Page 6 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

"Fine."

CHAPTER 4

DRAVEN

"Thanks for this."

Isolde's voice carries genuine warmth as she leans against my arm, her weight settling into my side with surprising ease. Liora's cleaning cloth removed most of the wolf's blood from my face and hands, but I can still feel the phantom stickiness on my skin—a reminder of violence that clings despite soap and water.

Maddie marches ahead of us through the village square like she's leading a military parade, her auburn curls bouncing with each determined step. The woman moves with purpose that would be admirable if it weren't directed at managing my life.

Every face in the square turns toward us. Mrs. Penwhistle abandons her conversation with the fishmonger's wife to stare openly. Young Timmy stops mid-sprint to gawk at the sight of the town's tracker supporting a limping stranger. Even the blacksmith pauses his hammer to watch us pass.

Their eyes burn like brands against my skin. I've grown used to the stares over the years—the mixture of wariness and grudging respect that follows me through these streets. But today feels different. Today they're not just watching the orc who keeps their borders safe; they're watching me with a woman, and the speculation in their gazes makes my jaw clench.

Isolde shifts her weight, her injured leg causing her to stumble slightly. I steady her without thinking, my arm tightening around her waist. The movement brings her closer against my side, and despite the unwanted attention, I find myself noticing how perfectly she fits against me. Her warmth seeps through the fabric of my shirt, chasing away the cold judgment of watching eyes.

The honey and lavender scent that clings to her hair mingles with the crisp autumn air, creating something unexpectedly soothing. For a moment, the stares matter less than the steady rhythm of her breathing and the trust she places in my strength.

"Almost there," I mutter, more for my benefit than hers.

The Golden Crust's wooden sign comes into view, painted with wheat sheaves that capture the afternoon light. Maddie pushes open the door with theatrical flourish, releasing a wave of warm air scented with fresh bread and cinnamon.

Inside, I help Isolde to a cushioned chair near the window. She settles with a grateful sigh, immediately testing her injured leg's position. Liora's salve has already begun working—the swelling has reduced, and the angry red of the puncture wounds has faded to a manageable pink.

"Pick anything you like from the display," Maddie calls from behind the counter, gesturing toward shelves lined with golden pastries and crusty loaves. "Everything's fresh this morning."

I approach the counter warily, studying the array of baked goods like they might attack. Honey-glazed rolls glisten next to braided bread dotted with herbs. Tarts filled with seasonal fruits sit alongside something that smells like cinnamon and promises.

Maddie leans across the counter, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"I need to ask you something."

The serious tone catches me off guard. I glance back at Isolde, who's examining her bandaged leg with clinical interest.

"She's the only family I have left." Maddie's words carry weight that settles heavy in my chest. "And she's clearly the type to wander off exploring without thinking about the dangers. You saw what happened today."

"She made a mistake. Won't happen again."

"You don't know her like I do." Maddie shakes her head, auburn curls catching the light from the window. "Isolde's brilliant with her bees and her business, but she gets so focused on possibilities that she forgets about risks. Always been that way, even as a child."

I study Isolde through the reflection in the bakery's front window. She's testing the flexibility of her ankle, her brow furrowed in concentration. There's something about her careful movements that speaks of someone accustomed to relying on her own strength.

"What are you asking?"

"Keep an eye on her. Just while she's here establishing her trade routes. Make sure she doesn't wander into trouble again."

The request hits like a trap snapping shut. I came here for a pastry and escape, not to become a babysitter for Maddie's wandering cousin.

"I'm not a nursemaid."

"I'm not asking you to be." Maddie's voice drops even lower. "I'm asking you to do what you already do—patrol the borders, track threats. Just... maybe expand your route to include wherever she decides to explore."

The request settles into my bones like winter cold. Every rational part of my mind screams against it—I'm a tracker, not a guardian for wandering merchants. My routes are calculated for maximum efficiency, not babysitting duty.

But Isolde's quiet thanks still echoes in my ears. The trust in her voice when she leaned against me. The way she challenged my tone instead of cowering.

"Fine."