Page 115 of Halfling
Connor and Niall came running around the house, bringing fresh tears—last she’d known, they’d been in the capital on knightly business. Connor pulled her from the ground to swing in his arms. Niall kissed her cheek and guffawed, his shock rounding his dark eyes.
Finally, their father Ciaran came sprinting from the direction of the stables, his face ruddy against the light shades of his ash-blond hair going gray. Tears sparkled in his eyes as he ran his hands over Sorcha’s face and arms, searching for injuries.
“Sorcha—” he choked, barely able to meet her eyes as he drew her into a crushing embrace.
“Hello, papa.” Sorcha squeezed him tight, the smell of his sandalwood soap strong from his trimmed beard.
Hands of all sizes touched her back and hair, her family wanting to reassure themselves she was real. They held her by the shoulders and passed her one to the other for smacking kisses on the cheeks or playful tugs on her curls.
Her head swirled with joy, her tears gone giddy with relief.
I’m home.
A heavy, warm hand finally landed on her shoulder, and it could be no one but Ciaran. When she turned to look at him, his brows had drawn low, and she looked up at not her father but Sir Ciaran, knight of the realm.
“What happened, Sorcha?” he asked, his gaze gone sharp as the sword strapped to his hip. “It isn’t like you to run off.”
Fates, where to begin.
“I didn’t,” she said. “I was—”
“Father.” Niall’s voice dropped, the warning clear.
As one, the family looked at Niall to find him staring out into the trees and followed his gaze. Sorcha’s heart leapt to see Orek standing where she’d left him, their packs at his feet. He watched on with a neutral calm, having gone unnoticed until now.
Start with him, the best part of all this.
Her father and older brothers cursed, hands going to their weapons.
“No!” Sorcha yelped, clapping a hand on Connor’s arm.
He stared at her like she’d gone mad.
Extricating herself from the circle of her family took a moment, and she thought at first her mother wouldn’t let her hand go, face gone ashen with concern. Finally, Sorcha pulled free and took a backwards step in Orek’s direction, though she faced her family. She feared turning away might push them too far, given the wary, almost wild looks her father and brothers shot Orek over her head.
“I’ll answer all your questions. But first, meet Orek.” She twisted to find him over her shoulder and smiled softly. Reaching out her hand for him, Sorcha said, “He saved me.”
The back of Orek’s neck prickled as the older Brádaigh males scowled at him. He came and claimed Sorcha’s hand despite their suspicious glares, for he’d never deny his mate. Her hand slid into his easily, and she pulled him to stand alongside her before her family.
Orek kept his posture open, his expression calm. He knew what a sight he must make alone, but here with their lost daughter and sister, it had to be shocking.
The father and two eldest brothers looked just as Orek had imagined human knights—stiff shoulders, close-cropped hair, and swords strapped to their sides. Though they didn’t wear mail, both brothers had leather greaves and vambraces, their tunics dyed a deep russet red with a black horse emblem on the chest. All three had taken a stance, hands on their hilts. It made Orek’s palms itch for his hatchet.
He didn’t drop their gazes as Sorcha began to explain where she’d been. It was the mention of slavers that finally got her father’s attention, and he looked on with horror as she described being attacked and brought south. Orek had to bite back the growl building in his chest; she’d told him the details and her suspicions before, but they still sparked a rage inside him that, if left unchecked, could burn quicker and hotter than a summer wildfire.
If I ever get my hands on that fucking—
“But here? So far north?” the father sputtered, unable it seemed to reconcile her story with what he thought he knew.
“I have a few ideas…” Sorcha scuffed the toe of her boot against the ground, clearly not wanting to discuss this part of her story. She’d shared with him her theory that Lord Darrow’s son, Jerrod, may have been the one to sell her out to the slavers. Nothing else made sense, she said, and the timing was right. Taken just a few days after rejecting his advances? It was certainly suspicious.
“And how does an orc play into all this?” asked one of the brothers, mouth a downturned, distrustful line. It was the darker colored brother, with curls like Sorcha’s though cropped short. Niall, he thought.
“Orek saved me,” Sorcha said. “But I’m getting to that.”
His skin crawled feeling so many gazes, curious and suspicious, assessing and watchful, skate over and probe every part of him they could see—from his rough, callused hands, to his pointed ears with the single gold loop, to the patchwork of furs and leathers he wore.
His boots were muddy, his face was scarred, and his skin wasgreen.
