Chapter 5

5

T he fires of Hakon's forge often burned late into the night, partly because he enjoyed working in the evenings, when the air was cooler and the dark afforded a better chance to accurately gauge the color of the heated iron, and partly because there was just that much work to do.

Hakon hadn't made nails nor chain link nor horseshoes in years, and never so many. Only a handful of days at his new position and he felt he could make a hundred hobnails in an hour in his sleep. It was always good to practice the basics, he told himself. Not every job could be a beautiful breastplate or wicked axe. Plow heads and hatchets and serving knives all served important functions, too.

At night, at work, when it was just him and his hammer and Wülf, Hakon could clear his head of everything else. He practiced his human words with every hammer stroke, forming his lips around the new words and phrases to memorize what they felt like, which would help him with what they looked like on others.

When he could hear what was said, he found the Eirean tongue easy enough to follow, although he was still baffled by some of their idioms and verbs. The problem was when people mumbled or pointed their faces away from him. Human lips were harder to read, moving much quicker without the hindrance of tusks.

He was undeterred.

A few days within Dundúran Castle and Hakon knew it was where he was meant to be. The work was steady and soon he hoped to be trusted with more challenging work. The smithy itself was an impressive thing, a huge circle of connected forges set in a stone circle, divided into cells by stone and brick. The ring of a room faced the west bailey, aired by a wall of wide windows. It had everything a smithy could want, with several work areas to choose from. Hakon already had a mind, since it was just him and the old head blacksmith Fearghas, that they could divide the space into specialties, so that specific tools and molds didn't have to be fetched or traded out every time.

He was waiting for Fearghas to warm to him before bringing this up, however. Although, he wasn't sure Fearghas warmed up to anyone. The tetchy older human man was big and burly, his head shaved to reveal a shiny scalp, but a wild beard grew to touch his chest. Hakon hadn't determined the color of his eyes yet, so often they were squinting or scowling.

Fearghas had deigned to give him a succinct tour of the smithy on his first day, but after that it was only barks to assign Hakon the busywork. For his part, Fearghas seemed solely focused on making intricate, decorative goblets set with braided metal and precious stones. These he took to his favorite tavern most nights to drink and sing shanties.

Hakon had to hope that his steady work of nails and horseshoes would eventually earn him some modicum of trust with the older man. He knew a skilled blacksmith when he saw one, and Fearghas was skilled—if abrasive. And set in his ways. Hakon would give the man a few more days before he brought up his suggestions.

Fearghas aside, there was much to recommend his new circumstances.

A small but well-kept room had been given to him just off the smithy so he could keep the fires stoked. Staff were welcome to use the heated baths below the castle, as well as take their meals in the dining hall with the liege lord and his family if no banquet was being held.

The best part, though, was all the pretty human women who inhabited the castle. The castle staff was a small army of people, half of whom were female, and many of them young and hearty lasses. His head had turned to behold more than one as he walked to find himself and Wülf food or on his way to the baths.

For the first time in his life, a woman flirted with him.

His ears burned hotter than his forge fire thinking of it.

He'd harbored dark doubts deep inside him during his journey north that he wouldn't, in the end, find human women attractive or suitable—or worse, none would find him appealing. He'd lived his life in Kaldebrak being passed over and ignored as a potential mate, but more than one human woman had already run her gaze over him appreciatively.

It will work, he thought to himself. This all will work. I'll make you proud yet, gadaron.

Now it was just a matter of talking to one of them. He was growing more confident in his Eirean every day, and he thought soon he'd be able to hold a conversation with a woman without fumbling his words.

He wasn't opposed to sampling the fruits, as it were, thinking of how one of the kitchen maids had given him a particularly lusty look as she ladled his supper into a bowl. His aim, though, was always to find his mate.

With so many women here, not just within the castle but the city of Dundúran itself, there had to be a woman who might fancy him and whom he could love in return. This was all for her, after all, his journey and new life.

So while he might sample, he had to keep his head. A mate was his aim, and he doubted she'd appreciate him looking for her in every maid's bed along the way.

His blood ran hot with the prospects—of which there were many. He hadn't been this lusty since his randy days as an untried youth and the first nights he'd spent with Feeli. The possibilities almost overwhelmed him.

He had to think with his head, though, and not with his cock and make a good choice. And a wise one. For all that he yearned for a mate now, he'd spent much of his youth resenting it and its powerful hold over bonded mates.

The mate-bond took his mother from him, so strong was its pull to despair when his father perished. His grandfather couldn't bear to be without his grandmother and quickly died of a broken heart. So it often was for bonded mates, which was why many kin were cautious in bonding with a mate. They were much more carefree about bedmates, but he knew of plenty of kin who eschewed liaisons that lasted too long for fear of the bond beginning to take root.

The mate-bond was sacred to orcs for good reason, and Hakon learned to appreciate it in his maturity and long for the bond his grandparents shared, the one Siggy and her mates had.

He wanted that something fierce. To be everything to someone. To be loved and wanted and needed so fiercely…

Knowing that he was on the precipice, so close to finding it, eased a bit of the aching in his cock to be around so many pretty women—as well as the heartache of missing home more than he cared to admit.

As Hakon hammered, wanting to finish a few more nails and horseshoes before banking the fire for the night, the thought of pretty women and mates eventually lured his thoughts back to yesterday. To her .

He'd already heard plenty of talk about the Darrow heiress in his short time there. Hakon was pleased to find that talk of her, and of Liege Darrow, was almost always positive; they seemed truly beloved by the staff of their castle.

None of that had prepared him for seeing her, though.

He feared he'd been struck dumb in her presence.

Hakon thrust another iron bar into the fire, ears going ruddy at the memory.

Fates, he didn't know women came so fine.

It wasn't that the other women of the castle were mostly common folk while she was noble born. There were others just as or more beautiful than she; there were those who also had glittering eyes and more still with blonde hair that fell in soft waves down their backs. Plenty had freckles dotting their noses and pink, plush lips that curled just so into a warm smile. Orek's mate Sorcha was taller and more buxom, while many other women he'd seen were smaller than the heiress.

She was all of these things and so much more. What that was, though, he didn't know for sure, and thought perhaps knowing might lead him into danger.

Something moved in his peripheral vision. At first thinking it was just Wülf shifting on his preferred thatch mat, he ignored it.

There it was again, though. Clearly a human hand waving at him.

Hakon turned his head to look—and nearly dropped molten iron on his foot.

Lady Aislinn stood in the smithy entryway grinning at him, holding a book in one small hand and waving her other to get his attention.

Ears burning, Hakon hastened to safely put down his tools. Her mouth moved as she took another step into the room.

He lifted a hand, startling her, and quickly pulled the beeswax from his ears.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said, bowing his head.

"No need." She looked down in surprise when Wülf appeared before her and nudged her with his long muzzle.

Whistling between his teeth, Hakon warned, "Wülf, behave."

Lady Aislinn held her hand out for the dog to sniff, and in amazement, Hakon watched his unfriendly, aloof hound thrust his head into her hand for attention. He rarely let Hakon or his grandmother pet him, let alone strangers, but was happy to make a fool of himself for the pretty heiress.

That makes two of us.

"What did you have in your ears?" she asked.

Hakon's mouth opened and closed, his heart still racing to have Lady Aislinn there as if his thoughts had summoned her. Her glossy waves were brushed back from her face, offering him a clear view of her lovely face and sparkling golden eyes. A simple blue gown adorned her, the neckline dipping to reveal the top swells of her ample breasts and the skirt falling in a draping cascade around her round hips.

He caught a rumbling noise in his throat. Fates, how lovely she is.

Then—his heart stuttered when he realized she stood there, expecting his answer, but he didn't know the Eirean word for beeswax .

Clearing his throat to stall, he finally said, " Tek'tek ."

Her head of golden hair tipped to the side in curiosity. To his astonishment, she drew closer to him, holding out her hand. "May I?"

Whole face burning in a ruddy blush, Hakon swiped his thumb over the ball of wax to clean it best he could before he placed it in her soft palm. Fates, she had fine fingers—long-boned, soft, the nails perfect little crescents.

Angling her hand into the firelight, she smiled when she realized, "Beeswax."

A relieved breath rushed out of his tight lungs. "Yes, my lady."

"You use them to protect your ears?"

"My hearing, yes. Forging can get very loud." He mimicked the motion of hammering metal on an anvil.

Handing the wax back, her smile widened. "That is a smart practice, master blacksmith."

"An old practice," he told her. "My grandfather used it and so do I."

"Your grandfather was wise. Perhaps you'll be able to convince Fearghas to follow your example. Maybe then he'll keep what hearing he has left." She smiled good-naturedly, as if she was fond of the surly older blacksmith, and Hakon hesitantly returned the gesture.

It was true, even with protection, smiths tended to go deaf from all the loud noises of the forge. A cold, sickly dread always crept up Hakon's neck to think of losing any more of his hearing.

His grandmother too had had difficulty hearing in one of her ears. Hakon supposed, like his eyes, it was something that proved he was one of them.

"Do you usually work so late into the night, Master Green-Fist, or is Fearghas setting you that much to do?"

Fates, his ears would never return to normal at the rate they heated.

Clearing his throat, Hakon's answer was diplomatic. "A bit of both, my lady. Although—" he winced to think it "—if I'm disturbing you with the noise…"

"No, no! Don't think of it. I only wondered—the night is quieter and cooler and it seems—what I meant…" He thought it must be a trick of the light, but her cheeks flushed with color. Taking a moment to collect herself, Lady Aislinn said, "All I meant to say was that I like working at night, too." She nodded toward the open windows of the smithy, at one of the upper-level windows of the castle. "I was working myself and saw the fires still burning from my window."

Those blunt teeth caught the plush curve of her lower lip between them, catching Hakon's attention just as surely. Something fluttered in the pit of his stomach, and he watched dazedly as she took another few steps into the smithy to stand before him.

Wülf followed her stride for stride, pushing his head into her hand again.

"I was hoping…well, you may not have the time for it, of course. I'll understand if there's too much to do. But, if you'd be willing, I have a special project I'd like your help on."

Pleasure, sharp and aching, lodged between his ribs.

"Anything, my lady."

A smile, brighter than the sun and just as warm, broke across her face. She tempered it quickly, but Hakon already saw it seared across his mind's eye, like a green burst across his eyelids after staring at the sun.

The sight stunned him long enough that she was already opening the book she'd brought with her and showing him a page before he got his wits about him.

It took him a moment to realize—she was showing him a notebook, full of drawings and notes. The page she held up to him was a sketch of what looked like a wicked pair of gardening shears, the blades curved like a scythe.

"I was hoping you might make me these," she said, pulling the book back to rest on her shoulder so she could point out different aspects of the drawing. She told him in great detail what she'd imagined, from the spring coil to the angle of the shear blades to how she couldn't decide if wood or leather would be better for the handle.

Hakon stood on, a little dumbfounded, a lot impressed.

Her plan was sound—and better, it was certainly something he could create for the pretty heiress.

He realized a little too late that she'd stopped talking. Pulling his gaze up from those fine fingers as they traced the page, it landed on her mouth. Her plush, pink, unmoving mouth.

Lifting his eyes finally to hers, he found her looking away again, another blush staining her cheeks and a consternated frown marring her brow. He immediately disliked it, wishing he could take his thumb and soothe it away.

"Forgive me, I…I get excited talking about my projects."

"You are passionate," he argued. "Nothing wrong with that."

That earned him a little smile, which Hakon took greedily. Fates, what he wouldn't give to earn more of those.

"The castle has shears, of course, but Morwen told me to stay out of her good gardening tools—I've borrowed a few too many, you see—I always mean to return them, but something inevitably happens and—" she cleared her throat "—and we must respect the head gardener." Another shy, almost self-deprecating smile. "I thought to design something specifically for rose bushes. They'll need to be long and strong."

Thinking of Lady Aislinn, with her warm smile and fine hands, wrestling with thorny, overgrown rosebushes gave him pause. "Is there not…someone to do that?" he asked, choosing his words carefully.

Her smile turned sad, making Hakon's heart hammer faster than a striker on an anvil.

"Yes, there are plenty of skilled gardeners in Dundúran, but this is…" Her gaze fell away, those elegant fingers fiddling with the corner of the leather-bound notebook. "It's my mother's rose garden, you see. No one has touched it since her passing."

Something heavy vibrated between Hakon's ribs. Her sadness was apparent, and he hated it.

A female such as this should never know sadness.

"It's probably not worth doing," Lady Aislinn muttered, almost to herself. "I'm sure it's more trouble than it's worth. I just thought…"

Pulling in a long breath, Hakon could feel the ache in his own heart reaching out to hers.

"I know what it is to miss a mother, my lady. If it will bring you some comfort, then it's worth doing. I will help you any way I can."

Those luminous, leonine eyes of hers looked up at him with understanding, and something fundamental shifted inside Hakon.

"Truly?" she whispered.

"Anything, my lady. Whatever you need, I will do it."

To his relief, the sadness in her ebbed, replaced with an effervescence he wished he could grab with both hands and hold close to his chest.

"I appreciate it, truly. The last under blacksmith had no time for my projects."

"My time is yours." His mouth was running away from him, but he couldn't help it. If it kept her smiling, he might promise just about anything.

The smithy door opened with a clattering bang, making even Wülf jump, and in stumbled Fearghas. The man got a few steps inside before he saw Lady Aislinn and Hakon staring at him.

"Oh, milady, apologies—"

"No need, Fearghas. I'm sorry for disturbing you and your new blacksmith. We were just discussing a project." She threw Hakon another dazzling smile over her shoulder. "I'll return tomorrow with more detailed plans for you?"

"Of course, my lady. I will find you several choices for the handle grips as well."

That smile widened, and she clutched her notebook to her chest, holding it tight and making Hakon intensely jealous of a ream of paper.

"Gentlemen," she said with a nod, "I'll bid you goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, my lady."

"G'night, milady."

Fearghas shut the door softly behind her and wasted no time turning a scowl onto Hakon.

"What are you about, bothering the heiress?"

Hakon frowned. "She came to me with a request."

"So the horseshoes aren't done?" His scowl traveled over Hakon's shoulder to spy the unfinished, unmolded iron bars.

"Is a request from Lady Aislinn not more important?"

Blustering under that big beard, Fearghas wobbled further into the smithy. "Got a lot of projects, that one. Always needing something." That scowl returned, and Fearghas pointed it and a warning, meaty finger at Hakon. "You keep those puppy looks to yourself and leave the lady be. She's well loved here, and no one will stand for her being toyed with."

A growl worked up Hakon's throat, and all at once, he realized it for what it was—his once docile beast rumbling to life.

Hakon's heart stuttered again, even as his beast grew louder inside him.

"I mean only to help her," he told Fearghas through gritted teeth.

He would never toy with a woman like Lady Aislinn. A woman such as her was meant only for good things, for devotion and passion and love. To have a mate such as Lady Aislinn—

The old blacksmith hmphed . "See that you do. Best to figure out your place now and stick to it."

Hakon's fists clenched, emotion seething hotter than the molten rivers that flowed deep below Kaldebrak. He knew the old blacksmith was drunk and always surly, but to warn him away? To imply that he might hurt her in any way?

Impossible.

His beast, an inner instinct that drove all orc-kin to fight and fuck and find a mate, rumbled possessively. Some kin had beasts that drove them to berserker strength in battle; others had one that leant them a well of empathy and understanding of others that made them excellent healers. His had never been so strong before, not even when he'd spent years pining over Feeli.

He'd thought perhaps, as a halfling, his beast was only half, too. Half as strong or potent.

The instinct roaring in his chest felt nothing by halves. It was all snarling aggressiveness at another male warning him away from his —

The breath squeezed from Hakon's lungs.

No. No, the beast couldn't be right.

He just liked her and her quick mind and her smile, was all.

It…it couldn't be more.

Rationality meant nothing to the growling thing inside him, though. A few minutes spent basking in the warmth of Lady Aislinn Darrow and the infernal instinct was ready to make declarations that were impossible.

Impossible, he told it.

Nothing's impossible, it growled back.