Chapter 8

Eight

Morg freezes at my confession and lifts his head, and when his gaze meets mine, hurt glimmers in his dark eyes. He moves as if he wants to release me, so I clutch his tunic with both hands, unwilling to let go.

"No," I hurry to say, "I was thinking what would happen if he saw us kissing."

A moment passes as he thinks about my confession. It's scandalous, I know. But it's the truth, and I don't know how else to tackle this situation between us if not with perfect honesty. If I start hiding things from either of them, the lies, even small, white ones, will build up too quickly.

But Morg doesn't push me away like I'd feared. His lips touch the shell of my ear. "You want him to watch, Jasmine?"

The heat inside my belly intensifies, and I press myself closer to him, seeking relief for the tension. "I want you to kiss me," I whisper.

Morg doesn't hesitate. His firm, warm lips touch mine in a gentle caress at first. I return the kiss enthusiastically, and he gathers me close and explores, nipping at my lower lip until I gasp. Then he does something I never expected and swipes his tongue against mine, which I would never have thought would be pleasurable, but it sends a bolt of heat right into my core, winding me tighter.

I slide my hands up to clasp them behind his neck, all but clinging to him as he teaches me what he likes. He pushes his fingers into my hair and gathers it up, then tugs my head to the side gently and peppers hot, barely there kisses down the side of my neck. Goosebumps explode all over my skin at the sensation, and I let out an indecent moan, then bite my lip to silence myself.

"I like the sounds you make," he rumbles, meeting my gaze. "But perhaps that's enough for now."

I want to protest that this wasn't nearly enough. I'm burning up, and I know he must be, too, because the hard length of him presses into my belly through the fabric of our clothes. I should be terrified, especially because he's so much larger than me, but the sight of him, I only experience that delightful anticipation that coils up inside me, waiting to burst free at the slightest touch of his hands.

Morg groans. "Don't look at me like that, love. I don't want to ravish you in the forge for the first time. I want you spread out in my bed, not in danger of being impaled by some project of mine."

I laugh at that and release him reluctantly. He pushes back a strand of my hair, his gaze still heated. He's so incredibly handsome, I need to clench my hands behind my back to keep from reaching for him again, especially since he mentioned the possibility of us ending in his bed.

If we were in the human lands, all of this would have been awfully forward. Sitting in a man's lap—and even taking a walk without a chaperone—would be impossible, let alone kissing one like this. If anyone found out, they would question my character. But all the women here said that the orc society is different and I shouldn't worry about propriety so much. And I like it. I like doing what feels natural and right, and if that means kissing this orc to within an inch of his life, maybe that's exactly what I should do.

Maybe I should drink that tea Ritta gave me just in case.

I spin away from Morg to keep him from seeing how flushed I'm becoming. I step toward the window where another workbench is set up. The cool breeze flowing through the open window calms me somewhat, and I'm able to concentrate on the desktop in front of me.

What I immediately notice is the color of the metal bits and pieces strewn around a half-finished ornament in the middle.

"Is this gold?" I whirl back to face Morg.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "Aye, that's Torren's desk."

I've never seen so much gold—and it's just lying on the table. The door to the forge was locked, yes, but surely this kind of thing belongs in a vault?

I eye the piece he must have been working on before he left the forge. "Is he a goldsmith?"

I think Ritta said last night that they were both blacksmiths, but I could be mistaken. With everything that happened, maybe I remember incorrectly.

"No, he does iron work as well." Morg motions to some shelves opposite the furnace. "He's the one who makes most of the horseshoes for the clan, as well as tools like scissors and cutlery. But he does a lot of the fine decorative work, too, and that usually involves gold. He even forged King Gorvor's crown."

"That's incredible," I reply.

I survey the shelves, then turn back toward Morg's side of the room. Swords and daggers hang on the wall, as well as the occasional axe. There's even a wicked-looking mace with sharp spikes.

"So you make weapons?" I ask, "and he makes tools and ornaments?"

Morg is still standing in the middle of the forge, his arms crossed, his expression closed off. "Aye. We do tend to divide the work that way."

I wouldn't have thought that I could sense his mood from only knowing him such a short time, but there's a definitive undercurrent of displeasure in his voice.

"You don't like making weapons?" I press tentatively.

He walks over to his workbench and picks up one of the throwing knives. "No, I do. There's a lot of precision work to be done, and it's what I apprenticed for."

I squint at him, suspecting he's not telling me the full story. "But…?" I prompt.

He gives me a dry smile that lets me know he's aware I'm probing on purpose. Then he sets down the knife and says, "It gets a little repetitive, is all. I try to give every piece a different design and all, but sometimes, it would be nice to work on something else instead."

"I'm sure Torren feels the same," I quip, pointing toward the shelves with stacks of iron horseshoes.

"Aye, but that's just it," he says, frustration clear in his voice. "We could swap out the work when one gets too tired of making the same thing over and over again. Not the fine gold work, perhaps, because I have little skill in that, but the rest?" He shrugs, then adds, "Torren refuses to make weapons, that's the real issue. He won't touch a knife, let alone a sword. He might make arrowheads for hunting from time to time, but that's it."

That's unusual, I will admit it. "Have you asked him why?"

Morg inclines his head. "Didn't go well."

"Huh." I take his hand, tugging him closer to me. "Is that why you fought the time before the harvest festival?"

"Aye," he says. "Though I may have insinuated that no true blacksmith would refuse an order just because it has sharp edges."

I give him a reprimanding look, and he shrugs again, though his cheeks flush a darker shade of green.

"Maybe you could talk to him again?" I suggest. "Tell him how you feel about sharing the work."

He takes my chin and lifts my face. "Will you come with me? He might be more inclined to talk if you're present."

For a moment, I want to refuse, because this might be something that they need to work out on their own. But I'm curious, and the thought of spending some time with both of them does sound good.

"Lead the way," I tell him.

"This is my room," Morg informs me when we reach a corridor deep in the bowels of the Hill. He stops in front of a tall, rounded wooden door and inclines his head toward it. "If you'd like, we could revisit that plan of me spreading you out on the bed…?"

He makes the last part a question, adding a wicked grin at the end. But we've come here for another reason, so despite the tempting proposition, I nudge him forward again.

"Another time," I promise him, because I do know it will happen, and soon. "Take me to Torren first."

Morg clasps my hand again and continues down the corridor. "He might not even be here."

He stops at a door only several paces away from his own and knocks.

"You two live so close together?" I ask, surprised.

From what I've learned about the Hill so far, there are some communal spaces inside the underground palace, large caverns like the baths, the great hall, and so on. In between are corridors with residential rooms, like Ritta's, and there are several of those in various locations around the Hill. Surely two males who claim to be at each other's throats all the time would have chosen to live in different areas to avoid each other? Especially since they have to spend all their working hours shut in the same room.

Before Morg can answer, the door in front of us swings open, and there's Torren, staring at us with wide eyes. He's shirtless, and I can't drag my gaze away from him. His chest is broad and muscular, the dark hair in the center continuing down in a narrow strip right to the waistband of his leather pants. When I reach that, I suddenly remember what I'm doing and snap my gaze back up.

Torren gives me a crooked grin. "Hello, Jasmine. What has this one done to bring you to my door so soon?"

Morg grumbles, "What makes you think I've done something?"

I lift my hand to prevent this from devolving into a real quarrel. "We were talking, and Morg wants to talk to you about something. Would you mind if we came in?"

Torren lifts his eyebrows but steps back, allowing us to enter. To my dismay, he unearths a fresh shirt from his wooden storage chest and pulls it over his head. My eyes are drawn to the large bed through an arched doorway—it's neatly made and seems big enough for…

I wrench my thoughts and gaze away and focus on the living space instead. It's sparsely furnished but cozy, with a writing desk and chair on one side, and a leather armchair and a low table on the other. The table is piled with books, so I walk over and pick one up, intrigued.

"The Minerals of Southern Styria?" I ask, glancing at Torren.

He smiles slightly. "I was at the library last night, researching our issue, so I borrowed it in the hopes that it would put me to sleep."

I laugh and replace the book on the table. "You have a lovely set of rooms."

"They're bigger than mine," Morg says, not offended exactly but still grumpy.

Torren eyes him warily. "Did you really want to ask me something or was that an excuse to snoop in my rooms?"

I turn and perch on the edge of the chair by the desk. I've brought Morg this far—he'll have to take it from here and discuss his issue with Torren on his own. He casts me a look that tells me how uncomfortable he is, but then he focuses back on Torren.

"Why won't you make weapons?" he blurts out.

Torren flinches and takes a half-step back. From his surprise, I know he did not expect this.

He flicks his gaze from Morg to me and back, then growls, "That's none of your concern. And you had to bring her here, too? Did you tell her I was less of a blacksmith than you because I don't make tools for killing?"

"No!" Morg spreads his hands to the side, exasperation plain on his face. "We just got to talking at the forge, and she noticed my side was full of weapons and yours wasn't. I didn't mean anything by it."

Torren glares at him, his fists clenched tight. "Then why bring it up?"

I bite my lip, telling myself not to interfere. But there's something Torren said just now that's bothering me.

"Um," I say, my voice a little higher than normal. "Torren, we really didn't come here to upset you. But you said—you said weapons were tools for killing, yes? Is that why you won't make them anymore?"

A muscle jumps in Torren's jaw. Then he seems to deflate, his shoulders hunching in. He sits heavily into the leather armchair and passes his palm over his face.

Morg glances at me, eyebrows raised as if to ask, ‘What now?'

I stand and walk closer to Torren, then gather my courage and reach out for his hand. "Will you tell us what happened?" I ask quietly.

He looks up then, despair and shame warring on his face. "So you'll think the worst of me?" He shakes his head and focuses on the younger orc. "I knew you'd play to win, Morg, but I didn't think you'd dig this deep."

The corners of Morg's mouth pull down, and his voice is low as he says, "I didn't mean to. Jasmine and I were only talking about how I get bored making all those knives and daggers the hunters and warriors always seem to be losing on their trips." He scrubs his fingers through his short hair. "I swear, this wasn't something I planned."

Torren closes his eyes and leans his head back. His fingers are tight around mine, his body taut with tension.

I glance up at Morg for some help on what to do. He shrugs helplessly, then motions from me to Torren.

I understand immediately, and a rush of affection for the younger orc sweeps through me. He wants me for himself, I know that, but he recognizes Torren needs me more right now.

Slowly, so as not to startle Torren, I move between his legs, then sit on one of his powerful thighs. His eyes fly open, and he studies me for a long moment, want and longing plain on his face. I scoot closer to him and place my hands on his shoulders, waiting for him to show me what he wants.

Finally, his large hands land on my hips, and he draws me in, then hugs me fiercely, burying his face in my neck.

"Whatever it is," I whisper, "you can tell me. I won't judge you, I promise, and I won't leave."

Torren lets out a shuddering breath. Then he straightens and looks past me toward Morg.

"Do you want me to leave?" Morg asks.

His voice is raspy, and I know he wants to be here, but he's giving Torren a way out of this. My heart thumps painfully at this, and I can only hope that Torren won't send him away. They need to heal whatever hurt is between them, and if we don't start tonight, I don't know if we ever will.

Torren shakes his head. "You can stay."

Morg's shoulders relax slightly, and he draws the chair closer to us, then sits, his elbows on his knees. Torren's grip on my waist tightens, and I dig my fingers into his shoulders in answer, letting him know I'm there.

At last, Torren takes a deep breath and says, "I made the sword that killed one of my best friend's entire family."