Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

Owen climbs up the bed, and I hold the blanket so he can slip under the covers with me. I don’t fight him when he puts an arm around my shoulders and pulls me to his side. Why would I? There’s no going back now, and I might as well soak in as much of his presence as possible before duty—or his decisions—pull him away from me.

I glance up to find him watching me closely, his blue eyes calm, his attention all on me. Then I draw in a deep inhale, filling my senses with his scent, and it soothes me like nothing else before.

“For you to understand why I am the way I am, I’ll have to take you back a while,” I whisper. “There’s no quick way to explain it.”

Owen kisses my temple, his lips warm against my skin. “All right.”

My hands tremble in my lap, so I clench them together, but Owen covers them with his larger hand and squeezes my fingers.

“Whatever you tell me, I’ll still be here after,” he says, his voice level.

I glance up at him again, my eyes already welling with tears. “Aye, but you’ll leave in the end.”

He draws in a deep breath. “Is that what’s bothering you? You think I’ll leave for the duchy with my men and never return?”

I understand what he’s really asking—is this why I’ve been acting so strange, pushing him away even though I’m clearly mad about him?

I dip my chin in the tiniest nod. “I didn’t want…” My voice hitches, not breaking exactly, yet still betraying my emotions. But I soldier on, determined to get this out once and for all. “I didn’t want to get attached to you, only to lose you after a few weeks.”

He lets out a long sigh. “I understand the sensation. So, what changed?” He motions between us. “Why did you decide to…?”

“To let you lick my pussy when I could barely look at you over the past days?” I can’t help but grin as his cheeks turn a bright shade of pink. “I suppose I couldn’t find another reason to push you away.”

He pauses, thinking this through. “That means you were actively searching for them, correct? For reasons to push me away?” At my nod, he adds, “Why, Mara?”

I interlace my fingers with his, needing the comfort. If he decides to leave after, I will know, at least, that I finally gathered the courage to tell the truth.

“My father always wanted a son,” I begin.

Owen’s eyebrows climb up, so I nudge him lightly in the ribs with my elbow.

“I did tell you this might be long.”

He inclines his head. “I’m not complaining, just surprised that this is where your story starts.”

“Aye, well, you said you don’t know much about orcs, and you need to understand…things about my people before we get to us ,” I tell him. “So. My father always wanted a son, and I was the only child my mother ever bore for him.”

I snuggle closer to Owen, inhaling his scent and luxuriating in the warmth radiating from his body. Then I take a deep breath and continue.

“I don’t remember much of my early childhood, but I do know there was a time each month when my mother took to her bed, weeping. Only later, when I got older, I realized that she was lamenting the fact that she got her monthly courses.”

Owen’s hand clenches ever so slightly around mine. When I glance up at him, he’s pink in the face again, but he shakes his head lightly as if to ask me to disregard his reaction.

“Well, since my father was left with me instead of a strapping young lad, he tried to mold me into the warrior he thought I should be.” At this, I pause and grimace. “If you visited the training rings here at the Hill, you might have met Orsha, Ozork’s sister.”

He squints toward the door as if trying to call up the memory. “Er, a middle-aged lady? The weapons master?”

“That’s her,” I confirm. “She is a formidable warrior, as are other women in our clan. Sarrai, Ritta, even Hazel, who is Vark’s human mate. They’re all allowed to train and are better at certain techniques than male warriors are, and at times even more cunning.”

Owen purses his lips. “But you’re not, correct? A formidable warrior, that is. I have no doubt that you can be cunning.”

I can’t help but smile, even though the memories are weighing heavily on me. “No, as I told you before. But in the old kingdom, under King Trak’s rule—that’s Gorvor’s father and my uncle, if you don’t know—women weren’t allowed to become warriors, no matter how good they would have been.”

He pulls back from me, his blue eyes widening. “You’re-you’re the king’s cousin? How did I not… Gods, Mara, and you insisted I stop calling you a lady?”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” I quip. “You would have behaved differently toward me, as if who my father was should afford me some higher status than your own.”

Owen opens his mouth as if to argue, but whatever he sees in my expression has him swallowing his words. He knows I’m right, and if I could do it all over again, I would have kept my relation to Gorvor a secret once more.

“All right,” he rumbles. “So, your father was the old king’s brother?”

“Aye, younger by three years. And the king had Gorvor, his heir, then Charan, before I was ever born. They were both strong, warriors to the bone, trained from an early age in the art of war.” I pause at this, thinking of how grueling those early years must have been for them. “Of course, King Trak is a madman and a tyrant, so they didn’t have a happy childhood.”

Owen’s arm tightens around my shoulders. “But neither did you.”

“It wasn’t as bad as theirs,” I counter. “I had a mother who cared for me, while theirs was…absent.”

I remember Gorvor’s mother only vaguely, even though she traveled with us to this new home. She’d been so ill and unresponsive by the end that she didn’t interact with anybody, least of all the daughter of her brother-in-law. I must have reminded her of her husband, and that was enough for her to ignore me completely.

But that’s not the part of our clan’s history that Owen must learn.

“My father sent me to training with the boys,” I continue before he can ask any further questions about the king, “but the training master said he’d only accept me if I was indistinguishable from the others. So my father cropped my hair short and had me dressed in boys’ clothes. He told me I was to become the best warrior out there and make him proud.” I tug on my braid, then add, “I think it’s why I’m quite vain about my hair. I like wearing it long, and I take good care of it.”

“And you always wear lovely gowns.” Owen has drawn me closer to his side, though I’m not sure if he’s aware of it. “How old were you?”

“Seven,” I say. “Or maybe eight. It’s hard to remember because of how far removed that life is now.”

“Did you…want to be a warrior?” he asks slowly.

“No.” I let out a bark of laughter that sounds too harsh in the quiet of the room. “But that didn’t matter. I had to report to the fighting ring every morning, and so I did. For years.”

Owen gapes at me. “Years? They didn’t see you weren’t suited for it?”

My lips twist up in a bitter smile. “I wasn’t bad, you know. Definitely not the worst of the bunch.”

I remember Carrow, a year younger than me, weeping as we ran through knee-deep snow, freezing and hungry, during our endurance training. He got so sick after it, the teacher kicked him out of our class and sent him to work in the kitchens, which was the best thing to have happened to my friend.

“How did you get out of it?” Owen asks, still clearly horrified. “Was it only after you left for this new kingdom?”

“No, I got out on my own.” I grimace, knowing in advance he’ll dislike the way the story will unfold. “I realized that I would never be one of the best—and that I didn’t want to be. So I became the worst. I came last in running races. Let others land blows in hand-to-hand training that I could have blocked. Missed the target at archery practice more often than not. After a few months of this, the trainer hauled me in front of my father and told him I would never amount to anything. That I was useless .”

Owen pulls me all the way into his lap and bands his arms around me. My head fits perfectly under his chin, so I curl into his chest, my cheek over his heart. I listen to his thudding heartbeat, both strangely pleased and saddened that he’s upset. He doesn’t say anything for a long while, even though he’s tense. But I have a feeling that he’s simply choosing his words, so I remain silent, basking in the glow of his affection for as long as he’ll let me.

“Is that why…?” he asks at last, his voice hoarse. “I mean, is that the reason why you can’t go outside?”

I expected the question, but it’s still difficult to talk about. I tilt my head from side to side, wondering how to explain it.

“I think the issues started there,” I hedge finally. “The mountains surrounding that palace are beautiful, but a tough place to live, though most orcs thrive in such an environment. That’s why we were drawn to this land right here. It was similar enough that we felt comfortable. But it’s a completely different experience to ride peacefully through the forest than to be forced to climb a sheer rock wall in the middle of the winter to build endurance . I hated it, and I wanted it to stop.”

“But that’s not all it was?” he prompts, his voice rumbling under my ear.

“No, things got much worse later,” I admit. “My father never got over the fact that I failed . Every day, he called me useless, and my mother didn’t do much to stop him—she’d come from a long line of warriors, too. From that day on, in their eyes, my sole purpose was to grow up and come of age so they could find me a mate and I could pop out a new generation of orcs, hopefully boys who would restore our family’s reputation after I’d tarnished it so badly.”

I bite my tongue as I realize I mentioned mates , but Owen doesn’t seem to notice—perhaps he thinks the term is close to a husband, which would be true if it wasn’t for the impossible, feral attraction between fated mates.

“Is that why you left the old kingdom?” he asks, brow furrowed. “To avoid that fate?”

“In part.”

I tug on the end of my braid again, then drop it, aware that it’s a nervous habit. I don’t want to tell Owen the next part of the story, but we’ve come this far, and he’s still holding me tightly in his lap, not running away.

“My father died when I was fourteen.” I take one of Owen’s hands and squeeze his fingers. I’ll need the support. “He was fond of warfare even though he might have been too old at the time to go out on campaigns. King Trak was always at war with someone , and that year, there had been a number of fae raids on the eastern border. The king sent a hundred warriors under my father’s lead to strengthen the garrison at the Draem outpost. Fewer than half of them returned, and my father was one of those who fell.”

Owen shifts me slightly in his lap and glances down. “What happened?”

I shrug. “They were ambushed. The fae king had had enough of orcs raiding their lands and sent a force much larger than King Trak anticipated.” I look up at him and try to smile. “I suppose what you said holds true—it is dangerous to go into battle unprepared.”

He shakes his head ruefully. “That’s not why I said it, Mara.”

“I know.” I lift my chin and brush a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “But that doesn’t mean you’re mistaken.”

He takes my hands between both of his and presses his palms together, a surprisingly comforting gesture. I can’t move my hands, but the warmth of him permeates through me, soothing my raw nerves.

“That was the real beginning of my issues,” I continue. I need to get the story out now, or it’ll forever remain stuck in my belly, a great lump of stone I’ve been carrying around with me all these years. “Whenever I went outside after that, I thought of what could happen. If a hundred warriors were ambushed and slaughtered, what chance did I stand? I was useless, after all.”

Owen takes a deep inhale, and I know he’s about to refute my statement, but I quickly pull my hand away from him and place it over his mouth.

“I know that’s not true,” I murmur. “But I thought so at the time. Anyone would have if they heard it often enough as a child.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” He kisses the inside of my palm, then leans into my touch, so much like a cat. “You are the most capable woman I’ve met in my life.”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re basing that conclusion on what, exactly?”

He takes my chin and presses a firm kiss on my lips. “I’ve been observing you. The way you speak, the way you walk, the way you know what’s going on in the Hill at every moment of the day. Everyone I talked to seemed to hold you in the highest regard, from the kitchen staff to the blacksmiths to the king, young and old, they all told me to speak to you whenever I had a question about the clan.”

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I do my best not to preen. “They did?”

His smile lights up his eyes. “Oh, yes. I might have missed the fact that you’re the king’s cousin, but I knew you were too good for me from the start.”

I smack his chest lightly. “Stop that. I’m no better than you, Owen.”

“Hmm.” He kisses me again and sinks his teeth lightly into my lower lip. “I’m not complaining, just confused about why you chose me. Flattered, but confused.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to explain all about fated mates, but he deepens the kiss, slicking his tongue against mine, then pulls back, leaving me panting.

“I shouldn’t have interrupted your story.” He brushes back my hair, his fingers gentle on my skin. “Please, go on.”

I don’t want to. It’s not a nice story, and while Owen may think I’ve always been this capable, this respected, the truth is much different. But he deserves to know everything about me before he makes a decision that might very well change his life forever.

“After my father’s death, my mother was inconsolable.” I swallow, wondering how to explain the pain she’d been in without mentioning mates, then decide to simply forge on. “She’d loved him even though he was a difficult male, you see.”

“Of course,” Owen murmurs.

His agreement helps, and something loosens in my chest. Do humans also love like this, so deeply and completely, life ceases to exist when the relationship ends?

“She’d forget to eat and bathe, she’d sleep all day and wander the halls of the palace at night.”

I grip his hand again, digging my fingers into his skin. He holds me just as tightly, as if sensing I need the contact more than ever.

When I’m quiet for several long moments, Owen brushes his lips over my temple in a sweet, gentle kiss.

“Did she forget about you, too?” he asks.

There’s no judgment in his voice, no disgust at my mother’s actions, only concern—for me.

“Aye,” I whisper. “Most everyone did. Gorvor had been figuring out a plan to save the clan from ruin and didn’t have time for his much younger cousin. My mother’s sister had moved away from the clan to live with her mate at another outpost in the mountains and didn’t visit often.”

I shrug, though the memory of that dark, lonely period still stings. “It was easy for a use?—”

I stop, refusing to call myself useless again. I’d come too far to let my father’s old notions affect my present.

Clearing my aching throat, I try again. “It was easy for a girl to slip through the cracks. I had no real girlfriends because my father had pushed me into training with the boys, and the boys didn’t have time for me because they were always training. I didn’t dare go outside because it was dangerous to go out alone, so I spent my time discovering all the hidden parts of the mountain palace.”

Owen rubs my back in soothing circles, his palm warming me through the thin linen of my undershirt. It’s exactly the support I need to continue.

“My mother walked out of our rooms one winter morning. I was still asleep, and I didn’t hear her leave, but I wouldn’t have known to stop her even if I did.” A lump forms in my throat, painfully tight, and tears sting my eyes, but I force myself to continue. “She was always walking, wandering around like a ghost.”

Warm arms wrap around me, and Owen pulls me to his chest. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry I insisted?—”

“No, I want to,” I interrupt him, my voice higher than before. “I think I need to.”

“All right.” He kisses the top of my head. “Then I’ll listen.”

“She walked out the front gate. The guards on duty saw her, but not one of them thought to stop a woman who so clearly wasn’t well.” I sniff, some of the old anger simmering to the surface. “They were trained to keep enemies out, not prevent our clanspeople from leaving.”

“And she never returned?” Owen guesses.

I shake my head, unable to speak. Tears spill over, running down my cheeks. I swipe at them with the edge of the blanket until Owen takes a clean, neatly pressed linen handkerchief from his pocket and hands it to me.It’s embroidered with his initials, the stitches neat, done in blue thread.

“My mother did that for me,” he confesses, his lips warm against my forehead. “I’d complained I kept losing my handkerchiefs in the laundry at the barracks, and for my next name day, I got a stack of these.” He pauses, then adds, “I don’t go home often enough. Your story made me realize it.”

I sniff and dab my eyes with the soft linen. “You should. Visit her, I mean. Family is important.”

“I know. My mother would like you. My father, too, though he might be confused about why a lady such as yourself would stoop to a lowly soldier like me.” He shakes his head, cutting off my protest. “I know, we’re equals and all, but he’d take one look at your fine dresses and pretty gold jewelry and wonder all the same.”

He touches the rings in my earlobe one by one, his fingers gentle. I shiver when he skims the pointed tip of my ear, and his gaze sharpens, as if he’s aware he found a part of me he needs to explore further. But he continues on and cups the back of my neck with his big palm, tips my chin up, and brings his lips to mine, a slow and comforting kiss.

“Does it bother you that I’m better off than you?”I ask.

I meet his gaze, my lips still tingling from his kisses. It’s a stalling tactic on my part, talking about this when I should finish my story, but this could be an issue between us, one we’d need to resolve before progressing our relationship.

But Owen shakes his head, a small smile twisting his lips. “No, Mara. I can’t keep you in silk and gold, but I suppose you’re more than capable of doing that on your own.” He fingers the fine embroidery on the sleeve of my undershirt, then adds, “I was on my way to become a major in a year or two. Perhaps even a colonel if I played my cards right.”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “Was? You’re saying you’re not anymore?”

“That will all depend on what Lady Willow decides to do,” he says cryptically. “She hasn’t decided yet, so for now, I don’t want to give you a definitive answer.”

My chest floods with a mixture of hope and dread. Is he saying that he could possibly be staying here if Willow decides to be with Ozork? I like Ozork’s mate, but now, I find myself impatient with the woman. If she holds Owen’s future in her hands, she should tell him what she intends to do, no?

“I can see you thinking.” Owen interrupts my thoughts by rubbing his thumb between my eyebrows, no doubt smoothing away the frown lines there. “I’m impatient, too, but it’s only been several days. If you think about it, we’ve moved quite far for knowing each other less than a week.”

I purse my lips, holding back the argument that I might be with child already if we were both orcs and we gave in to our instincts that first time we saw each other.

Owen takes my silence as acquiescence, though, and kisses me quickly, then adds, “We’ll know soon enough.”

His voice is hopeful, but to me, it spells disaster—what if Willow decides not to remain at the Hill? Ozork would follow her to the human lands, and so would Owen, by his duty. And I’d still be stuck here…

“You didn’t finish your story,” Owen reminds me.

I sigh, knowing he’s right. “It’s not pretty.”

He considers me, then throws off the covers with a quick flick of his hand. “I didn’t come here for pretty stories. Only the truth.”

He swings his feet from the bed, puts on his boots, and stands. I stare up at him, blinking unhappily. Is he really leaving? Now?

But he extends his hand to me, palm up. “Come on. We’ve missed dinner by now, but I’m certain we can find something in that pantry. You’re friendly with the kitchen staff, aren’t you?” At my hesitation, he adds, “In my humble experience, trouble is easier to handle on a full stomach.”

Now that he’s mentioned food, my stomach rumbles, and I realize he’s right. We did miss dinner, and in fact, I missed several meals over the past couple of days, too preoccupied with thoughts of Owen.

“All right,” I murmur, taking his hand. “But if Earna catches us looting her stash of secret kitchen cake, I will lay all the blame on you. I’ll tell her you used your manly wiles on me to get in my good graces.”

Owen laughs and tugs me forward. “All right. I’ll take full responsibility, as long as I get a slice of—what did you call it?”

“Secret kitchen cake.” I shove my feet in my boots, pick up my dress from the floor, and draw it over my head. “You’ll like it, you’ll see.”