4. Gracie
Chapter 4
Gracie
“ E xcuse me?” I asked, blinking at Tark. “Did you say something about fated and…one?”
He appeared to be freaking out for some reason. And?—
“Such a thing,” Tark bellowed, springing to his feet. He stared down at me with his jaw unhinged. “Fated one,” he muttered. “Fated one!”
“Back up here a second.” I dragged the clean shirt over my head, stuffed my arms through the sleeves, and tucked it around my waist, feeling better once I was covered up. I’d liked his touch on my skin a little too much, to the point I’d quivered and struggled to remain still while he’d spread the ointment.
He was so sweet and cute, making sure my skin was carefully covered, and his gaze so sincere and honest, that I’d let him spread the ointment for me. I’d worried he might… I don’t know, maybe get really sad if I’d told him no. From the start, he’d come across as a gentle-orc, and I’d learned to trust my instincts.
When I was six, my instincts had told me joining a reality TV show with my parents was a bad idea. I’d told my mom that, but she’d said I had no choice. But there were always choices. I could’ve put my foot down, crossed my arms on my chest, and refused to cooperate. They would’ve chided me, but there was no way they could’ve made me perform—something I’d learned by the time I’d turned eighteen. It took me a few more years to get up the nerve to quit, but finally, I’d put my foot down, crossed those arms on my chest, and told them I was finished. No more reality show for Gracie.
Mom had whined and pleaded, but when I said no, I stuck to it.
As long as I could make my influencer career work, they wouldn’t be able to drag me back for the “reunion” show they were salivating to film. That was the deal I’d made to myself, and I would stick to my word now, like I had back then.
“You’re my mate,” Tark roared, staring down at a golden, circular tattoo on his inner left wrist.
He slammed down onto his knees again in front of me and took my right hand reverently in his own, flipping it over.
“What are you—” My question ended in an eep as he leaned over my hand and dragged his scratchy tongue across my palm and up onto my wrist. He repeated the process with my left hand.
I should be repulsed by this, right? Instead, his odd gesture made heat swirl through me. It coasted from my arms and legs, spreading to my belly, where it dove down.
My clit should not be perking up over something like this.
Tark flipped my right hand over and leaned close enough his warm breath coasted across my wrist. He froze, his hand still cradling mine, his breathing catching as if he’d swallowed a storm. His eyes, wide and dark as an endless forest, darted to mine before he suddenly released me. The intensity in his gaze made my heart pound, but just as quickly, his expression closed off, and he cleared his throat, awkwardness spilling from him like water from an overflowing dam.
Silence stretched through the room until he rose to his feet, lowering his gaze to the floorboards, his wide shoulders tense.
“Tark?” I asked. “None of this makes any sense.”
Towering over me like a giant, he finally met my gaze. Other than a furrowed brow, his face was unreadable yet flickering with something I couldn’t define.
“You should rest.” His words came out clipped, his voice dropping an octave or more. “It was nothing. Forget I said anything.”
His shift in mood was startling, and I blinked up at him, trying to piece together what had happened. But whatever had passed between us seemed locked behind the wall of his silence. I wanted answers, but he seemed so uncomfortable that it felt cruel to press him.
“Alright.” I smoothed my face into the calm, practiced mask I’d worn for most of my life. No use dwelling on a puzzle that wasn’t ready to be solved. “Thank you for helping me.”
“You're welcome.” He looked relieved yet strangely sad at the same time, his lips pressing into a thin line that highlighted his thumb-sized tusks as he stepped back to give me space. His large hands fumbled at his sides before he motioned toward the stairs at the far end of the saloon. “You’ll stay here. Second floor. I’ll show you where.”
“Lead the way,” I said, forcing a bright smile even as my palms still tingled from where his tongue—his tongue —had dragged across them moments ago. That was an experience I wouldn't be forgetting anytime soon.
Tark hurried over to lift my suitcases, his muscles bulging in a nice way when he did it. He really was gorgeous, all trapped power. A little clumsy, but that was cute as well. We all stumbled on occasion, so why not him too? His feet were big, which could be part of the problem. Actually, everything about him was big. It must be hard for him to maneuver himself around furniture and furnishings crafted for much-smaller humans.
Honestly, I could lounge around in this chair all day and just watch him move.
That thought caught me off guard, and I focused on rising and following him up the stairs, admiring the way his shoulders rolled under the snug fabric of his vest. The stair treads creaked beneath his weight, but his movements remained slow and steady.
At the top of the stairs, he paused, turning to glance at me as though ensuring I was still with him. His dark eyes lingered on my face as he gestured toward the long hall ahead. “Your room is here, partway down.”
He moved forward, stopping at a door on the right. After lowering my cases to the floor, he unlocked the pane and pushed it open, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him.
The room was a mix of rustic charm and surprising luxury. Late-day sunlight filtered through lace curtains, painting soft patterns on the wooden floor. The centerpiece was the bed—orc-sized, with a carved headboard and enough space for, well, probably him and another orc. It swallowed the room but in an inviting way, like it begged you to dive into its pile of thick quilts and pillows.
He set my bags down by the foot of the bed. “Bathing area is there.” He waved to a door on the left.
I poked my head through the opening, taking in two toilets—one raised and perhaps for orcs, the other shorter, plus a huge shower, a pedestal sink, and, most exciting of all, a clawed-foot tub tucked beneath the window. I couldn't wait to fill it and soak, adding some of the oils I spied in tiny bottles on the table nearby.
“This is…” I turned and walked over to the bed, wondering how I’d climb into it. “It’s high off the floor.”
“Oh, yes.” He stumbled around the foot of the bed, nearly falling when his foot snagged on the braided rug, joining me with his face darkening. Stooping down, he tugged a stool from beneath the bed. “We put in orc beds. We like them bigger and taller, but this is to help humans get into them.”
I climbed the stairs and sat on the edge, my feet dangling while I ran my fingers along the quilt that looked handmade. “Very nice. I love what you’ve done with this room. It looks authentically Wild West, though it has all the modern conveniences. Tourists are going to adore it.”
“We hope so.” He shifted awkwardly, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “We wanted to make it welcoming. For humans. For you .”
The way he said you made something flutter deep in my chest. I looked down at my shoes, pretending to inspect the dusty tips. “Well, you succeeded. This is perfect.”
“You should rest,” he said again, his voice insistent but still gentle. It was starting to feel like his go-to suggestion whenever he wasn’t sure what else to say. “The journey here and the burn…”
“I think I’ve rested enough for one day. I dozed on the plane.” I took the stairs to the bedroom floor and brushed dust from my skirt. “I’d rather get started. There’s a lot to see, and I like to jump right in if that's alright with you.”
His hands twisted together, his thumbs rubbing furiously as if he was trying to summon courage from his skin. “You—” He swallowed. “You want to begin now?”
“Yes, unless you have other plans.” I walked over to one of the two windows overlooking the back part of the little town. The light was perfect, golden and inviting, with just a hint of early evening glow. “It’s not every day you get to explore a Wild West town created by orcs. I’ve got a good feeling about this place, Tark.”
His pointy-tipped ears twitched, and his hands dropped to his sides. For a moment, he looked as though he was suppressing a smile, but maybe that was wishful thinking on my part. “It… You honor us with your enthusiasm.” The gravelly edge in his voice loosened. “I think a full tour should wait until tomorrow however, when we have more time before sunset. But I could show you around the saloon. Make you some dinner.”
“I suppose I could wait until tomorrow. We’ve got plenty of time. And we should probably go through your social media plan before I start making and posting videos.”
“You know how to make good ones.”
Why wasn’t he meeting my eyes?
“Thank you. But honestly, with this place?” I swept my hand toward the town in general. “It would take a lot to mess something like this up. It’s a photographer’s dream, and my mind is already brimming with ideas for content.”
“Good. Yes. Content.” Now he definitely wasn’t meeting my eyes, though I couldn’t imagine why.
He eased around the bed, almost plucking his feet along the rug, and I suspected he was trying not to stumble again. I wanted to tell him he was sweetly endearing, that it didn’t bother me at all if he was awkward, but how could I tell him something like that? Mentioning it might make him feel worse.
“Please.” He opened the door, stepping aside like a giant green knight, and his gaze settled on the hallway as I passed him.
We descended the staircase, and as we reached the saloon below, four looming figures turning to face us from where they sat at the bar. No drinks. No bartender, either. Would they be staffing these areas soon?
“Tark,” one of the guys said, leaping off the stool, his boots thudding on the wooden floor. His gaze was only for me, traveling across me in a way that thankfully, wasn't a bit creepy. I noted he wore a sheriff's badge clipped to his belt.
The other three stood as well, one removing his hat and cupping it in his hands in front of his flannel shirt he'd tucked into jeans.
Each of them was big, though a little shorter and not as broad as Tark, and it was clear from their appearance they must be a few of his six brothers.
They were now all staring at me—well, not at me, exactly, but close enough that I felt the prickling self-awareness of being center stage, something I hadn’t experienced since leaving television a few years ago. I drew in a deep breath, pasted on my best smile, and finished descending the stairs to join them near the bar along with Tark.
“Gracie, meet some of my brothers.” Tark’s voice rumbled with affection, though his posture seemed uncomfortably stiff, like introducing me to them was harder than the thought of wrangling the sorhox earlier.
The smallest—or rather, the least tremendous—of the four shuffled closer, his posture straight, but his fingers curling nervously at his sides as if he’d teleport out of the room given the chance. His black hair fell in uneven waves over his dark eyes.
“This is Greel,” Tark said, gesturing to him with a nod. “He'll be handling the trail rides and stagecoach hold-ups. They won't be real, of course, but we read online that tourists love that sort of thing.”
Greel dipped his head forward and said nothing, though his eyes remained warm.
“Greel's mated with Jessi,” Tark added. “Two of my brothers are mat— married , that is.”
“Nice to meet you.” I gave Greel a small wave.
His cheeks darkened, and he quickly ducked back behind the other three, like he’d used up his social quota for the day. His shyness tugged at something inside me, and I gave him an encouraging smile, hoping it might ease his nerves. He barely peeked out from around the orc in front of him.
“This is Ostor,” Tark continued, gesturing to the one clutching his cowboy hat. His broad chest puffed out under his flannel shirt as he gave me a crooked smile. “He's mated to Rosey.”
And there was that word again, mated . Why had Tark mentioned it in connection with me? Actually, more than mentioned it. He'd gaped at me, shouted it out to the world, then did the odd palm-licking thing that may or may not be related.
“My mate, Rosey, and I manage the gardens where we'll grow everything we serve in the restaurant, plus create canned and dried goods we’ll sell in the general store,” Ostor said. He held out his hand for a shake.
Tark thrust himself between us. Ostor’s face darkened, and he backed away.
“Like that, is it?” a third brother asked, looking between me and Tark with a deepening frown. He snorted before directing his attention back to me. “Has he greeted you in the proper way yet?”
“I…maybe?” I said.
“I licked as I should,” Tark said stiffly. “But we are not discussing that any further.”
My wrist still ached where he’d done it, but not with pain. Memory, maybe. The kind that echoed. If touches could leave ghostly impressions, then I was haunted.
Greel’s eyebrows lifted, but he didn't say a peep.
“Why not?” the other brother asked. He gave me a nod, his warm gaze never leaving my face. “I’m Ruugar.”
“Hi.” I waved to him too.
“And this.” Tark’s voice dropped along with his Adam's apple, “is one of my other brothers, Dungar.” The one standing closest to me grinned, though there was a thoughtful dignity in his gaze. His sheriff’s star caught the sunlight slanting in through the saloon windows, glinting as he shifted his feet on the floor.
“Gracie,” Dungar said, his voice light and smooth. “It’s an honor to have you here with us, little lady. You’ll be helping us bring this darn near perfect place to life.”
Darn near?
“Dungar's practicing the correct terminology,” Tark said. “I'm going to attend his classes. I promise.”
I lifted my eyebrows. “Classes?”
“We've been watching things on our phones.” Dungar held his up. “So many streaming images available. So much to learn.”
I had no idea what he meant, but when it came to social media, it could be almost anything.
“Dungar will run the jail,” Tark said.
“Want to be arrested, ma'am?” Dungar tipped his cowboy hat my way, his eyes sparkling with humor.
“If she needs to be arrested, I’ll do this for her,” Tark said sternly.
Dungar leaned forward to rub his knuckles on Tark's shoulder. “I won't steal her away. Promise . I'm glad you’re coming to my classes, though. About time, my fine fellow. About darn time.”
“Yes, well.” Tark shuffled his boots on the floor. “When I have a chance. Maybe. Sometime.”
“Nope. You said you would. Holding you to it, big boy.” Dungar turned his smile my way. “Would you like?—”
“We’re going to eat,” Tark half-snarled. “You four will leave.”
“I was going home already,” Ostor said with a snort. “My Rosey's waiting.”
“Lucky, corn dog. Darn lucky,” Dungar said.
Greel grunted and strode toward the front door, passing through the saloon's swinging wooden doors and out onto the dusty boardwalk.
“He doesn't talk much.” Ruugar stared after him.
Ostor's mouth curled up on one side. “He never talks.”
“Yet he somehow found a way to win Rosey’s heart,” Dungar said. He pinned Tark in place with his gaze. “Come to my lessons, brother. You’re going to need them with this little lady here.” He turned his warm eyes my way.
“Ma’am.” Ruugar tipped his hat my way before sauntering toward the front of the saloon, his spurs jangling on the back of his boots, his staggering sway almost comically clichéd.
Lessons in using the “correct” terminology, huh?
With that, Greel and Dungar also left, disappearing out onto the street.
Tark continued to shuffle his boots, staring down at the floor.
“What are streaming images?” I asked, peering up at him. “And what did Dungar mean about?—”
Loud bangs rang out on the street.
Gunshots. I'd heard them enough times while living in the city to recognize the sound.
I flung myself at Tark, determined to drag him to the ground and out of exposed view of the broad expanse of windows covering the front of the saloon.
With a yelp, he grappled with my arms.
His foot caught on something nearby, maybe a chair, and he toppled backward.
I rode his waist to the floor like I was mounted on a bucking bronco.