Page 1 of The Orc's Innocent Plaything

CHAPTER ONE

Myra

I turnedthe knife over slowly in my hands, barely feeling the cold winter air. My eyes were locked on his back…and really, who could blame me?

Vartok, the Bloodfire smith, had the most delicious back.

The late afternoon sun had warmed the village—not warm enough to melt the snow, of course, but warm enough that I didn’t wear my bulky wool gloves—and the clan members took the time to linger in the rare sunshine. Midwinter in the Highlands tended more toward gray and wet, so today was a treat.

I wish I could appreciate it.

Instead, I was standing here in the door of the smithy, my heart in my throat and my mother’s knife in my hands, contemplating the unthinkable: asking Vartok for help.

As I watched, he shook his head, sending the beads in his braids quivering around his pointed ears, and muttered to himself. He swung his hammer again—the smith’s hammer, not the war hammer I’d seen him practicing with on the sparring field—and I tried not to notice the way the muscles of his shoulders and back bunched and moved.

Was the male not cold? Even a little?

Despite the midwinter air—even warmed by the sun, there was no mistaking that Midwinter Feast had only just passed two days ago—he wore only his kilt, the material bunched around his waist instead of protecting his shoulders. Sweat glistened on those broad green shoulders, and I wondered if orc skin would be salty were I to?—

What?

Nay, I didnotwonder what his skin tasted like.

I didnot.

Hardening my jaw, I straightened my shoulders, forcing my fingers to wrap around the broken hilt of my knife so I stopped fiddling with it.

I did not like Vartok.

I didnot.

Vartok was charming and flirtatious and outgoing…with everyone but me. I’d arrived in Bloodfire Village last summer, before the catastrophe which had forced Vartok to take on the role of chief. Even then, even when he didn’t have the hopes and fears and future of the whole clan resting on his sweaty shoulders, Vartok had treated medifferently.

He didn’t flirt with me. He didn’t smile at me. When he teased me, it wasn’t to draw me closer, but to push me away.

And I hated the confusion he caused in me.

He was the most attractive male I’d ever met, and the way the females—orc and human alike—in the village whispered, he was a talented lover. But he treated me, not as a potential lover or even friend…but as someone he wanted naught to do with.

I had told myself this was fine. His attractive smile or tempting back should not bother me. It wasn’t as if Iwantedhim to like me. I was fine the way I was, with my sister’s pregnancy to focus on, and my friends to keep me company.

This is enough.

Gruptor strolled by, his giggling two-year-old son slung over his green shoulder and a half-barrel tucked under his other arm. He nodded politely to me, but his gaze flicked between me and the smithy, curiosity in his eyes.

It was no secret among the villagers of the animosity between Vartok and myself. After all, I hadn’t been one to accept his disdain quietly and did my best to shoot barbs right back.

Soon Gruptor wouldn’t be the only one wondering why I stood here. Best to get it over with.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the threshold, my winter boots making no sound on the hay Vartok had spread over the dirt floor.

But somehow, he knew.

Orc senses were so much stronger than humans’, so mayhap he’d heard me or…smelled me? Either way, he twisted to glare over his shoulder, his fingers gripping the hammer tightly…and he froze.

“Myra?”

He sounded disbelieving. As if he’d known it was me but hadn’t trusted until he’d verified.

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