Chapter 12

12

A islinn heard Brenna bustling into her room but didn't accept that it was time to rise until the heavy drapes around her four-post bed were tossed back. Light spilled across the dark cavern of her bed, and Aislinn grumbled, squeezing her eyes shut.

"No wriggling, please, you'll send your breakfast flying."

She carefully sat up against the headboard as Brenna laid the breakfast tray on her lap.

Aislinn had asked Brenna to do this the night before, needing an early start to the day, but that went unappreciated in the bright light of morning. As she nibbled a bite of toast, cut into four perfect pieces, Brenna pulled her infamous list from her pocket.

The chatelain patted Aislinn's knee at the face she pulled. "I know, dear. But such is the life of an heiress."

Aislinn muffled most of her grumbling behind her toast.

Brenna was unimpressed, but her eyes crinkled in that way they did sometimes, on those rare occasions she showed affection. As Aislinn dutifully ate and listened, Brenna listed off the day's tasks and various things she herself needed the heiress's opinion or direction on.

"There's the matter of the wine Baron Bayard sent—would you like the kitchen stocked with it?"

Fates, the wine. Bayard had come with so many bottles, most of the staff had sore heads and irritable attitudes for days. And once he'd finally returned home after two agonizing days of visiting, he sent even more.

My finest vintages for the finest heiress in the kingdom, his note read.

"Let Hugh have what he wants for the kitchens and add the rest to the wine cellar."

"Very good," said Brenna, leaving a note for herself with the portable quill Aislinn had designed for her. Such things were commonplace in bigger cities like Gleanná or Kilgaran, but Aislinn had made her own prototypes.

"He'll expect a response," Brenna commented, flicking her a look over her list.

"Add it to my correspondence list," Aislinn sighed. Fates, there was never an end to those who needed a note or letter from her. Simple thanks or congratulations were most common, but then there were legal inquiries, suits, and requests from throughout the Darrowlands, her own personal correspondence with friends and extended family, as well as purchases, writs, and grants for Dundúran itself.

The Darrowlands thrived, which she was grateful for, but it meant a veritable mountain of paperwork. When she was young, her parents had often kept ministers to help run the demesne. After her mother's death, though, as the ministers left, retired, or passed away, her father didn't replace them. Instead, he decided to take on the duties himself; as a way to distract himself, Aislinn suspected.

It was admirable for a liege lord to take such an interest in and command of their demesne, and her father had instituted several popular reforms. However, those duties easily began to build up when Merrick was distracted by other things—such as his campaigns in the south. More of these duties now fell to Aislinn as her father prepared for his next excursion with Sir Ciaran. She enjoyed some of it, tolerated most of it, and loathed a handful of things. Her favorite was still helping the otherly folk who—

"Oh!" Aislinn sat up straighter, apple slice halfway to her mouth. "Do we have any petitions from the otherly camp for land grants? Specifically from an Allarion?"

"Not that I've seen," said Brenna. Her tone was the same, but curious red splotches appeared high on her cheeks.

"Strange. He spoke with me when I went to see Sorcha. He said he'd already sent two petitions and I said to send another."

"Perhaps he changed his mind."

"Hm. Can you leave me a note to write Sorcha? I'll have her make inquiries in the camp."

"Of course."

Brenna resumed her recitation of the list, though Aislinn couldn't help noticing her demeanor had chilled. Aislinn's breakfast sat uneasily in her stomach, thinking she'd perhaps displeased Brenna somehow. Although she always seemed to be doing it, she never liked disappointing the chatelain. Brenna was a last tangible link to her mother.

Her manner may have been stern, but Brenna cared deeply for Aislinn and the Darrow family. She was always quick to defend Jerrod, always sure to see that Aislinn's needs were met. Liege and Lady Darrow had kept many staff on for a long time not just because they were good people who did good work, but because change was difficult for Aislinn. Brenna too now ensured that life ran as smoothly as possible.

Although Aislinn complained, she'd be absolutely lost without the steadfast chatelain. Brenna was her breakwater, keeping back the deluge.

When she'd finished with the list, Brenna replaced it in her deep pocket and took the empty tray. Before leaving, she arched one of her severe brows, telling Aislinn, "And no sneaking away to the smithy today. There's too much to do."

Aislinn's cheeks heated under that admonishing stare. She felt twelve years old again, being scolded for doing something naughty.

Aislinn nodded, which seemed to satisfy Brenna. "Good," said the chatelain. "I'll send Fia in to help you dress."

Heart suddenly heavy, Aislinn crawled out of her large bed, even as she wanted to roll back into the soft, comforting darkness. The day stretched out before her, long and arduous, without the promise of her refuge to look forward to.

Part of her mourned that her hideaway was no longer secret.

A larger part already missed getting to see her blacksmith.

"T his doesn't go here."

Hakon scraped his tusks against his upper teeth, checking the temper heating faster than the forge in his blood.

"It does now," he told the head blacksmith with as much patience as he had left. Which was admittedly not much.

"And who said you could move things about?" Fearghas glared from over the spare anvil Hakon had had the audacity to move.

In the midst of their squabble, Hakon almost regretted resituating the smithy. Making stations for different tasks made the most sense with it only being the two of them, and he'd made faster progress through his work in the two days it took Fearghas to notice the change.

He couldn't completely regret it. He needed something to do.

She hadn't come. Today, yesterday, or the day before.

Lady Aislinn hadn't gone three days without coming to see him since she brought him their first project. But now, he'd only caught glimpses of her in the dining hall or walking through the courtyard.

The beast inside wanted to hunt her down and never leave her side again. How could he protect her if she wasn't with him? How would he know how she fared and what she thought if she didn't come to him?

Why wait, his beast demanded. Go to her!

He couldn't do that, though. He had enough sense, common and self-preserving, that if he were to go to her, that would be the end.

She'd send him away—or her father would. Then he'd truly not see her, and neither he nor his beast could live with that.

So Hakon grew restless and agitated, trying to deny reason and reality. The smithy was rearranged in one afternoon as a result. Now his temper was flaring far too easily.

Fearghas stomped around the smithy, scoffing and grumbling over the different stations and where the tools had ended up.

"It makes sense, with only the two of us," argued Hakon, not for the first time.

"It's nonsense is what it is. This smithy has run just fine for years without you meddling!"

"It's not meddling, it's a better use of space."

Fearghas's beard twitched dangerously, and the red of his face deepened. "Put it all back."

"You haven't even tried—"

"Put. It. Back." And he took a hammer and slammed it on the anvil, the ring piercing.

"No."

Fearghas's glare darkened. "That's an order."

"If you hate it so much, you put it back. It works for me and the—"

"No, you work for me, halfling," Fearghas spat, pointing an accusatory finger. "You may have your fancy ways and orcish techniques, but this is my smithy, you understand? The heiress will tire of you—looks like she already has—and then where will you be?"

Hakon growled a warning, the harsh words hitting too close to his heart.

Eyes glittering with malice, recognizing he'd scored a point, Fearghas struck his hammer on the spare anvil again. "That one always tires of her projects. You aren't special, halfling. Now put everything back and get back to real work."

Hakon bared his tusks, frustration as much of a snarling beast in his chest as his actual beastly instinct. A snorting huff exploded from his nostrils, then he was pulling Wülf behind him as he strode from the smithy before he did something regrettable.

The courtyard was much cooler than the smithy, the difference punching through him. His bare arms prickled, but Hakon hardly felt it.

Stalking further away from the blasted smithy, Hakon took long, deep breaths, needing the burn of cool air in his lungs.

Stubborn, hateful old bastard.

Tugging a hand through his sweaty hair, Hakon slowed his pace.

The old blacksmith was set in his ways, and Hakon liked to think he wouldn't normally be so aggravated to have his ideas so thoroughly dismissed. He and Fearghas would never be friends, but he could acknowledge the human was skilled—when he actually put his mind to something.

None of that mattered with an unhappy, impatient beast snarling just below his heart, goading him to steal into the heiress's room to profess his undying devotion and then ravish her senseless.

Gods, don't think of her naked!

He did enough of that while in the baths late at night, alone with his daydreams. There were nights he rubbed himself raw with how long and viciously he tugged his cock to thoughts of the pretty heiress.

Three days without her and he was reduced to a slavering, irritable beast.

Fuck.

He scrubbed a hand over his face.

What was he to do now?

Go to her. Claim her. Mate her.

I can't—

"Hakon!"

He looked up at the sound of his name, hope lancing his heart.

A woman hurried toward him from the direction of the kitchens, and Hakon tried not to show his disappointment in it being Brigitt.

He attempted to match her bright smile as she came to stand before him, but he feared it was tepid at best.

"Good day," he managed.

"I've been looking for you," she said, her voice breathy.

She presented him with what, given the shape, was likely a large jar, wrapped neatly in cloth and tied with a tidy bow on top.

Hakon took it, mind racing. Had he asked her to bring him something and forgotten?

"It's blackberry jam," she said with that unrelenting smile. "I picked them myself, on my family's farm. Only the sweetest."

Hakon's throat ran dry, unsure what to say. He couldn't refuse the gift, nor tell her he, as well as most orcs, didn't have a taste for sweet things.

"Thank you," he said. "You didn't have to trouble yourself."

Impossibly, her smile widened, and she closed the distance between them.

"I wanted to give you a gift," she said, fluttering her lashes and rounding her big blue eyes.

His stomach dropped.

Fates, she's—

Brigitt took hold of his leather apron and pulled him down. Warm lips pressed to his, and her lashes swept against his cheek as she closed her eyes. Hakon stared at her brows in shock, unsure what to do, his back rigid as he held perfectly still.

Her lips moved, tempting his. He'd seen humans kissing, knew it to be a dance of lips and tongues. He himself had taken to imagining Lady Aislinn's plush lips. He stared at them enough to know every contour, every shade of pink, and dreamed of what they would feel like on his skin.

But this wasn't her. This wasn't what he'd dreamed.

It was wrong.

Brigitt leaned back, and Hakon retreated to his full height. She was smiling again, but it was small, unsure. A nauseating mix of embarrassment and pity swirled inside him, rendering him speechless. What did he say?

"Do orcs not kiss?" she asked, trying to laugh.

"No, not usually." He swallowed. "Brigitt, I don't…"

Her hands fell away from him almost as fast as her smile fell from her face, and she took a step back.

"Oh," she said.

Hakon hated how quickly tears filled her eyes. He'd done that.

This is all wrong.

He'd come to Dundúran to find a mate. He had a beautiful, pleasant woman giving him gifts in the orcish way and kissing him. He should be grateful. He should be pleased.

But…

"I'm sorry."

Brigitt shook her head, hiding her tears behind a frown.

"But you…you made me think you felt the same!"

Cold washed over him. "I didn't mean to." What had he done? His shocked mind tried to recall, to think what might've been misunderstood, but he was too horrified to remember much.

"Then what's all this staring at my lips? A human does that when he wants to kiss!"

Shame turned his stomach. He always felt the vulnerability of his right ear—but that such a simple thing as reading lips could be misconstrued…to know it'd ended up hurting someone…

He hated that.

"Brigitt, I'm sorry. I…I'm still learning your language. Your customs. I didn't know." It was a sorry excuse, but it was all he had.

Her mouth scrunched to almost nothing, as if she could reclaim the kiss she'd bestowed. She marched up to him, and Hakon braced himself.

Brigitt poked him with a stiff finger as she declared, "You shouldn't lead a woman on like that!"

Hakon apologized again, and after a few pokes, Brigitt took back the gift and marched away.

He was left appalled in her wake.

Fates, what have I done?

He was constantly looking at lips to better understand people, particularly when the noise around him obscured voices.

He'd stared unabashedly at Lady Aislinn's lips.

Does she think I want to kiss her?

If she did, she'd done nothing about it. Perhaps he should've been relieved with the revelation, but it only stoked his temper and frustration.

If she knew of his feelings, she did nothing to encourage them.

A islinn shoved the hunk of buttered bread, all she had time for at the midday meal, into her mouth and chewed as she walked. Her morning tasks had taken her longer than expected, which meant she was late for the tailor, which meant she'd be late for everything after that, too.

It was aggravating to watch every task fall behind the previous one, like downed fence posts toppling one after the other, when just one thing went wrong.

Utilizing a shortcut to get back to her apartments, where she was meeting the tailor in her solar, Aislinn rounded the corner of the upper castle gallery to find a small group of maids gathered round. Their heads leaned out between the colonnade, peering down onto the courtyard below.

Aislinn stopped a few steps away, her curiosity invariably itching. She peeked down into the courtyard herself to see what the fuss was.

Oh, my.

Near one of the drains, Hakon had set up an old cask—and in it sat a soaked and unhappy Wülf, soap suds adorning his head. Into the cask Hakon poured great buckets of water, rinsing away the soap.

This seemed the final straw, and the big dog let out a baying cacophony of complaints. Wülf stood as much as he was able and shook his great gray body, sending water everywhere, but mostly onto Hakon.

The blacksmith yelped and stepped away dripping, his linen shirt soaked through and clinging to his wide shoulders. Even from up in the gallery, Aislinn could see the way the green flesh of his great chest undulated and bulged with strength.

Ohh.

Hugging her notebook to her chest, she couldn't pull her gaze away from the wet blacksmith as he attempted to finish bathing Wülf.

"No, no, no," he told the beast as Wülf tried to escape from the cask. "You're filthy. Either you get a bath or I throw you in with the rest of the pigs."

Wülf yipped and barked in protest as Hakon, apparently seeing the futility in trying to stay dry, leaned down and held the dog with one arm while he scrubbed with his other hand.

His soaked shirt clung to his wide back, and his dark hair had gone glossy with the dampness.

Aislinn watched on, mesmerized by the beauty of him. How his strong shoulders bunched and released, how he easily controlled the wriggling beast of a dog with the utmost gentleness.

Something warm and tingling took root deep in her belly, something she hadn't felt in a long, long time.

Her lips and breasts ached bittersweetly, and Aislinn touched a finger to her lower lip.

Attraction. Desire.

That's what this was.

For the halfling blacksmith.

Perhaps she should've been surprised at herself, but she wasn't, not truly. His fine form outlined by a soaked shirt was just the last in a string of qualities that drew her to him. The attraction had been growing for a while now, beautiful and unstoppable.

Fates, I really do like him.

She couldn't help it—not when Hakon was simply…everything she could want.

Aislinn could be reasonable. She knew there was something to seeing Sorcha so happy with her own halfling. But Hakon was his own person, and the companionship they shared, the way he helped her and encouraged her, the way he gave her his time, his attention, his patience…

What she knew of how Orek was with Sorcha may have given her ideas of what Hakon was like, but it was he himself who proved to her, every time she interacted with him, what a genuine man he was. Kind, patient, skilled. It was him she admired, not just the idea of a halfling lover.

She knew it wouldn't be proper; that when her father said to find a partner, he'd meant one of their own. Someone landed. Someone of good stock. Someone human . She acknowledged the wisdom and reason in all of it—but that didn't stop her gaze, and her heart, from wandering. For the first time in a long while, Aislinn was excited; she rose with the hope of spending time with her blacksmith. Days were better when he was in them, and that wasn't something she took for granted.

Her mood had quickly gone dour after not visiting him for days. Brenna reminded her every morning that her tasks were more important, yet Aislinn didn't think she was actually completing any more than on days she visited him. Her attention waned and she trudged through the work, slowed by her apathy.

Seeing him now, arguing with his unruly dog, was a balm to her sore spirit. She almost…wanted to go down and join them.

What if I do?

The dangerous thought expanded inside her, excitement clutching her throat. She was heiress, yes, but that meant this was her castle. She could do as she wished within it.

What she wished for was the blacksmith.

Aislinn laid her hand on her chest, feeling how her heart fluttered at her breast. Acknowledging her attraction somehow released the tension there, and it felt as if bubbles of joy burst in her blood.

She would have gone to him, had she not overheard what the maids said.

"It really is a shame," sighed Tilly.

"I was so sure," grumbled Brigitt.

The other maids made sounds of pity and comfort, patting her shoulders and squeezing her arms.

"So were we," agreed Claire.

"Looking at lips must just mean something else to orcs," said Fia.

"Hmph. Or he fancies someone else," Brigitt said.

Aislinn's mind suddenly filled with the sight of him in the dining hall, always surrounded by maids.

Something must have happened. Although unsure what, their words stuck in her mind, even hours later. The bubbling excitement inside her fizzled, leaving her confused and a bit more reasonable. She didn't hurry down into the courtyard, instead stole one last look at the blacksmith attempting to dry off his complaining wolfhound, then passed by the maids.

She met Fia's gaze for a moment, and she thought her maid might say something, but Aislinn was quickly deep within the castle.

The meeting with the tailor played out by rote, being fitted for a new gown and warm layers.

Aislinn stared at herself in the long mirror as the tailor measured and pinned fabric in place, chattering about new patterns from the capital that had just come in. She made the necessary noises of assent or appreciation, but her mind was far afield.

Must mean something else to orcs…

Hakon looked at her lips sometimes. Aislinn perhaps wouldn't have assumed it meant wanting to kiss, but then, she'd never been adept at flirting. She hadn't assumed any of his actions were flirting, yet…

Her palm itched to hold the wooden rose.

That didn't feel like nothing—but perhaps it meant something else to orcs. She knew little of orcish culture, just human stories that were unkind to them and their ways, and what little Orek had said.

Her stomach churned not knowing if she was again misreading someone, a person she'd thought she understood. She'd made that mistake with her own brother. Perhaps it was nothing more than a misunderstanding of cultures, but either option made unpleasant emotions begin to bubble inside her.

I could ask.

That idea just made her stomach clench with nerves.

Just ask him about orcish customs and whether any of it meant he might feel as she did? The prospect seemed…too daunting. She didn't think she could bear it if he said no, or worse, laughed at her.

She valued his friendship and companionship too much.

It would be safer to bury her feelings. To forget this attraction. Nothing could come of it, not truly. She was Aislinn Darrow, heiress of the Darrowlands. Even if Hakon was a prince among orcs and just failed to mention it, the idea of a noblewoman taking a halfling for a lover was scandalous, and taking one for a husband was inconceivable.

Her jealousy over what Sorcha had only grew.

Aislinn peered at herself in the mirror, the uncertainty plain on her face for even her to see.

Perhaps…it was for the best then that she continued not visiting him. Perhaps now she should finally do the wise thing and let go of her infatuation before her heart became anymore attached. She wasn't far enough down this path to be in true danger—there was still time to turn back.

That would be the smart thing, the responsible thing to do.

And yet…

She found no comfort in it. Her heart shuddered at the idea of being put away again.

Aislinn always found change frightening. Hakon was no different and yet like nothing before. He came with promise, the chance at something wonderful—if he reciprocated any of her feelings, of course.

Familiarity was safe. Wise. Comforting.

Aislinn knew what to expect in the familiar, knew how to read and understand it.

And yet…

The familiarity of her duties, of being alone, of not having him, wasn't the comfort it may once have been. It may even fill her with…despair.

She'd never liked keeping the gaze of others for long, but she'd taught herself to hold for a requisite amount of time. Now, she forced herself to look back at her own reflection.

The woman who stared back was torn, uncertain. Frightened of but longing for change.

Did she dare take the chance and risk heartbreak, humiliation? And, perhaps even more frightening, if she won her gamble, could she allow her heart to open itself again, when it had been hurt so many times before?

Aislinn didn't know. And she hated not knowing things.