Page 4 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

"I'm not some delicate flower who wandered off the garden path."

His pace doesn't falter, but I feel the slight tension that runs through his shoulders.

"Could have fooled me."

Heat rises in my cheeks. "I've been managing my own business and traveling trade routes for years. One mistake doesn't make me incompetent."

"One mistake like that can make you dead."

The bluntness of his words cuts through my indignation, but I refuse to let him reduce me to a cautionary tale.

"You're right. I should have been more careful. But speaking to me like I'm a child who doesn't understand consequences won't change what happened."

He glances down at me, those sharp eyes studying my face with an intensity that almost steals my breath. For a moment, something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe, or grudging respect.

"Most people thank their rescuers without lectures."

"Most rescuers don't deliver sermons along with their heroics."

A sound escapes him that might be amusement, though his mouth barely moves. We navigate around a fallen log, and his grip tightens protectively as he steps over the obstacle.

"What's your name?"

The question comes quietly, almost reluctant.

"Isolde Briar. And yours?"

"Draven."

No surname offered, no elaboration. Just the single word, delivered like it should be explanation enough.

"Well, Draven, I do appreciate you saving my life. Even if your bedside manner needs work."

"I don't have patients. I have problems to solve."

"And which am I?"

He's quiet for several steps, the question hanging between us like morning mist. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a roughness that wasn't there before.

"Haven't decided yet."

Despite the gruff delivery, his uncertainty makes me smile. There's something unexpectedly endearing about this massive, blood-splattered warrior admitting he hasn't categorized me yet.

I study his profile as we continue through the trees, really looking at him. Beneath the wolf's blood, his deep green skin catches dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Dark hair escapes from where it's tied at his nape, framing features that are sharp and defined—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and those striking golden-brown eyes that miss nothing. Old scars mark his collarbone and forearms, pale lines that speak of countless encounters like the one he just handled with such brutal efficiency. His tusks, heavy and prominent, should make him appear menacing, but there's something oddly reassuring about the controlled way he carries himself.

The forest begins to thin, and I feel the subtle shift in his posture as buildings come into view. His shoulders square, his jaw tightens, and the easy confidence from our walk transforms into something more guarded.

Gasps ripple through the market square as we emerge. A woman drops her basket of apples, staring wide-eyed at the sight of the enormous, blood-covered orc carrying a stranger through their midst. Whispers follow in our wake—fragments about wolves and danger and what business does she have out there anyway.

Draven's grip on me tightens almost imperceptibly, and he walks with renewed purpose toward a building marked by a wooden sign painted with mortar and pestle.

The door swings open at his approach, revealing a woman with long dark hair braided over one shoulder. Her eyes widen as she takes in the scene.

"Sweet merciful gods, what happened?"

"Bring her to the cot."

Draven's voice carries no room for questions, and the woman—Liora, based on the apothecary around us—immediately gestures toward a narrow bed against the far wall.