Page 37 of The Orc's Bonded Bride

“Lyric, wait?—”

She wrenched free, blind rage propelling her forward. The man turned at her approach, his face illuminated by firelight—young,barely more than a boy, but his expression held a casual cruelty that chilled her even through her fury.

“The lady of the orchard,” he sneered, waving his torch. “Come to beg for your precious trees?”

She stopped ten paces from him, chest heaving. “This is my land. My home.”

“Not anymore.” He gestured toward the ridge where dark silhouettes of mounted men watched. “Lord Trevain sends his regards. And a message—pay the tribute or lose everything.”

The heat pressed against her face as another tree caught fire with a whoosh of igniting leaves. These trees had fed her. Would have fed the village children through winter.

“You’re burning food,” she said, voice shaking. “Children’s food.”

The young man shrugged. “Not my concern.”

The soldier’s callous indifference snapped the last thread of her control. In two strides, she closed the distance and slammed her knife into his thigh. He screamed, stumbling backward, the torch falling from his hand.

She didn’t hesitate. Years of fighting for survival took over. She drove her elbow into his nose, feeling it crunch beneath the blow. Blood spurted, and he staggered, clutching his face.

She dove for the fallen torch, rolling to her feet and swinging it at her attacker. He reeled back, avoiding the flaming weapon. She thrust again, forcing him farther from the burning trees. Her breath came in ragged gasps, but she kept advancing, eyes locked on her enemy.

“Stop!” The soldier held up his hands. “Please, I’m bleeding—” His words cut off as the torch connected with his shoulder, searing cloth and flesh.

As he cried out, she turned and flung the torch as far as she could, back into the burning orchard. It spiraled through the air before landing in a shower of sparks. She faced him again, fists raised, adrenaline pumping.

“Leave,” she spat. “And tell your lord he’ll never have my land or my loyalty.”

The soldier scrambled backwards, clutching his injured thigh. He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was lost as a dark blur tackled him to the ground. The soldier screamed and thrashed under Egon’s weight.

“You dare?” Egon’s voice was a low growl. “You dare attack her land, her trees?” Each question was punctuated by the solid thud of fists against flesh. She watched, chest heaving, as the soldier’s resistance weakened and his cries quieted.

Egon dropped him, his hands flexing as his claws emerged. Beyond him, she could see other men approaching, drawn by their companion’s shout of alarm. They wouldn’t stand a chance against Egon if he transformed fully—he would tear through them like parchment.

But the aftermath… she could already see it. The stories would spread. A monster at Lyric’s farm. The Beast that slaughtered the lord’s men. They would hunt him, fear him.

Fear them both.

She stepped between Egon and his prey, her back to the terrified soldier.

“Egon,” she said, keeping her voice steady despite her racing heart. “Look at me.”

His eyes had turned black again, but they focused on her, his big body trembling with barely restrained violence. The soldier behind her whimpered, and she felt his fear like a tangible thing in the smoke-thick air.

“Egon,” she repeated, keeping her voice steady. “It’s me. It’s Lyric.”

His gaze remained fixed over her shoulder, a growl rumbling deep in his chest. She wasn’t sure he even recognized her anymore. The Beast had taken over, driven by rage and the need to protect. If he attacked now, there would be no going back for either of them.

“Please,” she whispered, taking a tentative step toward him. “This isn’t the way.”

The sound of approaching hoofbeats cut through the crackling flames. She glanced back to see a group of riders galloping toward them, torchlight glinting off drawn swords. Her stomach dropped. More soldiers meant more danger—for everyone.

“Stand down!” A commanding voice rang out across the burning orchard as an older man on horseback broke away from the group, riding hard towards them. Unlike the others, his bearing spoke of years of discipline and authority. Silver streaked his beard, and a weathered scar ran across one cheek. Lord Trevain’s original captain, before Lasseran’s soldiers had arrived

He reined his horse sharply, taking in the scene with narrowed eyes—the cowering soldier, her protective stance, and Egon’s rage. To his credit, the captain showed no fear at the sight of the enraged orc, only a grim understanding.

“Enough!” He dismounted with surprising agility for his age. “Douse those torches. Now!”

The younger soldiers hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.

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