Bound to the Mountain Man Orc (The Men of Orc Mountain #4)

Chapter 1

Ava

I stop on the ridge trail, breath fogging white in the frigid air. The cold scrapes my lungs raw with each breath. My fingers ache inside my gloves from the cold.

I love my job as a forest ranger, spending my days wandering the mountains and enjoying nature. Winter is my favorite time of year, and I love the mountain blanketed in snow, as it is now.

Not loving that sky, though…

It presses down ominously, a solid gray mass. The forecast said light snow. Maybe flurries.

This isn't flurries. This is a blizzard waiting to happen.

"Of course," I mutter, adjusting my pack. "Because a normal day in the field would be too easy."

Fresh tracks cut across the trail ahead. I crouch, knees creaking, and brush powdery snow away with one gloved hand.

Boot prints. Human tread pattern. Decent grip.

And enormous.

I lay my palm inside one. My hand barely fills the heel. My fingers don't reach the ball.

"Who the hell are you?" I whisper. “Shaquille O’Neil?”

The prints head uphill, toward the sketchy part of the ridge. The slope is steeper and it’s prone to hidden snowdrifts. It’s a known avalanche path when the conditions take a turn for the worst.

Which they're about to.

I unclip my radio. "Base, this is Ranger Madison on Ridge Two. The weather’s about to get nasty, but I’ve got fresh tracks heading toward the upper ridge. Large solo hiker. I'm following to verify he's not camping in the danger zone."

Static crackles back. Dispatch's voice filters through, shredded by interference.

"…copy… storm… Ava, don't—"

The rest dissolves into white noise.

"Say again?"

Nothing.

My sensible side says turn around. But if this guy is where I think he is, I can't leave him there. It’s not safe… no matter how big he is.

"Twenty minutes," I mutter, glancing at the darkening clouds before following the tracks. "That's all you get."

The climb steepens fast. Snow squeaks under my boots and wind gusts push me backward. I pull my hat lower, tuck my chin into my scarf, and keep moving.

The prints are easy to follow. Long stride. Steady pace. Whoever made them knows how to walk in snow.

The old stories drift up from the back of my brain. Childhood whispers about things with tusks and glowing eyes living on the mountain.

Monsters, the kids used to say.

I shake my head, laughing at myself. Don’t be silly, Ava. You’ve worked in the woods for years. Never once have you seen signs of Bigfoot.

Still. Those boot prints are awfully big...

The snow thickens. White flakes blur the world. I check my watch.

Ten minutes gone.

The trail narrows, skirting rock. Beyond the outcrop, the ridge opens up. The wind is stronger, pulling at my clothes and trying to steal my hat. I continue to climb.

When I haul myself over the last boulder, the storm hits full-on. The wind screams along the ridge, and the snow slams into my face like frozen shrapnel. Visibility drops to maybe ten feet. The trees are dark smudges, and the ground and sky blur into endless swirling white.

I squint, searching for the next print. It’s barely visible, filling with snow.

This is the line. The one I lecture rookies about. The point of no return.

Turn back, Ava…

Then I picture some guy with snowshoe-sized feet pitching his tent in an avalanche chute, and I keep going. "Five more minutes."

I step carefully, testing each step before committing weight onto the loose snow. My ankle feels steady. My layers do their job. I’ve got this, I assure myself. I've handled worse.

Overconfidence is always a bad idea on the mountain, and I pay dearly for it with my next step as my boot hits slick ice hidden under fresh powder.

My foot shoots sideways and my pack yanks me off balance. Then I’m weightless, falling.

I go down hard.

My right ankle twists. White-hot pain streaks up my leg. My hip slams buried rock and my shoulder takes the rest. The world flips—sky, snow, stone—then everything stops with a jarring thud.

For a second I just lie there, blinking snow out of my eyes.

"Nailed it," I tell no one.

The pain rolls in, from my screaming shoulder to the hip that’s guaranteed to have a nasty bruise, and right down to my throbbing ankle.

With a groan, I roll onto my side. The movement sends fire through my ankle. I bite back a curse.

I flex my foot to test the joint. It’s painful, but I’m relieved to discover the bone isn’t broken. It’s just a nasty sprain.

Snow piles on my jacket, sneaking down my collar, and melting cold against my neck

I fumble for my radio. My fingers feel thick, stupid. Speaking of thick and stupid… now I have to call base for help.

And I hate asking for help more than anything in the world.

"Base, this is Ava Madison. Took a fall near upper boulders. Minor sprain, but visibility's garbage and the storm's worse than projected. I can get myself out of the avalanche zone, but I’ll need a team to meet me at the East Ranger’s Station." I’ll have to hike nearly a mile in the snow to get there, but there’s no other choice. It’s too dangerous to stay here.

I’ll crawl on all fours if I have to.

“Base?” I repeat. “Did you get that?”

Static

I try again. "Base? Copy?"

Nothing.

A cold sense of dread slides under my ribs. I shove it down.

There are provisions at the station. It’ll be cold and lonely, but I can wait out the storm in safety there.

I push to my feet using a nearby rock. The moment weight hits my bad ankle, fire flares. I hiss and shift left. It holds. Every step will hurt like hell, but I can do it. There’s no other choice.

I say a silent prayer that the lone hiker finds safe shelter. Then I take a breath, pick a line toward lower ground, and start moving.

The snow comes harder. Thick flakes sting my cheeks. My tracks from the fall are already blurred by new snow. The world is nothing but white snow, fierce wind, and the creak of tree branches heavy with snow.

This is not good… not good at all.

Panic claws at my insides, but I push it away. I lock onto basics.

One step. Test. Plant your foot. Next step.

Inhale. Exhale. Count to ten. Start over.

I hear a new sound over the screaming wind, and I freeze, standing still to listen. Is someone… talking?

“Hold on.”

Those were definitely words. For a second I think I imagined it. Storms play tricks. Maybe it was only the wind. But I know I could have sworn I heard someone say, “Hold on.”

Then I see him.

A shape in the white. Too big for a human. Moving toward me with ground-eating strides.

My hand goes to my sidearm. Fingers clumsy. Muscle memory does the work. I get it free, point at the shadow.

"Stop!" The wind shreds my voice.

He keeps coming.

Dark hair heavy with ice. Broad shoulders under a long cloak.

Towering. As he gets closer, details sharpen.

His skin is deep olive-gray—not a sickly, unpleasant color, just wrong in a way my brain can't process right now.

Hard jaw. Stern mouth. Two short tusks curve up from his lower lip, pale against darker skin.

His eyes catch what little light there is and hold it. Molten gold.

Every instinct screams Stranger Danger. "Stay back. I'm armed."

His gaze drops to the gun, then returns to my face. Calm. Assessing. No fear. No mockery. Just steady focus. “You’re hurt,” he says.

Up close he's massive. The top of my head would barely reach his chest. His cloak strains over ropes of muscle. He could snap me in half by accident. But he doesn’t seem threatening, so I lower the weapon.

My ankle wobbles. I lock my knees. “I’m okay.”

"Your hands shake," he says. His voice is deep and rough.

"I'm fine,” I tell him again. “Turn around. This area isn't safe in a storm."

Something flickers in his eyes. "You’re injured and alone on the mountain. In this weather." His tone is careful. "And you tell me it's not safe?"

"I'm a ranger. I know what I'm doing."

A gust of wind slams into me and I stagger, my ankle shrieking.

He moves.

A huge hand closes around my upper arm. Not hard. Not hurting. Just there. Steady. Hot. Solid.

Heat jolts through my jacket. But it's more than that. Something under my ribs flares, sudden and bright. A spark catching tinder. What the hell was that?

The noise of the storm drops away. All I hear is my heartbeat, too loud, and the low rumble of his breath.

"Let go," I say. My voice comes out thin.

"No." Quiet. Sure. "You're freezing and hurt." His attention drops to my bad leg, the way I'm leaning away from it. "You won't make it back alone."

Anger rises. "You don't know what I can do."

His jaw tightens. "I know storms, and I know what they can do to those who don’t take them seriously."

I hate that he's right. I hate that I'm swaying. I hate that his hand on my arm is the only thing keeping me upright. And I really hate that some part of me doesn't want him to let go.

"What's your name?" he asks.

The question throws me. "What?"

"Your name." As if he has all the time in the world for pleasantries and we aren’t in the middle of a snowstorm. "If I'm to carry you, I'd know who I'm saving."

"You are not carrying me."

Another gust of wind slams against me, and my ankle folds. His grip tightens, hauling me closer.

My chest hits solid muscle. My nose brushes his cloak. He smells like the forest itself. My favorite smell. My brain goes blank.

"Ava," I hear myself say. "My name is Ava."

He says it back like a promise. "Ava."

The way it sounds in his voice sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the snow swirling around us.

"And what do I call the giant who thinks he knows what's best for me?" I ask.

His lips twitch into a small smile. "My name is Garruk."

Garruk.

Another blast of wind cuts through us. My whole body trembles. I barely feel my fingers.

His eyes narrow. Decision settles over his features.

"Enough," he says. "Fight me later, Ava."

"Fight you—hey!"

He shifts, arm sweeping behind my knees. Suddenly I'm up, off the ground, cradled against his chest like I weigh nothing.

My hands clutch his shoulders, fingers digging into thick muscle under fabric. "Put me down."

"No." He tucks me closer, turning so his broad back takes the brunt of wind. His cloak falls around me, offering shelter from the wind.

The fight leaks out of me. Stolen by exhaustion and warmth and the relentless pull of his presence.

He starts walking. Sure-footed. Steady. Like the storm is inconvenient but not threatening. Every step jolts my ankle, but the pain dulls. The way he holds me, careful and protective, like I'm something breakable.

I'm not breakable. I've spent years proving that. In a male-dominated field, I’ve worked so hard to show everyone that I’m just as tough as the men. Just as capable.

So, why does it feel good to let Garruk carry me?

I tip my head just enough to see his jaw. The stubborn line of it. Snow stuck in rough stubble. Wind snarls his dark hair. Gold eyes scan the slope, always watching for danger.

A strange thought slides through my mind, soft and terrifying.

I don't feel alone anymore.

I should be terrified. Of him, of the storm, of letting a stranger with tusks and green skin and impossible eyes haul me off in a blizzard to God-only-knows-where.

Instead, with my ear pressed to his chest and his heartbeat steady against my skin, all I feel is a persistent pull to be close to him.

Like maybe I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.