Page 3 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

But it's not the wolf that stops me cold.

A woman crouches among a patch of wild asters, her dark hair falling around her shoulders and her clothes marking her as a traveler. Her face has gone pale, but her eyes remain sharp, calculating. She's terrified but not panicked—smart enough to know that running would trigger the wolf's chase instinct.

The beast shifts its weight, preparing to spring.

I draw my hunting knife in one fluid motion, the blade singing against its sheath. The sound cuts through the forest quiet like a bell.

The wolf launches itself forward in a blur of muscle and fury.

I surge from the underbrush like a force of nature itself, my boots finding purchase on the moss-slicked ground as I intercept the beast mid-leap. The wolf's amber eyes widen in the split second before impact—a flicker of surprise cutting through its predatory focus. My blade finds the soft flesh beneath its jaw with practiced precision, the steel sliding between muscle and sinew as I drive upward with the full force of my momentum and years of hunting experience. The knife bites deep, its edge sharp enough to part fur and flesh like water, severing the major arteries and windpipe in one clean, decisive stroke.

The wolf's considerable weight crashes into my chest with the force of a falling tree, but I've braced for the impact, my stance wide and my core locked tight. Hot blood erupts from the wound like a geyser, spraying across my face and hands in thick, metallic streams that taste of copper and wild earth. The creature's dying momentum carries us both to the ground in a tangle of limbs and fur, dead leaves and forest debris scattering around us as we hit the loam with a heavy thud that echoes through the ancient trees.

Even in its death throes, the morrow wolf's claws rake desperately across my exposed forearm, the razor-sharp talons tearing through my leather sleeve and finding the skin beneath. Pain flares hot and immediate, but the wounds are shallow—nothing more than reflexive spasms from a body that no longer obeys the commands of its fading brain. Blood wells from the parallel gashes, mingling with the wolf's as it seeps through the torn fabric.

I roll the massive carcass aside with a grunt of effort, feeling the dead weight of nearly two hundred pounds of muscle and bone. Planting my boot firmly against its still-warm ribs for leverage, I wrench my hunting knife free with a wet, sucking sound. The blade emerges clean and bright, its steel unmarked despite the violence it has just witnessed. Blood pools steadily beneath the matted black fur, spreading outward in dark tendrils that stain the forest floor a deep, rich crimson.

The woman hasn't moved. Smart.

I position myself between her and the treeline, scanning for additional threats. Morrow wolves sometimes hunt in pairs, and the scent of blood might draw scavengers. My knife remains ready as I assess our surroundings.

"Can you stand?"

She shifts slightly, wincing as she puts weight on her left leg. A dark stain spreads across her trouser leg where thorns have torn through fabric and flesh.

"I think—" She attempts to rise, then immediately sinks back with a sharp intake of breath. "No. Something's wrong."

"What possessed you to wander this far from town?" I keep my voice level, but the question carries an edge. "These woods aren't a garden path."

Her hazel eyes flash with something between embarrassment and defiance. "I was scouting wildflower locations for⁠—"

"For what? A funeral arrangement?" I crouch beside her, examining the torn fabric around her calf. The wounds aren't deep, but blood seeps steadily through the cloth. "Morrow wolves patrol this territory. You're lucky there was only one."

"I didn't know." Her voice carries quiet dignity despite the circumstances. "I'm not from here."

Obviously. Local children learn about forest dangers before they can properly walk. I tear a strip of fabric from my shirt and bind her leg with efficient movements.

"Can you put your arms around my neck?"

She hesitates, studying my face. Blood still streaks my cheekbones from the wolf's death, and I catch her gaze lingering on my tusks before she nods.

I slide one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, lifting her with careful precision. She weighs almost nothing compared to the loads I'm accustomed to carrying, but I adjust my grip to avoid jarring her injured leg.

"Hold tight. The path back isn't smooth."

Her arms encircle my shoulders, and I catch the faint scent of honey and lavender beneath the metallic tang of blood and fear.

"Thank you."

The words are spoken quietly against my ear, but I don't respond. I've already begun calculating the safest route back to town.

CHAPTER 3

ISOLDE

His stride remains steady despite my weight, each step calculated to avoid the worst of the uneven ground. The wolf's blood has begun to dry on his face, dark streaks that emphasize the sharp angles of his features. I study his profile as we move through the forest—the heavy line of his jaw, the way his golden-brown eyes constantly scan our surroundings even while carrying me.

The silence stretches, filled only by the soft crunch of leaves beneath his boots and the distant calls of birds returning to their roosts after the violence. My leg throbs with each movement, but the pain feels secondary to the strange awareness of being held against his chest. His body radiates heat through the torn fabric of his shirt, and I catch myself noticing the controlled strength in his arms, the way he adjusts his grip to keep me secure without making me feel helpless.