Her Orc Warrior: A Monster Fantasy Romance (Black Bear Clan Book 3)

Early the next morning, I extricate myself from the bundle of blankets Wren and I spent the night in, wondering at how I’m warm all over today, not only at the front where I was facing the fire. I slept like a log, dead to the world from the moment I closed my eyes, and I feel refreshed and ready to take on the training.

On the other side of the small camp, Korr is already up, his wagon packed and ready to be hitched to his pair of horses. I point toward the bushes, indicating that I need a moment of privacy before we begin, and he nods in answer.

Then I spot Vark by the horses, his head bowed as he strokes a mare’s neck. He offers her a carrot, and she presses her big head into his chest, bumping him as if begging for more. His sigh steams in the chill morning air, but he reaches into his pocket again and gives her another, then removes her blanket and folds it in half. Then he pauses and cocks his head, listening.

I escape behind a cluster of bushes. I don’t want him to see me watching him. By the time I return to the fire, he’s nowhere to be seen, so I stride over to Korr’s wagon and present myself to him for training.

“I need to know how much you know,” the tall orc announces. “I may not be a good teacher. Vark would be better, but he’s sulking. At the Hill, you will be able to study with Orsha, Ozork’s sister. She is the best.”

I roll back my shoulders, snickering at the thought of Vark sulking. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. I don’t have a lot of experience.”

That’s not entirely true, but street fighting is dirty. There’s no finesse or technique involved in stabbing someone in the back, only the raw need to survive. Which might be good enough if I was cornered in an alley but not when fighting a male like Vark.

Korr hums thoughtfully, then puts me through a series of warm-up exercises that soon have me shedding my coat. My palms are muddy, my knees damp, but I like the way my blood pumps through my veins.

“It’s lucky that you wear pants.” Korr effortlessly pushes himself off the ground, his posture perfect. “Skirts get in the way.”

“Yes,” I agree. I try to steady my breaths. “Too many ways someone could grab me and use them against me.”

Korr frowns at me but doesn’t comment. Instead, he motions for me to get up, then announces that we’re going to practice getting out of someone’s grip.

“Chances are, they’ll be stronger than you.” He maneuvers me into position by taking hold of my shoulders. “Like me.”

“But you’ll go easy on me, yes?” Worry slips through, even though I hate showing him my weakness. “If you squeeze me too hard, you’ll break my bones.”

My orc trainer laughs and ruffles my short hair. “Don’t worry, little human. I won’t hurt you.”

I don’t know if he’s being patronizing or just accommodating, but he is a lot stronger than me. It’s good to know that he’ll be pulling his punches, at least at the start.

Moments later, I find myself squished against a broad male chest. There’s no shiver of awareness, though, like I felt with Vark. Korr’s arms might be thick, muscled bands around my waist, his voice rumbling behind me, but he doesn’t stir any sensations inside me.

I don’t know whether to be relieved that I’m only attracted to one orc—or worried.

“Now try to break free.”

I give him an experimental struggle to see how strong he is. “Weapons?”

He chuckles behind me. “No weapons this time.”

“All right.”

I give it my best, I really do. The streets have taught me where to aim on a man’s body to cause the most damage, and I run through the full list of spots, testing them all out on Korr. But he either dodges the blows or bears them without so much as a grunt. I can’t even reach up high enough to scratch out his eyes, and his instep is too far with how he has me lifted off the ground.

Finally, I give up, hanging limp in his grip. “Fine, you’ve proved your point. Orcs are superior to humans in every way.”

Korr gently sets me on the ground and turns me around to face him. “That was not my intention. I wanted you to see that sometimes, being scrappy and determined won’t be enough. You need to train. Often and hard. If you want, you can train with me. You will hate me at times. But I will make you a decent fighter. Then Orsha will take over and make you even better.”

It’s the longest speech I’ve heard the otherwise quiet orc make so far, and I can only nod in reply. I’ll take a grueling daily training over the fear of being caught and hurt.

“Now run five times around the outer perimeter of the camp,” Korr says. “And I’ll see you at breakfast.”

I push my sweaty hair out of my face. “Deal.”

I sit beside Vark and Wren on the driver’s seat of the wagon, trying not to let Vark’s pointed silence get to me. I tried to strike up a conversation, but every time I did, he answered only in grunts and mumbles. Wren seems unperturbed and chatters to both of us—and Vark answers her, at least. If he was mean to my daughter, I’d have his hide.

However, it seems that it’s only me he’s angry at.

After I’d had breakfast and helped the orcs clean up and pack for the road, I half debated riding with Korr today to ask him about the hunting and the training. Besides, Vark made it clear by refusing to train me that he didn’t want my company any more than I wanted his.

But before I could do that, I spotted Vark boosting Wren up to the seat of his wagon, settling her in with her blanket and a snack.

I wonder why he wants us here with him if he’s going to spend the entire day in silence.

We break for lunch, stopping the wagons by the river again to water the horses. Wren flits off to explore the riverbank, and I call after her to watch out for slippery stones. Ozork peels away from the group, nodding at me to indicate that he’s going to mind her.

A soft glow spreads through me at the kind gesture. Over the past two days, these orcs have somehow accepted Wren—and me, to some extent—as part of their caravan, and I’ve accepted that they’re genuine in their wish to help. They have nothing to gain from it, either, apart from Vark—and he’s the one pushing me away the most instead of trying to get closer to me. The others have modified their plans without me having to beg or pay, like the fact that we’ve been camping in secluded spots. It’s a strange arrangement, underscored by the wary, sometimes hostile glares we get from other travelers on the road.

There have been fewer of them as we travel farther north, nearing King Gorvor’s domain. We’ve left behind the low moors, and the low hills rising on both sides of the road have given us some protection from the bitter wind. The villages are clustered closer together here, often surrounded by wooden walls, and I wonder whether the people are protecting themselves from the elements or something worse.

Tension compresses my chest at first, but I release it with long, measured breaths. I’ve never been this far from home—if I count Ultrup as my home. Leaving the human lands behind feels dangerous and reckless, but I’ve never felt safer in my life than in the orc camp.

And Wren is blooming, her cheeks rosy with the fresh air, her giggle ringing over the quiet hum of conversation while Ozork teaches her to skip stones in the river. We’ve never starved in the past, not in the way I’ve seen some people do, but there were days when we didn’t have enough to eat—and now we do, both of us.

Wren returns to my side sometime later. “Can I ride with Ozork until the evening, Mama?” she demands in a quiet but determined voice. “He said I need to learn more about orcs if I’m going to live with them.”

I glance over at the older orc, opening my mouth to protest. We’re not going to live with the orcs. We might only stay over the winter, long enough for me to figure out what I want for us in the future. And to learn everything I can from these fighters. But Ozork shrugs, then slips his gaze to where Vark is brushing down his pair of horses. Then he looks back at me and raises his eyebrows.

And yes, I understand his meaning now. He’s giving me time to clear the air with Vark, something I can’t do with a four-year-old chattering between us. I’ll need to have a talk with Ozork about putting ideas into my little girl’s head, but for now, I relent.

“All right,” I tell her. “But you be good. No funny business.”

She throws her arms around my legs for a quick hug, then bounds off toward Ozork. My heart twists at the sight, but I swallow the panic that threatens to overcome me every time she’s away from me.

Somehow, Ozork seems to understand my fear. He hands Wren up to his driver’s seat, then comes over to me.

“She’ll be a wagon away,” he says. “She could also ride with Ritta if that makes it better for you.”

His gaze is steady, and I know that if I say I want Wren to join the only other woman in this caravan, he’ll understand.

“She’s not a bother, then?” I ask quietly, observing my daughter. “I can’t imagine you signed up to be a babysitter.”

He chuckles. “No, but I don’t mind. My sister has four younglings, though they’re older than Wren now.” He sends me a kind look. “I remember her being exhausted every day when they were this age, though. She never had a moment to herself, and she has a mate who helped her.”

I press my lips together to keep from agreeing with him. I’ve never viewed Wren as a burden, not once, but I can’t deny that having a four-year-old is hard some days.

“All right,” I say. “But only for the afternoon. And don’t let her eat too much of the same thing at once.”

He nods at me, and I watch him stride back to Wren’s side. He climbs up next to her, bundles her up against the cold, and unties the reins, muttering to his horses. I turn to Vark’s wagon and clamber on top without waiting for his assistance. He frowns at me and goes back to brushing the horses. He only puts away his brush when Ozork’s wagon lurches into motion and the caravan moves forward.

For a long while, we drive in silence. I know I should speak—but I have no idea what I did to cause his black mood. Over the years of being a part of Timo’s crew, I’ve learned to avoid men if their expressions were like this or to make sure everything was just as they liked it so I wouldn’t be the trigger for their outbursts.

I don’t know what Vark wants. I don’t know him well enough to recognize the signs of an impending explosion, so I sit quietly and let him stew. But soon, I can no longer take it.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out.

He frowns at me, his hands tight on the reins. “What for?”

I gape at him. “F-for whatever you’re angry at me for.”

Vark gradually relaxes his shoulders and sits back, leaning against the front of the wagon. “I’m not angry at you.”

“You’re certainly acting like it,” I mutter.

He grimaces and reaches out as if to touch my knee, then pulls away. “It is not your fault I’m in a bad mood. I am angry at myself.”

That’s…so very different from what I’m used to. He hasn’t exactly apologized for his silence, but he has made it clear I’m not the one to blame. My resentment melts away, and I turn a fraction toward him, curious.

“Why are you angry at yourself?” I ask softly.

He stares straight ahead. “Because I told Korr he could train you.”

“I’m confused,” I say. “You don’t want him to train me and you won’t train me yourself. Is it that you don’t want me to learn to fight?”

“Of course I want you to learn. I wish you never had to fight to protect yourself or your daughter, but I want you to be prepared.” He shakes his head. “I only thought I could stand by and watch as another male touched you.”

Maybe I should ride with Ozork for an afternoon and learn more about orcs because Vark is making very little sense right now.

“You don’t want Korr to touch me?” I ask to clarify.

Vark faces me fully, and his expression conveys how serious he is. “If he wasn’t my friend, I’d rip his arms off. He grabbed you today. I wanted to take my ax and chop his head off.” His voice gets lower with every word, and he leans in, looming over me on the wagon’s seat. “I can still smell him all over you now, and it’s enough to drive a male to madness.”

I realize my mouth is hanging open, so I close it, swallowing past a suddenly dry throat.

“I don’t know what to say,” I whisper.

He lets out a frustrated growl. “That’s why I didn’t want to talk today. I knew you would be even more afraid of me.” He scrubs his palm over his chest. “You’re my mate. It—it doesn’t sit well with me that you’re scared. It’s all wrong.”

I sit with this statement for a time, assessing it. Then I face him again. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He scoffs, a bitter, defeated sound. “You forget—I can scent it on you.”

I wince. “Well, I think it’s that you make me nervous. But not afraid.”

He keeps his gaze on his hands and doesn’t reply. I could let this go, let him think what he wants, but it’s important that he knows this. I’m not quite ready to admit that he triggers different responses in me, yet I’m certain now that I’m no longer scared. I don’t understand why, but I need him to know.

“I never let Wren be alone with men.” I clench my hands in my lap, hard enough to hurt. “You saw her bruise. That’s what happens when you get on the wrong side of a bad man. Even as a child.”

I don’t mention the bruises I’d gotten over the years, but Vark seems smart enough to figure out what I’m saying. He scowls, his grip tightening on the reins until his knuckles pale under the strain.

“That man,” he forces out through gritted teeth. “Does he still live?”

“Yes.” I grimace. “I stabbed him but I didn’t aim well. I should have gone for his kidneys, but in that moment, I only wanted him to stop.”

I squeeze my eyes shut against the memories of that day. Wren’s frightened whimpers. Timo screaming at her. The running leap I took, my dagger clutched in my hand. Then the ringing silence that followed after he collapsed from the pain. Savage satisfaction at having hurt him mixes with regret that I didn’t pause to slit his throat when he was down. But I’d only wanted to get Wren out of there as fast as possible.

A heavy arm lands on my shoulders, and Vark draws me into his side. I’m too shocked to protest, and by the time he cups the back of my head and I bury my face in his chest, I’m too overwhelmed by his extraordinary scent to move away.

“You did well,” he says. “You got away.”

The tremor of his voice has me pressing my cheek to his broad chest. I’ve never felt someone speak. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I finally settle them on his sides, over his thick cloak. Vark’s embrace is so warm. If I close my eyes again, I can pretend we’re somewhere safe, alone, and not on top of a moving wagon.

I want to be alone with Vark.

I duck my head to keep him from seeing any of the emotions on my face. When his grip on me loosens, I dig my fingers into his cloak and cling on. Vark lets out an exhale and holds me more firmly to him.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve had a good hug.

The last person I’d embraced with my full heart like this was Wren’s mother. Just before she passed away.