3. Torain
CHAPTER THREE
TORAIN
“ I met my mate!”
The words exploded from my chest the second I burst through Osen’s door. A groan and rustle of clothing followed as my brother and his mate sprang apart on their couch.
“Unholy hell, Torain.” Miranda yanked her shirt back into place. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”
“Knocking is for people who haven’t just had their entire world turned upside down.” I collapsed into the armchair, ignoring their disheveled state. “She’s perfect. And terrifying. And she probably hates me already.”
Osen chuckled, the sound rough with interrupted desire. “Who’s perfect and terrifying?”
“Carissa Morton. Mags’s niece? She used to spend summers at the bookstore.”
“Little Carrie?” Osen’s eyebrows shot up with recognition. “Gods, that was what, twenty years ago?”
“It’s Carissa now.” The correction came automatically. “And she’s not little anymore.”
Gus abandoned his perch on the windowsill to demand attention with imperious head-butts against my leg. The gray creature was no ordinary cat, and after witnessing him feast on the soul of a dark witch attempting to kill Miranda, I wouldn’t dare say no to her familiar.
“She’s all...” I waved my free hand, searching for words. “Corporate. Her bun was so tight it made my head hurt just looking at it. But then pieces kept falling out and curling against her neck...”
Miranda snorted. “I’m sure her hair was the first thing you noticed.”
“No, first I noticed how she glared at me for being too loud in her store.” Heat crept up my neck. “Which, fair. But then she turned around and... gods.”
Osen’s eyes softened with understanding. He’d felt it too, that moment when the whole world realigned to put her at the center. “You sound properly besotted already. So when’s the handfasting?”
“There’s no handfasting.” I scowled at his brotherly shiteating grin. The memory of her dismissal stung. “She barely acknowledged my existence. And then I fucked up by forgetting about deliveries with Zral...”
“Smooth.” Miranda curled into Osen’s side, his arm wrapping around her automatically. “Nothing says ‘mate material’ like being unreliable.”
I groaned and slumped further into the chair. Gus took advantage of my new position to claim my lap. “Then Tate showed up, and I don’t know what would keep her in Silvermist?—”
“Tate Gerrard?” Osen sat straighter, dislodging Miranda. “At the bookstore?”
“Yeah, trying to ‘take the burden off her shoulders’ or some bullshit.” My lip curled at the memory. “Slithered in with his fake sympathy and preliminary offers.”
“So that’s where he plans to get the land.” Osen’s expression darkened. At both our confused looks, he explained, “Something the Silvermist mayor mentioned at our last meeting. Gerrard’s been giving the planning department hell since they rejected his condo proposal. Needs more parking or something.”
My blood ran cold. “You think he’s targeting Carissa’s store specifically?”
Osen’s fingers traced idle patterns on Miranda’s shoulder. “A downtown property that size would solve his problems.”
“I tried to warn her about him.” The growl rumbled in my chest before I could stop it. Gus’s ears flattened at the vibration. “She shut me down completely. Said she could handle her own business dealings.”
Miranda hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe try not charging in and assuming she needs protecting? Let her set the pace.”
“Right, because you’re the expert on taking things slow?” I rolled my eyes. “Didn’t my brother literally kidnap you?”
“And it worked out beautifully.” She grinned up at Osen. “Eventually. After I got over the whole ‘stolen from my bed’ thing.”
“You loved every minute of it.” Osen nipped her ear, and I fought the urge to throw something at them.
“The point is,” Miranda continued, swatting his wandering hands, “humans need time to process the concept of fated mates. We know it exists, but we don’t have the same recognition others do. It’s a big leap to take based on nothing but someone else’s feeling.”
“It’s their inferior blood,” Osen teased, earning an elbow to the ribs.
My mind spun as the laughter faded. I traced the tattoos curling around my wrists—swoops and curls meant to represent strength and wisdom. Right now they felt more like mockery. Every instinct screamed to claim what was mine, to sweep Carissa off those ridiculous heels and carry her back to my bed. To show her exactly how perfectly we’d fit together.
But Miranda was right. Humans needed time. If Carissa felt it at all, she wouldn’t show it. Not with all that armor and formality. But she couldn’t possibly deny it forever.
Could she?
“It’ll be good having another human around,” Osen mused, nuzzling Miranda’s neck. “Someone to share the stares with you at clan gatherings.”
Miranda’s noncommittal hum spoke volumes. She pulled back just enough to give him a pointed look. “A bookstore’s a bit harder to move back and forth than my apothecary shop.”
The words lodged in my throat like splinters. I hadn’t even considered… But of course she wouldn’t want to live in Grimstone. She had a life in Silvermist Falls. A business. Responsibilities.
Could I leave the clan? It wasn’t unheard of for an orc to live outside a clan. Uncommon, sure, but not impossible. Vanin left.
And got shit for it every time one of us walked into One Hop Stop when visiting Silvermist.
The thought of abandoning my duties, leaving Osen to shoulder everything alone… My stomach turned. But living without Carissa, existing in a world without her scent and her smile and the sound of her voice… that seemed a worse fate.
Fuck.
“You two are disgusting.” I threw a cushion at them as Osen’s hands started wandering again. “Some of us are having actual crises here.”
“Mmm.” Miranda’s eyes had gone heavy-lidded. “Crisis time’s over. Get out.”
“But—”
“Out.” Osen’s growl held no room for argument. His mate’s scent had shifted to something headier, and I really didn’t need to witness what came next.
I barely made it out the door before Miranda’s giggle turned into a moan. Gus darted out behind me, giving me a look that clearly said bipeds, right?
The walk back to my home felt longer than usual. Every step away from Carissa physically hurt, like someone had tied a string between us and was slowly pulling it taut. The mate bond was still new, raw, and demanding. It would settle eventually. Probably. Hopefully.
But for now, all I could think about was how she’d looked in that moment before Tate interrupted—almost smiling, almost softening. The way that loose strand of hair had taunted me. The vanilla-cinnamon scent that still clung to my clothes.
I needed to prove myself worthy. Show her I could be reliable and dependable. Someone she could trust with her heart.
First, though, I needed to figure out how to keep her in Silvermist long enough to try.
CARISSA
I checked the clipboard again, as if the numbers might magically change. Thirty-five confirmed attendees for Paint & Sip, and only twenty-eight wine glasses. Not counting the three I’d already broken trying to wash decades of dust off them.
“You’re sure there aren’t any more glasses in storage?” I called up to the second floor where Molly was supposed to be shelving an armful of books a customer had decided against at the checkout counter. Truthfully, I’d rather them handed over like contraband than left to be found two seconds before closing.
Molly, however, propped her hip against the railing and tapped away at her phone. “Nope.”
“Could you maybe look?” The words ground between my teeth. “Instead of texting?”
“Already did.” She didn’t even glance up. “Jana told me last time that Mags switched to plastic cups after the Valentine’s incident last year. Something about blood being hard to get out of the carpet?”
Perfect. Just perfect. I added source disposable wine glasses to my ever-growing to-do list, right under figure out why we’re hemorrhaging money and hire new employees sans phone addictions .
I was going to murder my past self for ever thinking I could manage this place remotely.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to find calm. As much as the little girl who loved losing herself in the stacks would have loathed to hear it, I missed Seattle’s predictability. Nine to five shifts, healthy savings accounts, and perfectly calculated risk assessment. I liked knowing where every item was in a storeroom and how much was ordered at a time. Everything made sense. Nothing required guessing games.
The bell above the door chimed, and I spun with dread coiling in my stomach. If that was our first guest...
But no. It was worse.
“Little Carrie!” Beverly’s voice rang through the store with the cheerful obliviousness of someone who’d never stressed a day in her life. “I hope you don’t mind me popping in early. I wanted to make sure everything was set up properly.”
My eye twitched at the nickname. “It’s Carissa, Mrs. Morris. And I’m afraid we’re running a bit behind schedule.”
“Oh, nonsense.” She waved a hand airily. “I’m sure you have everything under control. This event’s been on the calendar for months, after all.”
I bit back the urge to point out that if it had truly been planned for months, perhaps someone could have mentioned it to me before yesterday afternoon. But Beverly was already puttering around, tsking at the lack of setup.
“Now, where are the brushes? And the smocks? We can’t have people ruining their nice clothes.” She peered at me over her glasses. “You did remember smocks, didn’t you, dear?”
Fuck.
I was saved from answering by another chime, and I spun to face whoever dared interrupt my spiral into madness with a tight smile. My breath caught as Torain ducked through the entrance, his broad shoulders nearly brushing both sides of the frame.
“Hope I’m not late. No one wants to fuck with geese when they block a path. Devil creatures.” He shook his head and his eyes danced with mischief. “Heard you might need help.”
I opened my mouth to politely decline. To maintain that professional distance I’d been clinging to since he first walked back into my life. Instead, what came out was an embarrassingly relieved, “You’re here.”
“Happy to lend a hand. Or two.” He held out his arms, and I definitely did not stare at the tattoos disappearing under his rolled cuffs. “Where do you want me?”
Everywhere . The thought ambushed me before I could squash the image of those strong hands on my hips, my thighs, my?—
“Easels,” I blurted. “We need to set up the easels.”
I busied myself with distributing canvases, desperately trying to ignore how easily Torain maneuvered the awkward stands into place. He worked quickly and efficiently, pausing only to tease me about my color-coded system for organizing supplies.
“You know,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I’m pretty sure the purple paint will still work even if it’s not next to the other cool tones.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t quite suppress my smile. “Mock all you want, but there’s a method to my madness.”
His voice dropped lower, sending a shiver down my spine. “Oh, I don’t doubt your capabilities.”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks. I busied myself with arranging brushes, praying he couldn’t see how flustered I was. “You seem to know your way around art supplies.”
“Occupational hazard.” He shrugged, the movement drawing attention to the play of muscles beneath his shirt. “Clan carver. Wood mostly, as the name would suggest, but I’ve been known to dabble.”
“Really?” I paused sorting the box of smocks Molly had unearthed from some magical dimension. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, I was supposed to apprentice with a master in Vancouver, but...” He trailed off, then shook his head to clear his wistful smile. “Anyway. These days I mostly do whatever orders come through the clan’s weekend stall at Mist and Market.”
His casual tone masked the vulnerability in his eyes, but I caught it. He’d mentioned his father, but this was something else. Some dream derailed, a different future lost along the way. Maybe there was more to the orc I remembered than the easygoing surface he hid behind.
“Must be nice,” I said softly. “Having a creative outlet.”
Torain set down the last easel and studied me. “You don’t have one?”
“Unless you count baking those snickerdoodles you loved so much sometime between the hours of midnight and morning.” I forced a laugh. “Risk assessment doesn’t leave much room for artistic expression.”
“Sounds lonely.”
The gentleness in his voice scraped against my raw edges. I turned away, fussing with paint bottles that were already perfectly arranged. “It paid well.”
“Past tense?”
Saved by the bell—literally. The first guests arrived in a cheerful cluster, and I slipped into professional hostess mode. Name tags. Seating assignments. Carefully portioned wine in our dwindling supply of real glasses.
For exactly forty-seven minutes, everything ran smoothly. The local artist led everyone through basic brush techniques. Conversation and laughter flowed. Even Beverly seemed pleased, though she kept commenting on how ‘different’ things were.
Then Molly appeared at my elbow.
“We’re out of wine.” Molly’s whisper carried panic. “Like, completely out. And we’ve got two hours left.”
“Please be joking,” I hissed. “What about the bottles downstairs?”
“Gone. These ladies can drink.” She gestured to where Beverly’s inner circle had colonized an entire corner. “And Mrs. Peterson keeps ‘accidentally’ knocking over her glass and asking if Torain can clean it up.”
The grumbling started low but spread quickly. Beverly’s corner grew particularly animated, their stern looks in my direction carrying judgment I didn’t need translated. I’d seen that same expression in boardrooms across Seattle—the moment when someone realized you weren’t living up to expectations.
My heart rate spiked as I realized Torain had vanished.
One moment he was there, effortlessly charming the older ladies with compliments on their brush strokes. The next... gone.
“Start collecting empty glasses,” I ordered Molly. “I’ll figure something out.”
My nails bit into my palms. I would not let this place defeat me. I’d managed million-dollar accounts and navigated corporate takeovers. One small-town art event would not break me.
Just as I was considering the merits of serving paint thinner and hoping no one noticed, the bell chimed again. Torain shouldered his way through the door, arms laden with bottles.
“Special delivery from One Hop Stop.” He set them on the bar with a wink. “Vanin sends his regards. And hopes you’ll consider rebuilding some burned bridges.”
I could have kissed him. I settled for helping pour refills as quickly as possible, earning relieved sighs from the participants.
“Oh, Vanin’s house red!” Beverly practically floated over. “I do hope you’ll be serving this regularly again, dear. That dreadful imported stuff Mags insisted on was giving me terrible headaches.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You know, when she switched suppliers.” Beverly waved a hand. “She and half the local vendors had some sort of falling out about six months ago. Started ordering everything from out of town. Vanin was particularly upset—they’d had such a nice arrangement for years.”
That explained the invoices with unfamiliar names. They weren’t just extra vendors, they were her only vendors. My vendors. My very pissed off vendors. How many other relationships had Mags torpedoed? How much damage control was I going to have to do?
“Well,” I managed, forcing levity into my voice. “I suppose we have our hero to thank for rebuilding them.”
Torain’s smirk was unbearably smug. “Anything for little Carissa.”
I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t quite stamp out the warmth blooming in my chest.
He’d come through. Again.
The rest of the night passed in a blur of increasingly abstract paintings, spilled paint, and tipsy laughter. Even Mrs. Peterson’s “accidents” decreased, though that might have been because Molly started cleaning them instead.
As the last giggling participant tottered out the door, I collapsed onto the overstuffed couch tucked between Mystery and Romance. My feet and thighs ached. I could feel strands of hair tickling the back of my neck. There wasn’t much beyond threat on life or limb that would get me upright at that moment.
“Don’t even think about cleaning up,” I warned as Torain reached for a broom. I held up one of the leftover bottles. “A toast? To the most excruciating event of my life.”
He chuckled and settled beside me, accepting the bottle and taking a long pull. “Could’ve been worse,” he mused. “No one set anything on fire.”
I snorted. “Is that the bar we’re setting? Congratulations, you didn’t commit arson?”
“Hey, I’ve seen much rowdier crowds at clan gatherings.” He passed the bottle back. “Though usually with less purple paint involved.”
I took a swig, relishing the burn. “Please. I bet orc parties are the height of decorum compared to what I just survived.”
“Oh really?” Torain’s shoulder brushed mine as he reached for the bottle. “Last winter solstice, my friend Zral tried to prove he could drink an entire cask of mead. Ended up proposing marriage to a pine tree.”
I couldn’t help laughing at his expression—part exasperation, part fond remembrance. “Did the tree say yes?”
“Sadly, their love was not meant to be. Though I hear they’re still friends.” He took another long pull from the bottle, and I definitely didn’t watch the way his throat worked as he swallowed. “Your turn. What’s next on the Carissa Morton world domination tour?”
“I don’t even want to think about it. I’m still trying to sort out the mess Mags left behind.” I groaned, letting my head fall back against the couch. “I just... I don’t know how I’m going to fix all of this.”
“You will.” The quiet conviction in his voice made me look up. “You’re smart. Capable. And stubborn as hell.”
“I prefer ‘determined,’“ I muttered.
His laugh rumbled through me, and I realized how close we’d gotten. Our thighs pressed together, shoulders brushing with each breath. When had that happened? I could smell wood and paint on his skin.
“Determined, then.” His voice had gone low, rough. “Point is, you’ve got this. And... you’re not alone. If you need help, I mean.”
I traced the bottle’s label with my finger as heat crept up my neck. “Is that what you want? To help?”
“Among other things.” His eyes flicked down to my lips, lingering long enough to send shivers racing down my spine. “I want what Osen has with Miranda. That bone-deep certainty that you’ve found your other half. Someone who challenges you, supports you...” His fingers brushed my knee. “Drives you absolutely crazy in the best way.”
I licked my lips, searching for words. “Sounds serious.”
“I’m not interested in casual.” The words rolled through me like thunder. “Life’s too short to waste time pretending you don’t know exactly what you want.”
And oh, the way he looked at me then—like I was a masterpiece he couldn’t wait to carve into existence. Like he saw past all my sturdy walls to the mess underneath and wanted it anyway.
I don’t know who moved first. All I knew was that suddenly my hands were in his hair, and his tongue was in my mouth, and I never wanted it to end. His lips devoured me hungrily, dragging desperate moans from somewhere deep in my chest. My skirt had inched higher, baring more thigh as I straddled his lap.
Big hands cupped my ass, dragging me closer. Every inch of him pressed hot and hard against me. I could feel him everywhere, lighting a desire that spread through my veins like wildfire.
He nipped at my bottom lip, growling approval when I dug my nails into his scalp. Each kiss burned, deeper and hotter until I was a panting, writhing mess begging for more. I needed his touch, craved the friction as he rocked up against me. The wetness pooling between my thighs soaked through my panties.
But no matter how much I arched into his grasp, he held back. Gentle, almost reverent kisses scattered over my jawline, teasing without satisfying.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow.” He pressed the words against my throat.
Every carefully constructed reason why this was a terrible idea dissolved under the hunger in his eyes. I had plans to sell the store. To return to Seattle.
But his other hand had found the hem of my blouse, and his callused fingers against my skin sent electricity dancing up my spine. And really, what was one dinner?
“Okay.” I barely recognized my own voice, breathless and wanting. “Yes.”
His answering grin could have lit up the whole store.