Page 41 of Built Orc Tough
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The cobblestones are uneven beneath my boots, and I’m half-jogging, half-cursing under my breath as I turn the final corner. A gust of wind tries to take my carefully done hair with it, and I slap a hand over my head like I’m fighting a personal weather demon. Why, in all the realms, does being late make time pass faster and logic slower?
I’m breathless by the time I spot him—Gorran—standing beneath the flowering archway outsideThe Briar & Barrel, the little pub that smells faintly of cinnamon and slow-roasted mushrooms even from across the street. The lantern above the doorway casts a warm, flickering light, and he’s there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, waiting.
I slow to a walk, heart doing its own chaotic percussion performance somewhere near my throat. My wrap dress shimmers with each step, catching the glow from the fireflies strung in enchanted chains along the hedgerow. Every step feels both absurdly dramatic and embarrassingly loud.
He turns toward the sound, and for a moment—just a blink—he doesn’t move.
His eyes roam over me with a kind of stunned reverence, as if he’s trying to reconcile the girl who once threw a trowel at his head with whatever vision just came panting around the corner.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, trying to sound casual and failing entirely. “A bush literally attacked me.”
His mouth curves. Slowly. That quiet, rare smile that starts like a secret and ends like a vow.
“Ivy,” he says. Just my name. Like it’s the only thing that makes sense.
I pause in front of him, still breathing hard, hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed, and feeling more seen than I have in years.
“Well?” I murmur. “Are we going to stand here letting the fireflies gossip, or are we actually having this dinner?”
He offers his arm. I take it.
CHAPTER 18
GORRAN
Ilead her down a narrow forest path away from the pub chatter, my hand hovering behind her back without touching as we navigate roots glowing faintly blue with moonlit moss. Her shoulder brushes mine when she stumbles over a pinecone—warmth sparks through my sleeve despite the cool evening air.
"Sure you didn't plan this as an ambush?" she teems, adjusting the strap of her ridiculous shimmering dress. "I’ve seen that look before. The one right before gladiators spring traps."
"Only if you count roasted venison and old summersby wine as deadly weapons." I hold aside a curtain of willow branches. She gasps softly.
The hot spring glade unfolds—a hidden hollow steaming under lashes of silver birch. Fireflies drift above the bubbling pool like suspended coals. I’d come early, laid out the serving cloth near the fire pit, scattered cushions and hung glass lanterns in the trees. All while arguing with myself it was practical, not... something else.
She sinks onto a pillow. "You moved the orchard bench."
"Had to." I uncork the wine. Ivy watches, wide-eyed, as I pour. "Last week, squirrels staged a petition. Said it blocked theacorn pipeline." Her laughter rings clear over the water's soft gurgle. I fight a grin.
We eat in comfortable silence at first. Firelight paints gold streaks across her collarbone. I mention pruning the hallucinogenic mistletoe by the greenhouse. She almost chokes on rosemary potatoes. "No wonder the gnomes pay in mushrooms! Explains that twitchy badger, too."
Her warmth keeps me talking—small bursts of honesty I’d never share sober. "First healing salve I ever brewed? Set a stable boy’s eyebrows on fire. He screamed less when his horse kicked him."
She tops off my glass. Our fingers don't touch. Somehow, that hurts more than a direct hit.
Silence. Only the crackling fire and the sighing trees. Her knuckles whiten on her goblet. Mine clench around my plate as if it might fly away on the breeze.
I almost confess it. Almost. Then she breaks the spell—leans over and snags the last mushroom tart. "These," she murmurs, gesturing with half her tart a moment before popping it in her mouth, "could make dangerous allies." Her grin holds challenge and invitation. And something hotter than the spring—something like reckoning.
My calloused thumb brushes the ridge of her knuckles. So small beneath my green skin, so vulnerable. I’ve held back every instinct, guarded every look, terrified the brute inside would repulse her. But the fear of losing whateverthisis feels sharper than any arena blade right now.
Her fingers curl against the plates of my palm, surprisingly firm, anchoring me. Her gaze is wide, not with alarm, but a raw intensity I haven’t seen in her meticulous florist eyes. She doesn't flinch. She leans. The distance collapses. Her lips find mine – soft, insistent, a brand striking against the cool evening air.
A groan escapes me, low and startled, dragged from somewhere deeper than my lungs. The taste of summersby wine on her lips, the scent of wild mint ingrained in her hair – they flood my senses. My other hand moves without command, cradling the curve of her jaw, tracing the delicate hinge. So fragile.
She pushes against me, her kiss deepening, driving out thought. The world shrinks to the slick heat of her mouth, the frantic pulse jumping beneath my thumb on her throat. My defenses are mortar hitting a tidal wave – crumbling instantly, uselessly. She tugs gently, pulling us both down onto the thick moss pad beside the firepit. The rough wool of my shirt scrapes against her shimmering dress as we settle, tangled limbs finding awkward, desperate positions. A shawl slips from her shoulders, forgotten.
My fingers fumble with tiny button closures, clumsy as a sapling in a draft. Her breaths are shallow puffs against my throat. She stills my hand, her own smaller, steadier fingers taking over, unhooking, revealing smooth skin kissed gold by firelight. My eyes trace the line from her collarbone to the swell of her breasts beneath thin lace.
