others? Others who aren’t…” He couldn’t finish. Broken. Damaged. Haunted.

“You don’t know that,” Wulf started, but he shook his head.

“I do know. I’ve always known.” He adjusted his pack, needing to move, to act, to escape this moment of raw vulnerability. “And that’s fine. I have other skills—like tracking—and I intend to usethem for the good of Norhaven. Turmol will keep up the training while I’m gone.”

The night wind carried the scent of pine and frost, stirring memories he usually kept buried. Before Norhaven. Before Wulf and Lothar. Before he’d found anything resembling family.

He automatically traced the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to his jaw. The first of many. He’d been seven when his mother died. Too small to fight, too slow to escape. The blade that marked him had been meant to kill, not scar, and for no other reason than his orc heritage. He survived only because they thought he was already dead.

The years that followed taught him what true scars were—the ones no one could see. Surviving alone in the slums of Tel-Vara until he joined a gang of street kids. The fight pits. The mercenaries. Learning to kill before he’d learned to trust.

By the time fate reunited him with his brothers, the damage had been done. He was a weapon, not a man. Useful for war, not for love.

“You don’t understand,” he added, his voice low. “It’s not just about finding a mate. It’s about…” He struggled, words failing him as they always did when it mattered. “Some things break and can’t be fixed. I know what I am,” he continued, the words bitter on his tongue. “What I’ve done. The blood on my hands. No female deserves to be bound to that.”

The memory of screams—some from his victims, some from his nightmares—echoed in his mind. The mercenary years had hollowed him out, leaving something rough and jagged where his heart should be.

His brother’s face shifted, the familiar look of stubborn hope replacing concern.

“The Old Gods are not done with us yet,” Wulf said firmly. “You’ve seen what happened with Kari, with Jana. They were brought here for a reason.”

He turned away, unable to bear the certainty in his brother’s eyes. The Old Gods. As if ancient, slumbering deities concerned themselves with the happiness of one scarred orc warrior.

“The gods have better things to do than find me a mate,” he muttered.

“You don’t know their plans.”

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