Chapter 9

Nine

Silence follows Torren's confession. I don't know what to say, because I'm too busy trying to understand how this could have happened.

But Morg straightens, his eyebrows snapping down. "Steagor's…?"

Torren gives him a curt nod. "Aye."

I look from one to the other, confused. "I thought Ozork was your best friend," I say, though my comment has me cringing the moment the words leave my mouth.

Torren's sigh shudders out of him. "You haven't met Steagor yet, have you? He and Poppy have been keeping to themselves because she's been having issues with morning sickness. Steagor's been taking care of her."

I love how he casually mentions this, as if men concerning themselves with female issues is perfectly normal in the orc world.

"So how did…?" I stop myself, not wanting to press what seems to be a raw wound. But I have to ask, because I think he needs to tell the story. "What happened?"

Torren slides his hand up and down my back, a soothing gesture meant more for him than me. "Before we came to live in this Hill, before King Gorvor founded the Black Bear Clan, we all lived in the mountains on the eastern part of the continent, closer to the fae kingdom."

Now that he's started the story, his words flow more easily.

"The old king, Gorvor's father, was a mean ruler. His generals were as bad as him," he tells us. "My father was one of them."

Morg blinks, surprise clear on his face. "I didn't know that."

Torren nods thoughtfully. "I didn't like how the king did things, and especially how he treated his queen. She was his fated mate, and yet he treated her like garbage." He shifts his gaze to me. "I would sooner stick a dagger in my chest than hurt you, Jasmine, so I don't know how he could treat her so, but he was always a rotten bastard. But my father had his ear, and my family enjoyed the benefits of that."

He says that with disgust, and I can only imagine what kind of benefits they got if they danced to the tune of a tyrant king.

"My father wanted me to become a warrior like him," he continues, "but I went and convinced the blacksmith of the Boar Clan to take me on as an apprentice instead. My father beat me bloody the day he found out, but by then, the king had approved of it, so he couldn't do much about it."

Morg leans forward, his frown deepening. "Smithing is an honorable profession," he growls. "He was wrong."

Torren offers him a small smile at this. "Aye, I know that. But he wanted to raise a killer, and I was a disappointment. Especially since I was the only boy he ever had—I have two older sisters, and my mother never managed to get pregnant after that."

I press a soft kiss to his jaw. "I'm glad you resisted."

Torren runs his nose over my temple and takes a deep inhale as if my scent soothes him. Then he goes on, "I was good at the job, too. And when the time came, I forged a new sword for King Trak. He broke his old one during a war campaign." He glances at Morg and lifts his chin a little. "It was a beauty, steel so bright it shone. I presented it to him, with a golden pommel encrusted with rubies. Fit for a king."

Morg remains silent, his hands clasped in front of him. We're both waiting for the conclusion of this story, which I know will be horrible.

Torren sighs. "Steagor was a warrior, but an honorable one, like Gorvor, Ozork, and the others. We would talk often, they'd come by the forge to offer suggestions about the weapons they needed, and they'd make room for me at the table every night even though I wasn't a warrior. But they couldn't stand what the old king was doing to the clan."

He pauses then, swallowing thickly. I squeeze his hand, offering whatever support he needs, and he holds me tight against him as he finishes.

"King Trak had his son beaten unconscious, throwing him in the dungeons, and Steagor whipped to within an inch of his life. Then he murdered his parents and his brother with the very sword I made for him. I watched and tried to interfere, but my father had some of his men cart me away before I could ruin his good standing with the king." He shakes his head sadly, staring into his lap. "Gorvor then beat his father in a duel. He could have taken over the Boar Clan. But he knew it was too rotten to be fixed, so he took those who wanted to start a new life and led us all the way through the human lands to these mountains. Ozork found the abandoned Hill when scouting, and we moved in here. I got the forge, but I told Gorvor I wouldn't make another weapon."

He looks at Morg then and adds, "We'd been searching for years for a blacksmith talented enough to take on the job until you came along."

With that, he falls silent, all the tension going out of him now that his story is done. I remain quiet, too, because there's not much to be said about this.

"It wasn't your fault."

At Morg's harsh words, both Torren and I glance up. Morg's face is flushed a deep green, his chest expanding on a deep breath.

He stares straight at Torren and says, "You're wrong."

Torren goes completely still beneath me. "I knew you wouldn't understand."

His voice is a quiet rasp, sounding broken and sad.

I frown at Morg, unable to believe what he's saying. "What on earth are you doing?" I ask. "You can't say things like that."

But Morg glares at us, his expression fierce. "I respect your decision," he tells Torren. "I do, and I will not ask you again to make weapons. But you are not to blame for what happened to Steagor's family." He throws his arms in the air and demands, "Thinking like that, do you think I'm responsible for every single life that a weapon I've made has taken?"

Torren grinds his teeth together. "That's different," he grumbles. "You're making weapons for honorable men. I knew what the old king was like when I made that sword."

Morg leans forward, his piercing gaze on Torren. "I made the blade that nearly killed our queen." His voice is but a low whisper now. "And I never liked the bastard who wielded it. Do you think King Gorvor should have blamed me for that? Or was he right to behead him?"

Torren draws me closer, as if the mention of the queen being in danger affects him, too. "Of course he was right."

Morg shifts closer, so his knees touch Torren's. "Has Steagor blamed you for it?"

I feel Torren's flinch. It's a twitch that shakes his whole body, and though I understand what Morg is trying to achieve, I wish he went about it in a way that wasn't as blunt.

"No," Torren says hoarsely. "He never said he did anyway."

"And has he behaved differently toward you?" Morg presses.

A deep exhale from behind me.

"No."

"That's because he knows that the blame lies with the male who wielded the blade," Morg declares, "not the one who forged it."

Torren is silent, but the thudding of his heartbeat pulses against my back. I'm caught in his embrace now, squished to his chest, but I don't move. He needs me now, I know it, and I want to be here for him.

"How long ago was this?" I ask.

What I want to know is how long has Torren been tormenting himself with this, but I don't word the question that way.

Still, I think Morg knows what I'm asking because he sends me a long look before replying, "Over a decade. I was barely fifteen when we left the old clan. My parents followed Gorvor because one of the king's generals took a liking to my eldest sister. They weren't mates, but he wanted her, so he thought he should just take her." Morg shakes his head in disgust. "There was nothing left for us in that damp old fortress."

I'm glad he has shifted the story away from Torren, because he slowly relaxes behind me.

"I'm sorry your afternoon got cut short," the older orc says suddenly.

I meet Morg's gaze to see if he's annoyed by it, but he gives me a small smile as if to say he doesn't mind.

"It wasn't," he says to Torren. "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Torren lets out a low bark of laughter. "Aye, that you are." He blows out a long breath, then adds, "It's nearly time for dinner, though. We shouldn't miss that."

I lift one eyebrow, an idea forming in my mind. "Or Morg could go to the kitchens to see if he can scavenge some food for us, and we can all eat here together?"

I'm not entirely sure Torren is fit for company right now. I can't imagine how I'd feel after a conversation like that—exposed and exhausted, likely.

"That's a splendid idea." Morg pushes to his feet. "But you better leave that door unlocked, Torren, or we will have words."

Torren lifts his chin, looking the other male in the eyes. "Never. My door's always open for you."

I swear Morg blushes even deeper before he twists on his heels and leaves. He closes the door softly behind him, and I'm alone with Torren, still curled up in his lap. He seems to realize it at the same time I do, but instead of letting me go, he hitches my hips an inch closer, the warmth of his palms permeating through my skirts.

"Thank you for sharing your story with us," I murmur, gazing up at him.

Torren quirks his mouth in a smile. "I should thank Morg for bringing it up, I suppose."

"Not something you expected, hmm?" I tease.

He rubs his thumb over my hip in slow circles. "He certainly manages to surprise me even though I've known him for years."

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering whether I should press this matter or not. Finally, I just can't hold the words back.

"He told me he invited you to the harvest festival," I say. "And that you never showed?"

Torren groans and buries his face in my neck. "And now you think I should apologize for that?" he mumbles.

I grin, unable to help myself. "No, I'm only wondering why you're so intent on pushing him away when it's clear?—"

I stop myself, not wanting to say too much. Morg must have his own opportunity to tell Torren how he feels, and Torren has to figure things out on his own, too.

"He's just so young," Torren bursts out suddenly. "Everything he does is hasty and loud."

I blink, surprised. "You mean his work?"

"No, no." Torren growls in frustration, his hands tightening slightly on my waist. "He's an excellent blacksmith. Better at forging blades than even I was, I think. I meant the way he speaks. My life was…quiet before he showed up in my forge."

Oh.

I fight my smile, not wanting to give too much away. "Well, I'm even younger than him," I point out instead.

Torren lets out another groan and covers his eyes with a palm. "I know. You are both too young, but the fates are never wrong."

I squirm a little in his lap. "Does that bother you? That you're older?"

He lowers the hand and levels a look at me. "I won't pretend that I don't know which one of us is the better partner for you. But I'm a selfish bastard, so I will fight for you unless you tell me unequivocally that you don't want me."

My heart skips, and a fluttering sensation descends all the way to my belly. "I'm glad," I whisper. "I don't want you to stop fighting for me either. And you're not selfish at all. You said yourself the fates are never wrong."

I never once considered Torren too old for me. I feel safe with him, protected in ways I never expected but that I now crave. Being in his arms is incredible, and I want more from him.

I search his handsome, scarred face, wondering what stories every one of those scars hold. With time, perhaps he'll tell me all about them—if I decide that I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

The thought of doing anything else is physically painful, but so is the idea of letting go of Morg. I'm being torn in two, clear down the middle, and I hate it. I hate that these two orcs, honorable and kind, are being put through this ordeal as well.

"You are so beautiful," he rasps. He lifts one big hand to my cheek, his calloused thumb stroking my skin. "Your eyes are so blue."

I want to tell him that I'm not that unusual in the human lands, that I'm ordinary and forgettable enough that my fiancé couldn't stomach the thought of being married to me. But I don't, because Torren is staring at me as if I'm a treasure, and I want that—for the rest of my life.

I lean in, tipping my chin up. I'm not used to this, but I hope it's invitation enough for him. He lets out a low groan, then brushes his lips over mine. It's tentative, that first kiss, a question that demands an answer, so I press myself closer to him, digging my fingers into the thick slabs of his muscle under his shirt.

"Torren," I gasp against his lips.

He draws me closer and guides me to straddle him, rather than sitting across on his lap.

"Take what you want," he tells me, his hands on my ass. "I'm yours."

So I explore, peppering kisses over his jaw and cheek, then finding his mouth again for a longer press of our lips. When he squeezes me and urges me to spread my knees wider, I gasp, and he swipes his tongue over my lower lip, tasting me for the first time.

Sparks of desire dance through my body, gathering deep in my belly to form a glowing, pulsing coal. I slide my hands up and behind Torren's neck, then reach up to tangle my fingers in his hair. It's amazing, cool and smooth like silk, and he groans when I scratch my nails against his scalp.

Emboldened, I touch my tongue to his. It's the most amazing sensation, so unexpected considering what we're doing. It makes me wonder what else I could lick—what else Torren could lick—and if it would taste as good. The thought fans the flames inside me, and I mold myself closer to his chest, needing to feel the heat of him.

What I discover instead is the hardness in his pants, a bulging ridge that makes contact with the juncture of my thighs, and suddenly I wish my skirts weren't in the way. I squirm closer still, until Torren tightens his grip on my behind, holding me in place.

"We don't want to start that," he rumbles, but he nips at my lower lip a moment later, drawing a moan from me.

I pant against his cheek. "Why?"

"For one, Morg will return shortly with our dinner," he reminds me. He releases my ass and palms my face with both hands, squishing up my cheeks. "And we haven't talked about what it means for a human to be with an orc yet."

"Oh." I settle back on his legs, knees still spread wide, but I'm no longer rubbing against his groin. "Is it different from how humans, er, do things?"

Torren brushes back my mussed hair and tucks it behind my ears. "Aye. The obvious part is that I'm much larger than any human man you might have slept with."

My cheeks, already warm from all the kissing, heat up even more. "I haven't slept with anyone yet."

I thought I'd lose my virginity on my wedding night. And now I'm eager to have this orc take it from me, because I want it to be something I choose, not an obligation that comes with marriage. No one has even brought up marriage since I arrived at the Hill, and now I think of it, neither Rose nor Ivy mentioned having wed their mates.

"Do orcs get married?" I blurt out.

Torren lifts his eyebrows. "You want to get married?"

I press my hands to my cheeks. "Yes? I mean, I don't know. I thought I had to, you know, to…" I motion at the narrow space between us, hoping Torren will understand.

But he throws his head back and laughs, good-natured chuckles echoing around his room. "No, sweetheart, you don't have to marry someone if you want to fuck them. But orcs do get married sometimes. It depends on the couple. Most are happy to be mated, and it's a commitment we take more seriously than any marriage vows." He brushes his knuckles over my cheek and adds, "You will decide, all right? If you feel like you have to get married first, that'll work. But I'm telling you that you don't have to. It's your choice."

That doesn't sound so bad. I think of my wedding dress, still crumpled in my saddlebags, where I stashed it in a fit of pique when I was packing for this hasty trip. It's hard to believe such a short amount of time has passed since I left my parents' home.

"I'll think about it," I promise. "I don't think I'd want a big ceremony in any case."

With stilted words, I explain to him about Ansel and our canceled wedding. Halfway through the story, Morg returns with a small pot of stew and a basket filled with clay bowls, spoons, and bread. He sniffs the air, and I know he must scent what Torren and I did earlier, but to his credit, he doesn't comment, only pulls Torren's desk to the middle of the room so we can eat. I repeat what I already told Torren, then finish the tale between bites of a delicious venison stew with sweet chunks of carrots and turnips.

"He sounds like an idiot," Morg remarks as he mops the last of the gravy from his bowl with a piece of bread. "He should have at least told you himself. Leaving you at the altar was a cowardly thing to do."

Torren leans back against the armchair, his hands on my hips. I'm still sitting in his lap, because he only has two chairs in his room, and besides, we didn't really want to move.

"Hmm," he says. "I can't help but be grateful for his cowardice. If he hadn't done that to you, you wouldn't have been angry enough to leave your home and come here. And we might have gone our entire lives without meeting each other."

Morg pauses, eyes wide in horror. "I didn't even think of that."

He reaches over the table, and I take his hand. He squeezes my fingers tightly as if he needs the contact. Orcs are much freer with touching than humans, and I can't say I dislike their customs—I didn't even know how much I craved casual touch and hugs before I came here. But every time either one of them brushes up against me or takes my hand, a small burst of happiness explodes in my chest, filling me with warmth.

"I'm here," I say softly.

Torren's fingers twitch on my hips. "Would you like to stay here tonight?"

I turn in his lap to stare at him. "You mean…?"

"No," he says with a smile. "Our clothes stay on. And you don't have to. But I thought I'd offer."

I glance back at Morg to find him… Well, he's not pouting, exactly, but he's definitely not happy about Torren's suggestion. I'm about to refuse for the sake of keeping the peace when Torren leans past me to glance at the younger orc.

"Don't look so glum," he says. "You're welcome to stay, too."