Epilogue
Kelsey
I spotted him the moment I arrived at the wedding.
Of course I did. Jurik was impossible to miss—seven and a half feet of solid muscle, dark green skin, and a face that could have been carved by a sculptor with a very specific appreciation for masculine beauty.
He stood near the edge of the celebration, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the crowd with that quiet intensity that made my stomach flip.
And then his eyes found mine.
The contact lasted maybe three seconds. Long enough for my breath to catch. Long enough for heat to flood my cheeks. Long enough for him to give me a single, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment before looking away.
Just like I'd asked.
It was a mistake, I'd told him that morning after Tori and Argon's wedding, my head pounding and my body still humming with the memory of his hands on me. We were drunk. It shouldn't have happened.
He'd agreed. Respectfully. Immediately. Told me he understood, that he'd honor whatever boundaries I needed.
And he had. For two months, he'd kept his distance. No contact. No attempts to talk to me. Nothing but professional courtesy when our paths crossed in the village.
It should have been a relief.
Instead, it felt like a constant itch I couldn't quite scratch.
I smoothed down the front of my dress—a navy blue silk that Sarah had picked out for her bridesmaids—and forced myself to focus on the celebration.
Kael and Sarah's wedding was beautiful. Intimate.
The kind of ceremony that made you believe in love even when you were trying very hard not to think about your own complicated feelings.
The Orc village had transformed for the occasion.
Strings of lights hung between the trees, casting a warm glow over the gathering.
Tables laden with food lined one side of the clearing—a mix of human and Orc dishes that smelled incredible.
Music drifted through the air, a blend of traditional Orc drums and human folk guitar that somehow worked perfectly together.
I should have been happy. I was happy for Sarah and Kael. They deserved this.
But I couldn't stop being aware of Jurik's presence. Couldn't stop my eyes from drifting in his direction every few minutes, checking to see if he was still there, still watching, still—
Stop it, I told myself firmly. You made your choice. You told him it was a mistake. Now act like it.
I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing server and took a long sip, trying to focus on the toasts. Ruka was speaking now, his deep voice carrying across the clearing as he told a story about Kael that had everyone laughing.
But my mind kept drifting back to that night.
The Orc ale had been stronger than I'd expected. Sweeter, too. I'd been celebrating, dancing with Sarah and Jordan, feeling loose and happy and free for the first time in months. And then Jurik had asked me to dance.
I should have said no.
But he'd looked at me with those dark amber eyes, and I'd felt something shift in my chest. Something dangerous and thrilling and completely irresponsible.
One dance had turned into two. Then three. Then we'd been talking, laughing, his hand warm on my lower back as he'd guided me away from the crowd to somewhere quieter.
I'd kissed him first. I was pretty sure of that. Though the details were hazy, blurred by alcohol and desire and the overwhelming sensation of his mouth on mine.
What I remembered clearly was the way he'd touched me. He was careful despite his size. Reverent, almost. Like I was something precious he was afraid of breaking.
I remembered the feel of his skin under my hands—warm and smooth, the muscles shifting beneath my palms as he'd moved. The way his tusks had felt against my neck when he'd kissed his way down my throat. The sound he'd made when I'd touched him, low and desperate and so incredibly hot.
I remembered feeling safe. Desired. Cherished.
And I remembered waking up the next morning with a splitting headache and a crushing sense of panic.
This can't happen, I'd told him, pulling on my clothes with shaking hands. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—
It's okay, he'd said quietly. I understand.
It was the ale. I wasn't thinking clearly.
I know.
You're—you're great. Really. But this was a mistake.
He'd looked at me for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he'd nodded. If that's what you want.
It is.
Another lie I'd told myself.
A burst of laughter pulled me back to the present. Sarah was dancing with Kael now, her white dress swirling around her legs as he spun her in a circle. They looked so happy. So certain.
I took another sip of wine and immediately regretted it. My stomach lurched, a wave of nausea rolling through me that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
Not now, I thought desperately. Please not now.
But my body didn't care about timing. The queasiness intensified, my mouth flooding with saliva in that telltale way that meant I had maybe thirty seconds before—
I set down my glass and headed toward the food tables, thinking maybe I just needed to eat something. But the smell hit me before I got within ten feet—roasted meat and spiced vegetables and something sweet and cloying that made my stomach heave.
I turned sharply, heading for the edge of the clearing instead.
I made it maybe twenty feet into the woods before I doubled over and vomited into the bushes.
Perfect, I thought miserably, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Just perfect.
This was the third time this week. Fourth, if I counted Tuesday morning when I'd barely made it to the bathroom after waking.
The virus had torn through Franklin Elementary a few weeks ago.
Half the kids in town had come down with it—nausea, fatigue.
As a pharmacist, I got exposed to pretty much every illness that swept through Franklin.
Mrs. Henderson had practically coughed directly in my face while picking up her daughter's prescription.
It made sense that I'd caught it.
What didn't make sense was that it was still hanging on. The virus was supposed to last three, maybe four days. I was going on three weeks of intermittent nausea, bone-deep exhaustion, and a sense of smell so acute I could detect someone's perfume from across the pharmacy.
"You should sit down."
I spun around to find old Sarsa standing behind me, her weathered face creased with concern. She was one of the village elders, ancient and wise and slightly terrifying in the way that very old women often were.
"I'm fine," I said automatically. "Just—something I ate, probably."
Sarsa's eyes narrowed. She stepped closer, studying my face with an intensity that made me want to squirm. She leaned closer still and sniffed me.
"How long?" she asked.
"How long what?"
"How long have you been sick? Is it mostly in the mornings?"
Yes, it was mostly in the mornings, but that didn't mean anything—I'd always had a queasy stomach in the morning.
My stomach dropped. "I'm not—. I just—"
"And your cycle?"
My cycle? What the hell? Heat flooded my face. "That's—that's personal."
"When was your last bleeding?" Sarsa's voice was patient but firm, the tone of someone who would not be deflected.
I opened my mouth to tell her it was none of her business. But the words wouldn't come. Because now that she'd asked, I was trying to remember, and I—
When had my last period been?
Before Tori and Argon's wedding. Definitely before. Which meant—
"Oh God," I whispered, going pale
Sarsa nodded, unsurprised. Then she bent and sniffed around my midsection. "You're pregnant."
The world tilted sideways.
"I can't be," I said, even though I knew it was a stupid thing to say. "We used—I mean, I'm on birth control—"
"Human birth control doesn't always work with Orc sperm," Sarsa said matter-of-factly. "Our biology is different. Stronger. When an Orc male is fertile and a human female is receptive, conception is very likely."
"Orc?" I blabbered, my knees going weak. "How can..."
Sarsa grinned, her expression knowing and a little wicked. "I can smell the Orc babe growing inside you."
I stared at her, my mind refusing to process what she was saying. "But I—we only—it was one time—"
"Once is enough." Sarsa's expression softened slightly.
"Oh my God." I pressed my hands to my face, trying to breathe through the panic rising in my chest. "Oh my God, I can't—I don't—"
"Does the father know?"
"No!" The word came out too loud, too sharp. "No, he doesn't know. And he can't—I told him it was a mistake. I told him to stay away from me."
Sarsa was quiet for a moment. "Was it Jurik?"
I looked up sharply. "How did you—"
"I have eyes, child. I saw the way he looked at you that night. The way he's been looking at you today." She tilted her head. "And the way you've been trying very hard not to look at him."
Tears burned behind my eyes. "It doesn't matter. I made it clear It was one time--a mistake."
"And now you're carrying his child."
The words hung in the air between us, impossible and terrifying and undeniably true.
I was pregnant.
With Jurik's baby.
"What am I going to do?" I whispered.
Sarsa reached out and squeezed my shoulder, her grip surprisingly strong.
"First, you're going to sit down before you fall down.
Then you're going to drink some water and eat some plain bread.
And then—" She paused, her dark eyes knowing.
"Then you're going to decide what you want.
Not what you think you should want. Not what's easiest or safest or most convenient. What you actually want."
"I don't know what I want."
"Yes, you do." Sarsa's voice was gentle but firm. "You're just afraid to admit it."
She was right. I was terrified.
Terrified of being pregnant. Terrified of telling Jurik. Terrified of what this meant for my life, my career, my carefully constructed independence.
But underneath the fear was something else. Something I didn't want to examine too closely.
Because the truth was, when I thought about that night with Jurik—when I let myself really remember it—I didn't feel regret.
I felt longing.
And that scared me more than anything else.