Page 62 of The Orc's Innocent Plaything

“Aye, me as well,” I admitted quietly, then took a deep breath. “So, we are looking for a spiky plant with the dried remains of last autumn’s umbels.” I pointed to one down the slope. “See?”

Vartok grunted as he crouched in front of it. “Aye, I can find more of them. Ye want to be the one to harvest, or should we both?”

“You find them and hold them. Here.” I handed him a cloth bag I’d brought along for the purpose. “I will harvest. We need to pull them up—the roots are the most important part for Avaleen. See?” I demonstrated how to keep the roots intact. “We always leave enough for the colony to thrive next season, so we move on to another batch—oh.”

Although I did not believe in the orcs’ gods, Nan told me ‘twas very important to say the words. So I took a deep breath and sped through the prayer.

“Thanks be to Malla the Beginner and Torvar the Strong for this bounty that we take from the ground.”

Vartok grunted as he took the plant from me to slide into the bag.

“There’s another patch over there, lass.” He offered his arm to help me up. “Thank ye for respecting our ways.”

I glanced at him in surprise. “Aye, of course. This is your world, after all.”

As I watched, his eyes flared green for a moment before he looked away. They’d been doing that more often these days. I remembered Avaleen—or mayhap ‘twas Nan—telling me such a thing was a sign of intense emotion. The old woman had chuckled when Torvolk had stalked around with glowing eyes for a sennight, and finally said to me, “’Tis the Mating Heat. He needs to claim Isadora and things will be right.”

Mayhap Vartok was angry. Or worried about the Battleborn?

I moved to the next patch of sea holly he’d found and chose the plants I would uproot, but they were stubborn, growing deep.

“Damnation,” I grunted, using my fingers to pry away the small stones from the base. “The ground does not wish to give up her bounty.”

“Here.” Vartok crouched beside me and flipped his cloak out of his way to reach toward the small of his back.

I didn’t know what to expect when he handed me a sheath I didn’t recognize, but for certes ‘twas not my mother’s knife. I gasped when I pulled it from its new leather home.

“Oh, Vartok,” I breathed, staring down at it. “You…you fixed it.”

He shifted awkwardly. “I wasnae certain ye’d be comfortable with a new handle, or if ye wanted me to just fix the auld one?—”

“’Tis beautiful.” I ran my fingers along the leather binding. “It fits my hand perfectly. And these beads…”

There was a row of iron beads strung along the bottom loop of the leather to form a sort of guard at the base of the hilt. I knew iron was the most difficult material to work with, and the fact he’d used it on my knife…

I met his eyes, my own shining with tears of joy. “They will remind me of you.”

“Good,” he said gruffly, then reached for the back of my head and pulled me to him for a quick kiss. “’Twas the point. So I can be with ye, even when I’m no’.”

Grinning, I pressed my forehead to his and whispered, “That is beautiful.”

“Yeare beautiful. And strong, just as the knife is. Ye’ve been broken before, but?—”

“But you helped to fix me,” I whispered, knowing it was true. Not just Vartok’s lessons, but the way he taught me to find freedom, to find peace.

His gaze burned green. “I love ye, Myra.”

I fell on my arse.

Seriously. I jerked backward, still holding the knife, and since we were both crouching, I fell backward, hitting the ground with a loudoof.

But I didn’t tear my wide-eyed gaze from him.

“Nay, you do not,” I blurted.

Vartok snorted and turned back to the sea holly, sliding his own knife from its sheath in his boot to dig at the rocky soil.

I lunged for him, determined to get him to admit he was teasing me.

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