Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

LILY

I worked the last three days in the cookhouse of New Earth, our colony on Kovos. Instead of enjoying a cool breeze outside, taking in the beauty of our adopted planet, I breathed in smoke and endured obscene heat because the assholes who built the structure knew nothing about proper ventilation.

Worse, I couldn't focus on cooking, not with my mind on one handsome, teasing orc who refused to give me his name. The same man who flashed his tusks at me and watched my every move with intense green eyes that danced as he taught me ways to stay safe.

He's the only one who ever cared to help me, unlike our colony's guards who marched us through Pen'Kesh when we first arrived on Kovos, describing in horrifying detail all the vile and disgusting things the orcs and other species would do to us if we didn't listen to our guards. Our so-called protectors. The self-appointed asses who think we can't survive without them.

Screw them and their scare tactics. They're the ones we have to watch out for. Them and the self-serving bastards who rule New Earth.

As I ride in the back of the cart with ten other women on our way to Pen'Kesh, the butterflies in my stomach take on new life.

Will he be there?

Will he still want to see me?

"Three days kitchen duty, Lily. Now you know what it means to cross me," Owen says as he brings the cart to a halt. The ass has the nerve to blow me a mocking kiss as he ties the horses to a tree and walks away, leaving me and the other women to unload the produce and wares from the second cart while he goes off with the other guards to do whatever the lazy asses do during the day while we work in the hot sun.

"What was that about?" Paloma asks as she hands me my sewing kit before unloading the stack of belts and animal harnesses she's in charge of selling while I make repairs and take new orders for custom items.

"Nothing," I lie. I'm too ashamed to tell her he's been pressuring me for sex. It's not that I don't trust Paloma, but unlike me, she's not exactly shy about standing up to people. I don't want her to get in trouble.

As we set up our tables, my eyes gloss over the people milling about in our sector. Blue, white, brown. I release a disappointed breath. No green anywhere.

"You okay?" Paloma asks.

"I don't like rotating jobs. It's disruptive." I root through the unfinished pieces in the bag I share with Jessie to see where she left off. "Our sewing styles don't mesh well. And she didn't leave me a note of the orders she was working on. None of the papers are here."

"Damn, they're back," Paloma says.

"Who?" I crane my neck to see past the burgeoning crowd. A flash of green sets my heart racing.

As soon as the crowd parts, as it typically does when orcs pass through the market, my heart sinks. The one orc is on the smaller side, lanky, a teen at best, and the other is that massive orc I saw talking with my orc the other day.

My orc?

When did I start thinking of him as mine? I don't even know his name! But the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of being his.

Except I can't be with an orc. The council of New Earth would?—

I slam that thought shut. I don't know what they'd do, only that it would be bad. Really bad.

Paloma shudders. "That orc's been walking past here these past few days, running his eyes over all the women. It's creepy."

"The big guy?"

"They're both big, Lily. Monstrous. Well, not the younger one so much. But I'm talking about the one with braids. He never buys anything. Just stares at us. And there's a third orc I've seen around, with wild hair?—"

"Wild? How wild?"

She eyes me. "Does it matter? The point is they're scary as fuck."

"Has the wild haired orc done anything?" When her eyes narrow, I add quickly, "To make you suspicious, I mean."

"Not outwardly, but he's up to something. I can sense it."

Act casual. Breathe.

I draw in a breath and release it slowly, turning my head for a moment to look at the sector wall, then the storm shelter off to the side. Anything other than the orcs.

"Maybe he's just one of their guards," I add as I organize my supplies.

"Rag Mop is no ordinary guard. He's definitely planning something. I see it in his eyes."

"You don't need to resort to derisive names. "

"It's not derisive, just descriptive. It's not like I know his name. And I don't want to."

I wish I knew my orc's name. Or even if we're talking about the same orc. His hair hung about his shoulders, untamed, a vast contrast to the orc himself. I rather liked it.

"What is that smirk for on your face?" Paloma asks, her brows narrowing.

"Nothing," I say quickly, forcing the smile away. "Just thinking about all the nicknames I'd use for Owen."

"Don't even get me started talking about that pig. At least we can handle him. He's not a monster. Just a regular pig, probably overcompensating for a small, limp dick."

I bite my lip so I don't laugh. "You're probably right, but he's earned whatever name you call him. The orcs haven't."

"Are you so sure? They're orcs , Lily. They don't respect anything except weapons and bloodshed," she says without even a hint of remorse for her harsh words as she sets out one of my finer pieces, a leather sling pouch with extra compartments for knives and small farming tools.

"How do you know what they respect? I mean, does anyone ever talk to them?"

Paloma's hand hovers over my cutting shears. "Crap. Vints."

My head snaps up in time to see three vints slither in our direction, with their spiked tails brushing the dirt behind them. Their blue skin reminds me of the ocean back home, and that's the only positive thing I can say about them.

I hiss, realizing I could be judging them as unfairly as Paloma and the others judge the orcs. But, damn, I don't want to deal with them. They always cause trouble. New Earth shares a border with the vints, and there have been a lot of skirmishes recently.

Why can't everyone just calm down so I can slip out of here and search for my orc?

"Damn. Owen's disappeared again. The useless ass," Paloma whispers as a vint rummages through the harnesses on my table while the other two flank him, their backs turned to us as they watch the crowd.

The guards. Where are they? I follow their line of sight to the nearby orcs.

My orc has joined the other two, but he's far from the calm male I've had in my head these past few days. With the ridges on his brow scrunched together and his right hand resting on a sheathed knife, he's snarling and being held back by the orc with the braids.

The vint intentionally bumps my table, dumping my works-in-progress into my lap and immediately gaining my attention. "An accident," the vints says with a snarl.

"If you tell me what you're looking for, I can find it for you," I say as calmly as I can.

He reaches out and runs a long, dirty finger through my hair. I freeze, unable to do anything, even though I'm holding an edge beveler. Not a knife, but it could be used as a weapon. If I could move.

"We're not for sale," Paloma says, knocking his hand away from me.

When the vint reaches for Paloma, she raises my shears. "Don't," she warns.

One simple word, but the vint halts. She will stab him if he tries to touch her.

My eyes dart at my orc.

He's… gone .

My heart sinks, but before I can search the crowd for him, a high-pitched whistle pierces the noise of the crowd. The three-inch spikes lining the vints' tails rise simultaneously. Like a pack of dogs, the two vints race trail behind the leader after he swipes everything off my table with his tail.

"Bastard," I mumble, finally able to move. I bend over and begin picking up the mess .

"At least they're gone." Paloma brushes the dirt off the completed orders as she sets them on my table while I get on my hands and knees and start sifting through the dirt for my needles. If I'd been thinking straight when the vints approached, I would have closed my sewing box. But I was too distracted, thinking of my orc.

"How many needles did you have in there?" Paloma asks as she joins me on the ground.

"Two dozen."

"Why so many?"

"Are you trying to distract me from what just happened or do you really want to know?"

She shrugs. "A bit of both."

"It's my entire supply from Earth. I don't exactly trust certain people in the colony. It's safer to take them with me when we're working the market."

"I can't imagine any of the women stealing your tools. Certainly not if they ever want you to repair their shoes. They don't have your skills with leather."

"Not them. Owen."

A shadow looms over us as large leather boots twist and drive several of my needles into the dirt. I follow the thick calves and thicker thighs to the scowling face of an orc. Not my orc. The one with the braids.

"Just how I like my females," he says. "On their hands and knees." With a snarl, he bears his tusks at us.

Paloma glares at him but says nothing. Instead, she pushes her way past the orc to return to her table.

"May I help you?" I try to keep my voice steady as my head tilts back, my gaze lifting from where I'm still picking up my supplies. Massive doesn't begin to describe him.

The orc grunts at me, then turns to Paloma who's turned her back to him, as if he doesn't exist.

"I need boots," the orc says to her .

"You have boots." Her voice comes out clipped, but the orc doesn't seem to pick up on her tone. Or care.

"I need boots," he repeats, with a slight growl underlying his words this time.

"I don't have any boots for sale," she says, even though there are three pairs on her table.

He randomly chooses a pair and holds them in front of her face. "These."

"They're for another customer."

"Not any longer." He slams a knife down on her table, the hilt an inch from her fingertips. "Payment."

Her eyes lock with his, and I hold my breath as neither Paloma nor the orc moves.

"Paloma," I whisper, trying to break whatever spell holds her. "A knife is fine for payment. Let him take the boots."

"Sold. Leave, orc." Paloma flicks her wrist at him before snatching the knife off the table.

Like an animal scenting the air, his nostrils flare. There's anger in those dark green eyes, enough that I fear for Paloma. But the orc merely slings the tied boots over his shoulder… and returns to my table.

Where are our damn guards?

The orc's meaty hand grips my chin and forces my head up. "You are the submissive one."

I can't repress the shiver that runs through me. Thoughts of my orc and his confidence, his strength, return. That's what orcs admire. Strength.

But I'm shaking too badly to do or say anything to save myself.

The massive orc releases my chin and I resume sewing an unfinished work glove so I can calm my nerves.

"We need to work, orc," Paloma says. "Leave."

The orc ignores her as he leans over me, blocking out the hot sun. Without asking, he runs a finger down my upper arm below my sleeve, against bare skin. I shiver at the touch but force myself to remain still. I must look like a deer caught in headlights, but I refuse to run and look even weaker.

"Are you a breeder, female?"

"Am I what?" My hands shake so badly I accidentally stab myself with the needle. "Ouch!"

"You humans are fragile."

I don't like this orc. Nothing about him. And I'm not sure how to get rid of him.

He's massive and can snap my neck one-handed if he wants. Instead of gripping my shears in warning, I try Paloma's tactic.

"Leave, or I'll call the guards, orc," I threaten, accessing some newfound strength inside me.

He leans in so close it's impossible not to smell the dirt and sweat on him. My stomach wants to revolt, but I don't dare recoil and show any weakness.

"You will call me Grak," he growls in my ear.

Grak? I remember hearing that name before. It's something to ponder later, after I get rid of him. "Leave, Grak ."

He doesn't leave. No, he sniffs me along my neck, then whispers, "You will do."

"Grak?" a familiar voice calls from behind, both concern and confusion lacing his tone.

I can barely see past this mountain blocking my view, but when I lean to the side, I see my orc! I stop shaking as every part of me fills with confidence, even though his eyes don't meet mine.

"Ij van tobef Sojek," my orc says to this bully, but his tone remains even. Respectful.

Whatever my orc said works, drawing Grak away. When the monstrous orc walks off, I breathe for what feels like the first time in hours. After Grak exits our sector, my orc flashes his tusks and the left corner of his mouth rises. A smile.

I wonder what my orc thinks of me, since I never returned to find out his name. Not that I didn't want to. Owen prevented me from returning the next day, and the next two as well. He planned to keep me in the cookhouse until I gave in to him. Jessie falling ill is the only reason Owen allowed me to return to Pen'Kesh. Council insists we have a leather artisan here every day and Jessie and I are the only two in the colony.

Once the market returns to normal, I'll slip away and find my orc.

This time, I'm not leaving Pen'Kesh until I know his name.