Chapter 5
Mazie
When I wake, the cabin is quiet except for the sound of wood settling in the stove and the deep, steady rhythm of his breathing.
Varn is sitting cross-legged near the fire with that same piece of wood, carving with methodical precision. The scraping of his knife is hypnotic, rhythmic. I don't know if he slept at all, or if orcs even need sleep the way humans do.
He glances up, and those gold eyes catch the morning light filtering through the window. "You're warm now."
"Thanks to you." I pull the fur closer, suddenly aware of how little I'm wearing beneath it. Nothing but my bra and underwear. My clothes are draped over a chair near the fire, dry now. I clear my throat, suddenly nervous. "You could've just built a bigger fire, you know.”
His mouth curves—half amusement, half warning. "Fire can't wrap its arms around you."
Something in my chest flips, a sensation like falling even though I'm perfectly still.
I push the blanket aside, along with my self-consciousness, and kneel next to him, ignoring the way the cold floor bites at my knees. "You keep saying I shouldn't be here. That I don't understand what you are."
"You don't." His knife slows, the blade catching on a knot in the wood. His eyes run up and down my body in appreciation, making me shiver. "If you did, you'd run."
"Maybe I'm tired of running." I reach out, tentative, and touch his arm. His skin is warm beneath my palm, the muscle beneath solid and real. "I've been running my whole life, Varn. Running from what I saw as a child. Running from people who called me crazy. I'm exhausted."
The air thickens. The only sound is the soft rasp of his breathing and the faint crackle of sap in the flames. His eyes track to where my hand rests on his arm, and something in his expression shifts…softens.
I reach for the carving in his other hand. "What's this one?"
He lets me take it, watching as I turn it in the light. It's a pair of intertwined figures, smaller than the rest, their hands joined over a swirling pattern carved to look like wind and snow. The detail is exquisite—every finger defined, every curve deliberate.
"You were making this when I woke up," I say softly. "Is it us?"
His voice drops low, barely above a whisper. "It could be."
I lift my eyes to his. "Then show me."
He goes very still. "Mazie—"
"Show me what it means to be your mate."
For a long moment, he just stares at me.
Then he sets the carving aside with deliberate care and rises in one smooth motion.
The world feels smaller suddenly—just the glow of firelight, the scent of pine resin, and the sound of snow falling outside.
When he steps close, the heat rolling off him chases the last of the cold from my skin.
"Are you sure?" he murmurs, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. "Once we start, I won't be able to stop. The bond—"
"I'm sure."
He cups my face like it's something precious, rough palms gentle against my cheeks. His thumbs trace my cheekbones, and I can feel the calluses earned from years of carving and surviving in the wilderness. His eyes search mine, looking for any hint of doubt or fear.
"You're not afraid," he says, wonder threading through his voice.
"No." I rise on my toes, bringing us closer. "I'm not."
The first brush of his lips is tentative, reverent—barely a whisper of contact. Then something breaks loose inside him, and he kisses me like he's been starving for it, like I'm air and water and everything he needs to survive.
His tusks frame my face perfectly, just as I somehow knew they would, creating a space that feels designed for this exact purpose.
One of his hands slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, while the other spans my waist, nearly wrapping all the way around me.
The size difference should be intimidating, but instead it makes me feel cherished, protected.
I grip his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the warmth of him seeping through the fabric. When I gasp against his mouth, he makes a sound low in his chest, something between a growl and a groan that I feel in my bones.
"Mazie," he breathes against my lips, my name a prayer and a question all at once.
"Yes," I answer, though I'm not sure what he's asking. Yes to everything, yes to this, yes to him.
He lifts me effortlessly, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the bed. The furs are soft beneath my back when he lays me down, his body covering mine, and the weight of him feels right in a way I can't explain.
His lips trail from my mouth to my jaw, down my throat, finding places that make me arch against him.
His hands are everywhere—fingers sliding beneath my bra, pushing it down, discovering skin.
Each touch is careful, reverent, like he's mapping territory he's been dreaming about but never thought he'd reach.
My nipples harden at his touch and he lowers his mouth to taste them. I moan with pleasure, and he freezes.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he murmurs against my collarbone, his breath hot. "Tell me if it's too much."
"It's not," I gasp, my fingers finding the hem of his shirt and tugging. "It's not enough."
He pulls back just long enough to yank his shirt over his head, and I get my first full view of him.
His chest is broad and defined, the green of his skin darker in some places, lighter in others.
Tribal tattoos sweep across his shoulders and down his arms—geometric patterns that seem to move in the firelight.
Scars mark his body, pale lines that speak of a hard life survived.
I reach up and trace one that runs across his ribs. "What happened?"
"Mountain lion," he says shortly. "Five winters ago."
"Did you win?"
His smile is fierce. "I'm here."
I pull him back down to me, needing to feel his skin against mine.
He makes quick work of the rest of our barriers—clothes discarded, furs rearranged—until there's nothing between us but heat and want and the bond thrumming in the air like a living thing.
He places my hand on his erection, and my eyes widen in surprise.
“I want to see you,” I whisper.
He stands, showing me his immense size. My inner walls spasm at the sight of him, desperate to feel him inside me… but also a little scared. Will it hurt?
“You can take it,” he assures me. “You were made for me.”
I lick my lips, nodding. “Yes.”
“It’s my turn to see you.” Varn hooks his fingers beneath the hem of my panties, sliding them down my body.
He gently pushes my knees apart, and I spread open for him, letting him take in the sight of me. He gently parts my folds with a finger, and the sensation nearly does me in. I gasp, arching into his hand.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs. “And all mine.”
I shiver at the word, at the possessiveness of it… but not with fear. With anticipation.
“Please, Varn… I want you.”
“Soon,” he says, working me with his fingers. “Very soon.”
I buck against his hand, my breath quickening. He lowers his face to my pussy, his tusks pressing against my legs as he strokes my clit with his tongue. I shatter into a million pieces on his tongue, coming harder than I ever have before.
When he finally moves to join us, I gasp at the sensation, at the rightness of it. He stills immediately, concern flickering across his face.
"I can take it," I whisper, echoing his words and pulling him closer. “I was made for you. Don’t stop.”
He doesn't.
The world narrows to just this—the slide of skin on skin, the sound of our breathing, the beat of our hearts. His hands are everywhere, learning me, worshiping me. I learn him too—the texture of his skin, the places that make him groan, the way his control frays when I touch him just right.
"Mine," he growls against my neck, the word vibrating through me. "My mate."
"Yours," I agree breathlessly, and feel something click into place deep inside my chest. The bond, I realize. This is what he meant. It's not just physical. It's something deeper, something that ties my soul to his in ways I don't fully understand but can't deny.
When we finally tumble over the edge together, I cry out his name, and he buries his face in my neck, holding me like I'm the only solid thing in a shifting world.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, our breathing gradually slowing. He traces patterns on my back—lazy circles and spirals that might be words in a language I don't know.
"That," he whispers, "is the bond choosing."
My heart stutters, still racing. "And if I choose it too?"
His answering smile is small and awed, like he's just witnessed something miraculous. "Then I am yours. Completely. Forever."
He wraps me in his arms, holding me so close I can feel the steady thunder of his pulse against mine.
The world beyond the cabin disappears—the cold, the mountain, even time itself.
All I can hear is breath and heartbeat. All I can feel is warmth and certainty and the rightness of being exactly where I am.
"Sleep, Mazie," he says softly, pressing a kiss to my hair. "The mountain watches over its own."
And for the first time in years, wrapped in his arms with the bond humming between us, I believe it.