Chapter 7

Seven

Torren and I return to the Hill after our breakfast and some cuddling at the waterfall. I was reluctant to leave, but I said I'd meet Rose for lunch, and I don't want a search party to be sent out for us. Besides, no matter how much I'm enjoying my time with Torren, I promised to spend the afternoon with Morg, and I'm very much looking forward to that as well.

The great hall is bustling with activity at this time of the day, and most of the clan must be gathered here to share a meal. Orcs—and a handful of humans—mill around the long tables, filling almost every available space. At the raised table on the other side of the large chamber, an orc with an iron crown sits on his throne.

"Is that King Gorvor?" I ask in a whisper.

Torren puts his hand on my lower back. "Aye. And that's Dawn, his queen."

I squint in the distance, expecting to find an orc woman on his right, but the queen is human, holding a chubby green-skinned baby in her lap.

"Oh."

I lean closer to him to make way for a family with three teenage daughters, hurrying to take a spot at one of the tables. Torren lets out a pleased rumble, and I glance up at him, fighting a grin. He reminds me of a big cat as he rubs his cheek on top of my head affectionately, then delivers me to the table where Rose and Uram are already digging into their soup, along with Ivy and a handsome orc with a chipped tusk who must be her mate, Korr.

"Jasmine!" Ivy stands and squeezes me into a hug, then makes space for me on the bench. "It's so good to see you."

"So sorry," Rose says as she picks up an empty bowl and ladles soup into it, "we didn't know if you'd join us or not, so we started already."

"Don't worry," I say, then look up at Torren, who's still standing by my side. "Will you join us?"

He offers me a small smile. "Perhaps at dinner. I think Morg would like you all to himself now."

He inclines his head to the side, and I follow his gaze to find Morg striding toward us, his expression intent. My first impulse is to ask them both to stay, but Torren wraps me in his arms and gives me a hearty squeeze, then lets go of me and bows in farewell.

A little dazed, I collapse on the bench next to Ivy, who snickers at my state.

"It gets easier with time," she murmurs.

I blink at her slowly. "What does?"

"The overwhelm you feel when they're near." She pauses, then adds ruefully, "And the emptiness when they're not."

From her other side, Korr wraps his arm around her waist, his big palm splayed protectively over her ribs. She flushes prettily and squeezes my hand, then turns back to her soup.

Morg arrives at our table then and sits beside me, squeezing between me and the well-dressed orc on the other side. "Hello. I've missed you."

I can't do much more than stare at him. I thought I'd imagined how handsome he is, but it seems he took special care with his appearance today. He's freshly shaved, his short hair—so different to the longer styles preferred by most of the other males in the clan—is combed back, and his clothes are neat and clean. The whiff of his fresh scent hits me full force, and I draw in a big inhale, unable to help myself.

I haven't returned his greeting, but Morg doesn't seem to mind. He leans in and takes a sniff of his own—and freezes, color rising in his cheeks.

"That bastard," he mutters.

The angry words snap me from my daze. "What?"

Morg shakes his head, clenching his hands between his knees. "It's nothing."

I level a stare at him, the kind I've seen my mother use on unruly customers. Morg lets out a big sigh and relaxes marginally.

"I can smell Torren all over you," he admits. "I saw he hugged you just now, and I assume it's not the first time he's touched you?"

He frames the last bit as a question, and I have to shake my head in answer. Feeling my own embarrassment, I whisper, "Do you want me to change out of these clothes?"

Since Torren got my unpolluted scent this morning, it's only fair that Morg should have the same chance. Scent seems like such an important sense for them, and I don't want Morg's afternoon to be spoiled if this bothers him too much.

"No," he says, too quickly. Then he clears his throat and says, "Er, it's all right."

I narrow my eyes at him. "What's the matter?"

He purses his lips for a moment, the expression almost comical with his tusks, then admits, "Your scent melds nicely with his, that's all. It's not bad."

A warm sensation blooms in my chest at his words. "Really?"

He grumbles in answer, clearly unimpressed by the fact. "I wanted to ask you if you'd want to meet my parents," he adds.

My eyes flare wide at the suggestion. "Already?" I blurt.

I didn't expect this, but I should have thought of it, of course. It makes sense that Morg and Torren have families—and friends—at the Hill. But Torren had opted to take me outside, away from everyone, while Morg wants to introduce me to his parents.

"That would be lovely," I say at last, even though the thought of meeting Morg's mother has me breaking out in a nervous sweat. "But I promised my friends I would eat lunch with them first. You're welcome to join us."

Morg takes my condition in stride and reaches for another soup bowl for himself. Then he falls into conversation with us easily—he knows Uram and Korr, having made several of their weapons and tools over the past years, and has met Rose and Ivy. He fits in, laughing at a joke Korr tells with a shy sort of smile, as if he's unused to being the center of attention.

But all the while, he keeps the bulk of his focus on me. His thigh presses against mine under the table, and he keeps initiating touch between us, light brushes of his fingers on my hand when he wants to draw my attention. He asks me several times if I've had enough to eat, then snags a pair of still-warm scones with jam and cream for me, watching me with rapt interest as I lick the sweet blueberry preserves off my fingers.

It's intoxicating to feel as if I'm the center of someone's universe. I don't quite know what to do with the sensation because I've never experienced it before, but just when I think it might be too much, Morg backs off, drawing Ivy into conversation about the new hunting knife that Korr seems to have commissioned for her.

A prickle on the back of my neck has me turning around. I search the crowd of orcs at the dinner tables, wondering why I feel as if I'm being watched. Then I notice Torren at a table by the wall. He's sitting with another orc who seems his age, though his face is deeply scarred as if he's survived a horrible battle. Torren says something to his friend, the words inaudible against the noise of the gathered diners, but his gaze remains on me, a warm caress. I give him a small smile, hoping that he understands that I want to be with him, too, even as I'm with Morg, the same as I wished Morg was with us this morning.

Finishing the last of my scone, I turn to Morg with an expectant smile. "I'm ready."

He searches my face with his gaze. "Are you certain? We can wait if you'd like."

I shake my head, already pushing away from the table. "No, that's important to you. I want to do it."

Would I introduce Morg and Torren to my parents if they lived here? Perhaps. I'd be wary of their words, if not their opinions, because I wouldn't want them to behave unpleasantly toward the two orcs. But Morg doesn't seem to have any such reservations. He takes my hand and all but drags me to the other side of the great hall, his steps eager.

He stops by another long table which is full of orcs on both sides, sitting elbow to elbow on the sturdy wooden benches. There's an orc couple who are likely his parents, as well as two younger women about my age and a gaggle of orc children—all of whom have been tracking our progress from across the hall.

I suppose we were rather hard to miss, what with Morg's tall form cutting through the crowd and my golden hair so distinct from the more common dark colors shared by most orcs.

"Ma," Morg says, grinning widely, "this is Jasmine." He motions toward the older woman and turns to me. "Jasmine, this is my mother, Keera. And my father, Parum."

Both orcs stand. Morg's father shakes my hand enthusiastically, his craggy face splitting in a grin. His mother steps away from the table and wraps me in a tight hug.

"I'm so happy he has finally found you, my dear," she says. "Welcome to the family."

"Er," I say. "Lovely to meet you."

I squint up at Morg, wondering what he has told his parents. Has he mentioned Torren at all or is he so certain I will pick him in the end that he has all but announced our union?

Before I can become truly irritated by that thought, one of the younger women says, "Don't worry, we know all about Torren."

I glance at her to find her smiling at me—though there's a devious glint in her dark eyes.

The other young woman, seated to her right, adds, "Aye, Morg hasn't shut up about him in months. It's always Torren this and Torren that."

"Hush, you two," Keera says, admonishing.

"My younger sisters," Morg grumbles, "and the bane of my existence."

I bite my lip to hide my smile because Morg is flushing a deep green and shuffling his feet. No one can embarrass a grown man quite like his sister, that fact seems to be true for orcs as much as humans.

But what the two have revealed is very intriguing—Morg has been talking to them about Torren long before I arrived at the Hill.

"I hope we'll be seeing more of each other," I offer when he starts pushing me away.

His mother waves at us cheerfully. "I'm looking forward to having you three over for a visit soon!"

Morg mutters as we make our way toward the nearest tunnel that leads away from the great hall. "…don't know what I expected, bloody meddling…"

When we round a corner and the noise of the crowd diminishes behind us, I tug on his hand. "Morg, slow down."

He frowns at me. "I'm sorry you had to witness that."

I slip my hand up his arm and squeeze his shoulder. "They're lovely. It's clear that they care about you very much."

He groans and swipes a palm over his face. "Aye, but they love to tease."

"I didn't mind," I tell him. "I wish my family teased each other more."

He pauses at that, shoulders straightening. "What are they like? Your parents?"

I hook my arm through his again and allow him to lead me onward. "They're nice enough. I had a perfectly lovely childhood."

"I sense a but coming," Morg rumbles in his low voice.

I shrug, trying to chase away the childish feeling of having missed out on something. "No, nothing like that. It's just that for a long time, I was an only child. I must have gotten quite spoiled by my parents' attention. I was nine years old when my brother was born, and suddenly, I had to share Mother and Father with him, and of course, with him being a boy and the heir to my father's inn and all the holdings, they afforded him more care than me." I attempt a light tone as I add, "Besides, I wasn't a small girl anymore by then and could entertain myself most days."

I want to change the conversation now because it doesn't feel good to wallow in old resentments. I've mostly overcome them anyway, pushing down the hurt. That's just how things are done in our village.

But Morg stops in the corridor and gazes down at me, his expression serious. "I'm sorry your parents didn't care for you how you wanted."

I draw back in surprise. "Oh, no, you don't understand, I never wanted for anything. I had a roof over my head, nice clothes, and?—"

"You wanted them, didn't you?"

His dark gaze is piercing, and I have to look away.

"Well, my brother was just a baby. They couldn't care for me the way they had," I protest weakly.

But the truth is, their inattention never ended, not even when my brother grew up and was old enough to be sent to school in the next town over and only came home for the weekends. I was never allowed to go to that school either. Father always said it was too expensive. Yet he never mentioned that to Luca. He'd said the boy needed to learn his letters because he was going to take over the family business.

I hadn't known until then that I wasn't going to be a part of that equation, despite having worked at the inn for years at that point.

"I have four sisters," Morg says softly. "You met the younger ones, and the elder ones are already mated and have families of their own. But none of us ever felt like we were any less worthy of our parents' time."

A lump forms in my throat, and I blink fast, pushing back the hurt. "That sounds nice," I manage.

He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer to his side. "Don't you worry, Jasmine. You'll have so much attention from my family from now on that you'll wish you never met them."

I laugh, like he intended, and I don't move away from him, even though I could. It feels good to be tucked against him, his warmth leaching through our clothes.

"Does Torren also have a large family?" I ask. "He took me to the waterfall this morning, so I haven't met any of them."

If I wasn't looking at Morg, I would have missed his wince.

"He doesn't have any family," he tells me. "I will not tell you what happened, for that is his story to tell."

"Of course." I don't ask him any questions, though I want so badly to learn more. "I saw him sitting with another orc today at lunch."

Morg nods. "Aye, that's Ozork. I believe they've been friends for decades, and Torren spends a lot of his time with Ozork's family." Then he scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "I tried to invite Torren to join my family for this past harvest festival."

I peer up at him. "You did? I thought the two of you were always fighting."

He lets out a long sigh. "We were, but I tried to mend things between us." He pauses and adds, "It's not exactly fun, you know, always being at odds with the male you spend so much time with. We're usually in the forge for hours on end, and it would be nice if we could help each other sometimes."

"What happened, then?" I ask. "Did he refuse?"

We enter a tunnel that's completely unfamiliar to me. The air feels different here, and I suspect we might be close to the outer wall of the Hill. There are no signposts, so I don't think the human inhabitants of the underground palace come here very often.

"He accepted," Morg says after a while. "Then we had another big fight the day before the festival, and he didn't show up."

"Oh." I give him a little squeeze. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "I was at fault that time, so I don't blame him."

The farther we walk down this corridor, the more I scent woodsmoke and iron, as if we are…

"Are you taking me to the forge?" I ask, excitement rising inside me.

He grins down at me, his melancholy mood temporarily forgotten. "Aye. I thought you might like to see it."

I stride more quickly now, eager to see where both orcs work. Morg chuckles and matches my pace, leading me down the corridor until we reach a large wooden door with two thick oakwood panes. Morg removes a heavy iron key from his weapons belt and unlocks the black iron bolt, sliding it aside with ease.

"We lock it more for everyone's safety than any concern for theft," he explains. "If a child wandered here and wanted to play inside, they could get seriously hurt."

With that, he pulls the doors open, revealing a shadowy room inside. I wait at the threshold, thinking he will light a lantern like Ritta did last night, but Morg strides toward the other side of the room, fiddles with something on the wall—and suddenly, bright daylight spills into the room, cool fresh air blowing past me.

I step forward eagerly as he unlatches another window and secures the shutters on the outside.

"Of course," I say, looking around the space, noting the massive clay furnace and the banked coals smoldering inside. "You can't have a forge underground."

Morg comes to stand by my side. "Aye, this solution was very inspired. The forge has enough air flow to allow us to work safely, and at the same time, the heat from the furnace helps keep the animals warm." He points to the wall behind the furnace and adds, "The clan stables are just through there, because they need the fresh air, too."

I turn in a circle, surveying the various benches and tools in the large space. "So, which table is yours?"

Morg nudges me toward the left side of the room, closer to the furnace. "Here. I'm working on an order for Vark, a warrior who's also mated to a human. His mate, Hazel, will celebrate her name day soon, and he wants to give her a set of throwing knives that are sized for her." He shows me five identical blades, still dull gray but already beautifully crafted. "She's been using his old set, but he says they're a bit too big for her. These will be balanced perfectly for her."

I eye the weapons. "She's a warrior, too? A human woman?"

The thought that orc women like Sarrai and Ritta are warriors was intimidating enough. But now he tells me that human women are also fighting for the clan? Will everyone expect me to take up a sword as well? Rose didn't mention anything of the sort, nor did Ivy, and I don't think either of them had any fighting experience from before they arrived here.

Morg cups my face with a large hand and smooths his thumb between my eyebrows. "What has you frowning like that?"

I twist my mouth to the side, unsure of how to answer. I don't want to insult orc customs by refusing to become a warrior, but at the same time, I know I'm completely unsuited for the profession. The only knife I've ever wielded was in the kitchen.

Reluctantly, I meet his gaze and tell him the truth. "I don't think I'd be a very good warrior."

Morg frowns in confusion. "Oh? That's all right."

"I mean, even if everyone else in the clan knows how to fight, I'd really rather not," I press, needing him to understand.

He chuckles then, his thumb slipping over my cheek. "Don't worry, Jasmine, we have enough warriors to keep you safe. And everyone else, too."

I put my hand on his chest by instinct, needing something to hold on to. My heart is thudding fast, and my voice comes out breathless. "You mean to say not everyone is a warrior in the clan?"

Morg leans in, his cheek brushing my temple. "No, of course not," he rumbles. "You can do whatever you like now that you're here."

The meaning of his words is clear in the context of our conversation, but his closeness suggests a different interpretation. He's offering me the freedom to explore, and I want it, badly, just as much as I wanted to sit in Torren's lap this morning.

I tilt my face up, and my cheek touches Morg's jaw. He brings his arm around my waist, tugging me lightly toward him, and I step forward, into his warmth. I'm aware of the open door behind us. Anyone could come and catch us here, which somehow makes this even sweeter. The thought of Torren walking in on us, seeing us together, is especially intriguing, and it sends a shiver through me.

Morg sniffs at me and groans, "Whatever you're thinking, love, keep thinking it."

I let out a breathless laugh. "I was thinking about Torren."