Chapter 7

7

THORAK

O n Monday, I stride into the cavernous entrance of my family's dwelling. Rough-hewn stone walls are adorned with intricate antique tapestries depicting famous orc battles and hunts. Glowing moss lamps cast a cozy light, illuminating the well-worn but lovingly polished wooden furniture.

The excited shrieks of my younger siblings echo from deeper in the cave as they chase each other in a game of tag. I'm the eldest of seven—large families are the orc way.

Ma's raucous humming rings out from the kitchen, accompanied by the savory aroma of slow-roasted elk and root vegetables. She's always happiest when cooking up a feast.

I heft the heavy oak barrel higher on my shoulder, the one I crafted specially for Da's birthday brew, and make my way to the back of the cave where his workshop lies. As expected, I find him there hunched over his workbench, meticulously carving a new tap handle, brow furrowed in concentration.

"Hey, Da," I greet him. "Brought that barrel for your celebration ale."

He glances up, golden eyes—identical to mine—flashing with recognition, and gives a gruff nod. "Set it in the corner."

I comply, then watch as he rises and circles the barrel, thick fingers trailing over the wood, inspecting my craftsmanship with a critical eye. A moment passes, then two. I shift my weight awkwardly.

Finally, he looks up, meeting my gaze. "Solid work," he grunts, his approval coming out strained, as if it costs him.

"Thanks," I mutter, but the praise seems hollow, obligatory. The unspoken hangs heavy between us—his disapproval over me starting my own brewery rather than taking over his.

His jaw works as if chewing on words unsaid. I brace myself, but he simply claps a hand on my shoulder. "Best get your Ma to feed you before the whelps eat it all."

With that, he turns back to his workbench, discussion clearly closed. I linger a moment longer, frustration bubbling. I yearn to declare that I'm forging my own path, that I'm building something incredible. That he should be proud of me.

Instead, I swallow the words like a bitter ale and head back to the warmth of the kitchen. I know deep down that we love each other. But it seems we're both too stubborn and proud to bridge the chasm between us.

One day, I vow silently. One day I'll make him understand.

But first, I must secure my brewery's future. And with a certain bewitching human by my side, I just might pull it off.

In the kitchen, my mother, Mor'ghan, beams at me as I enter.

"Thorak, you'll never guess who I ran into at the bookstore the other day—Ygra! She looks amazing, and she asked about you. Did you know she was back in town?"

Gods above. This again?

I keep my voice level as I respond, "That's nice, Ma, but I'm not interested in Ygra. We broke up for a reason."

Ma's face falls slightly, but she persists. "I know, dear, but people change. Might it be worth giving her another chance?"

I bite back the urge to snap at her. My mother means well, but her meddling is the last thing I need right now.

A small, petty side of me wants to blurt out that I'm engaged, even if it's not real. But I hold my tongue, knowing that would only lead to more questions and complications.

Instead, I force a smile and give her a quick hug. "I appreciate the thought, Ma, but I'm too busy for a relationship right now anyway. Now, I really need to get going—I have a meeting with a potential distributor."

She sighs but relents, patting my cheek affectionately. "Alright, my stubborn boy. But don't work too hard, you hear?"

I nod before snagging a steaming meat pie from the counter and heading for the door. Ma has always been supportive of me—she's even been understanding about Orc's Anvil and my need to forge my own future.

But what would she say if she knew that I was fake engaged to a human?

Later that day, I meet up with Mariah and Robert at the local monster market, a vibrant and chaotic gathering of merchants and artisans from all corners of the magical realm. The air is filled with a cacophony of voices—guttural orc haggling, melodic elven sales pitches, and the occasional squawk of a disgruntled cockatrice. The scents of exotic spices, sizzling meats, and pungent potions mingle together in a heady brew that makes my nostrils flare.

Robert, ever the businessman, is interested in potentially distributing other monster or magical being-run businesses. This market is an important research opportunity for him, a chance to scope out the competition and make valuable connections.

But as we navigate the crowded aisles, it's clear that the overwhelming sensory experience is taking its toll on the stiff, formal human. His eyes dart nervously from a towering troll hawking enchanted weaponry to a pair of giggling pixies flitting about with trays of shimmering love potions.

Mariah and I exchange a knowing glance, and I have a sudden surge of protectiveness toward her. She may be human, but she belongs here, among the magic and mayhem.

I slide my hand into hers, marveling at how her tiny hand is dwarfed inside of my own. She looks up at me, surprise and something else flickering in those emerald depths.

I lean in close, my voice a low rumble. "I'll keep you safe from the big, bad monsters."

She rolls her eyes but can't quite hide her smile. "My hero," she drawls sarcastically, but there's no real bite to it.

As we continue to wind our way through the market, I can't help but imagine what it would be like to do this for real—to hold her hand, to pull her close, to show the world that she's mine. The thought sends a thrill through me, even as I try to tamp it down.

I remind myself that Mariah hates me. That this arrangement is just a business deal.

But with every brush of her skin against mine, every coy glance from beneath those long lashes, I find myself wishing more and more that it wasn't.

Suddenly, a familiar, grating voice pierces through the bustling hum of the market. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Thorak Ironfist and Mariah Parker."

Mariah tenses as we turn to face the source of the interruption.

It's my former friend Grok, a sour-demeanored troll who, unlike me, never grew out of being a little fuckwad. We stopped talking years ago when his attitude toward non-monsters, especially humans, became completely intolerable to me.

He's flanked by his old gang of bullies from high school. They look just as mean and arrogant as ever, their faces twisted into cruel sneers.

"Thorak, old friend," Grok continues, his beady eyes flicking between us. "You running a charity these days, giving tours to slow-witted humans? Can't imagine why else you'd risk your reputation holding hands with a dirty mundane like Mariah."

Protective fury builds within me, and I instinctively step forward, putting myself between Mariah and these immature idiots.

"The only slow-witted being around here is you, Grok. What do you want?" I growl, my fingers itching to curl into fists.

The hulking troll throws back his head and laughs, the sound grating against my ears. "What are you getting so upset about, Thor? I thought you hated her. But now you're—what? Don't tell me you're dating a human. Couldn't find a proper monster woman to tolerate you?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Robert watching the exchange with a furrowed brow, suspicion clouding his features. Shit. This is not the impression I wanted to make.

Mariah's hand finds mine again, her fingers intertwining with my own. The simple gesture sends a jolt of warmth through me, steadying my rising anger. She steps forward, her chin lifted in defiance.

"Yes, Grok, we're together," she says sweetly, though there's an undercurrent of steel in her voice. "Thorak and I are in love. We're engaged, in fact. Not that it's any of your business."

She turns to me then, and before I can react, she rises up on her tiptoes and presses her soft lips against mine. Fireworks explode behind my eyelids as I instinctively pull her closer, my hand splaying across the small of her back.

The kiss is pure electricity, jolting through my every nerve ending. Mariah's lips are warm and pliant, molding perfectly against my own as if they were made to fit together. Her lavender scent wraps around me, intoxicating and dizzying.

I forget where we are, forget our audience, forget that this is all supposed to be an act. All that exists in this moment is the slide of her mouth on mine, the sweet taste of her, the tight press of her petite body against my hulking frame.

Gods, it feels so real, so right.