Page 129 of Halfling
Ignoring her, the man swept into a mocking bow, laughing to himself when he lost his balance and stumbled. “Sorry, father,” he announced, voice echoing to the rafters. “Not sure what could be so important that I’d be dragged here so bloody early.”
“It’s hardly early,” grumbled Darrow. “Stand up straight, boy. We have visitors. You’d asked after her so much, I thought you’d want to know that Sorcha Brádaigh has returned safely.”
The hall went perfectly still and silent, the color draining from Jerrod’s face. His pulse visibly throbbed at his throat as he turned to stare dazedly at Sorcha.
A growl sparked in Orek’s chest.
Mouth agape, Jerrod sputtered, “No, not possible…”
Sorcha went stiff. “It wasyou,” she hissed.
Something like a groan escaped Jerrod before he turned on his heel and bolted.
A roar crashed through the hall, and Orek was on him in only three strides. Rage pounded inside him, the beast gnashing its teeth for Jerrod’s blood.
He sold my mate! He harmed her!
Orek gripped the drunken coward by the shoulder, spinning him around. He hauled him up by the throat. Jerrod wailed with a choked cry, legs kicking as he clawed at Orek’s grip. More shouts rang out through the hall, but Orek didn’t hear.
His rage closed its jaws around him with a harshclick.
Orek snarled in the man’s face, baring his fangs.
Jerrod shuddered like a leaf in his grip, face gone purple, and the beastrelishedit.
Do it. Take his life. He deserves to die for what he did to her.
“Orek!”
It all happened so fast, Sorcha forgot to breathe. Jerrod made to flee but Orek was quicker, getting his hand around the lordling so fast she almost didn’t see. By the time she’d made it to Orek’s side, Jerrod’s flailing had begun to wane as his face purpled.
She called Orek’s name, but he didn’t seem to hear. His face had contorted with rage, nose wrinkling like a big hissing cat’s. His eyes almost glowed with a molten fire, his rage pulsing there and in the veins bulging in his arms.
Everyone rushed forward but didn’t dare step too close—everyone but her. She hurried to lay her hand on his arm, trying to soothe.
“Orek, don’t. He isn’t worth it.”
The breath hissed out of Orek’s mouth, grating against her ears.
She pressed herself into his side. “Please, my love,” she whispered. “Put him down.”
Orek shuddered, fangs flashing again before, slowly, begrudgingly, he put Jerrod back on his feet. Jerrod gripped Orek’s hand, still clasping his throat.
“Was it you?” he snarled at Jerrod, voice gone to some deep, guttural tone she’d never heard before. “Did you sell her?”
Jerrod gurgled, head lolling, and she thought he was about to deny it.
“Tell the truth,” Orek growled, “or I pop your head from your neck.”
To their right, Darrow stepped forward, his face gone hard with worry and shame. “Answer him, Jerrod.”
A moan escaped Jerrod when Orek loosened his grip just enough to allow him air. He coughed and sputtered, eyes wild as they searched for escape. It took Orek digging his fingers into the flesh between neck tendons for him to finally nod.
“Yes,” he coughed.
Orek hissed a curse in orcish and let the lordling go. Jerrod collapsed to the ground in a heap, gasping for air. His father dragged him up by the shoulder, looking as though he couldn’t decide if he wanted to comfort his son or throttle him.
Sorcha knew which she wanted to do, her own rage boiling. She’d known Jerrod all his life, had seen him grow up. He’d always been a proud boy, aware of who his father was and the renown he garnered. When Aislinn and Jerrod’s mother died, Lord Darrow threw himself into his and Ciaran’s work rooting out the slave trade. In the absence of their father, Aislinn had turned to books and learning. Jerrod had turned to winning his own renown without working to achieve it. He went for everything easy, even if it meant lying or stealing. Which was why, even when they were youths and Sorcha had first noticed his heated glances, she’d denied him.
