Page 52 of Her Orc Blacksmith

Thyri linked her arm with Sylwen's. “Come on, then! Adventure awaits!” With that, they slipped out of the forge, their laughter dancing in the air behind them.

And suddenly, it was quiet.

With a soft grunt, Vorgath stood up, moving toward the forge to stoke the embers back to life. I watched him, mesmerized by the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin, the flickering firelight accentuating the strength in his frame. I took the opportunity to rise as well, stepping closer to the workbench to tidy up.

“Serendipity,” he said softly, echoing the word I’d tossed out earlier. “Is that all it is? Just... chance?”

I tilted my head, biting my lip as I considered him—not just the question, but the subtle shift in the air between us. “Maybe some of it,” I admitted honestly, thinking of all the thousand little moments that brought me here—to him.

“I don’t think it’s chance,” he said. “I think it’s choice. Every day. Every moment. You chose this. You chose to keep going.”

He was right. This—us—it wasn’t just some random twist of fate. I had chosen him, at the faire, in the forge, in the moments after Elias was tucked into bed, in the quiet spaces where we shared more than just work.

As I contemplated his words, my aura reached for his, tendrils unfurling like delicate fingers. They intertwined with his fiery reds and golds, drawing him closer. It felt like a physical pull as he closed the distance, stopping just inches away. I had to tilt my head back to meet the dark depths of his eyes.

“I did,” I whispered. “I chose you, Vorgath.”

His voice was thick, almost hoarse. “Do you know what that means?”

My pulse thrummed in my throat. “Tell me.”

Vorgath leaned down, and his tusks gleamed faintly in the flickering light of the forge. His breath was warm against myskin as he spoke, every word reverberating deep within me. “When an orc chooses someone, it’s not something we walk away from… It's forever.”

I didn’t hesitate. I pressed my palm against his cheek, felt the coarse hairs of his beard, the ridge of the scar that cut across his eye. “I choose you,” I repeated.

His hands gripped my waist and pulled me flush against him, like he needed the feel of my body pressed to his to understand that I was real. “Soraya, if I hurt you… If I—”

“You won’t,” I interrupted, my voice breathless but certain. “I trust you.”

Vorgath’s forehead lowered to rest against mine, his eyes closing. I tugged on his tunic, encouraging him, pulling him down to me until our lips met. His body—so large and solid, a wall of muscle against me—created this sense of safety, of being surrounded. His every touch was tender, careful, like he was afraid of how easily he could break me.

“I’m not fragile,” I whispered, my lips brushing against his ear.

He stiffened, his hand stilling on my back. “You're human.”

“But I’m not made of glass.” I leaned back, hands framing his face. “I won’t break.”

He studied me for a long, tense moment. Then his gaze darkened, a hunger sparking behind his eyes, and finally—finally—something released in him.

His lips crashed into mine, searing and intense, exactly what I craved. I arched into him, my hands tangling in his hair, tugging just hard enough to draw a low growl from his chest. He kissed me like I was his air, like he couldn’t breathe without tasting me.

The tension, the unspoken words, the simmering heat between us—all of it shattered, igniting into a blaze we couldn’t control.

Chapter 21

He lifted me effortlessly, turning and lowering me onto the workbench beside us, never breaking the kiss. The hard edge of the bench dug into my thighs, but I didn’t care. Not when his hands were gripping my hips, roaming over my waist, sliding up under my shirt, and leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His palms practically swallowed my body with their size, and my breath hitched as he caressed each curve reverently, as though committing every inch of me to memory.

His lips broke away from mine, trailing down my jaw and lower, planting soft, heated kisses along my neck. When his tusks grazed the sensitive spot just below my ear, a gasp escaped me. My head fell back, offering him more.

Slowly, his fingers traced the curve of my waist before tugging at the hem of my shirt. I raised my arms, helping him lift it over my head and toss it aside. The forge’s warm air brushed my skin, but it was nothing compared to the searing heat in his gaze.

“Soraya,” he murmured, reverent, his voice low and thick with need. “Durlan.”

His large palms skimmed my shoulders, glided down my arms, then traced over my curves, cupping my breasts. Every brush of his skin sent waves of warmth through me, sparks igniting a slow burn beneath the surface.

I closed my eyes, surrendering to the sensations. By the Alders, I'd forgotten it could feel like this—so raw, so consuming. How had I lived without this connection for so long? The way Vorgath touched me, as though I were something precious, and the way he looked at me, as if seeing all of me, made me feel whole again.

His lips found the hollow of my throat, and a moan slipped from my lips as my fingers gripped the edge of the bench. He was everywhere—his presence, touch, scent—surrounding me, pulling me under until there was nothing but him.

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