A massive orc charged her with a bloody warhammer raised, a roar ripping from his powerful throat that rivaled explosives going off all around them.
Thisorc.
Mabel shot upright with a scream. The orc’s eyes widened as he reared back, massive hands raised in the universal gesture of peace.
“Wait, please. I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed.
Mabel might’ve been a naive farmgirl once, but not anymore. She’d done her training in the big city of Minneapolis. She’d lived in a dormitory. She’d been the battalion’s only healer for nearly a year. She’d been around the block, as they said, and that meant she didn’t believe a word out of this soldier’s mouth.
Scrambling backward, she kicked off an unfamiliar wool blanket and a heavy soldier’s oilskin jacket. Her head poundedwith the echo of a wound her abilities had already taken care of, leaving her even more disoriented than she already was.
When her back met a cold plaster wall, she glanced down and discovered with horror that her uniform was gone. Her bloodied pinafore, sleeve covers, and headscarf were also gone.
All that was left to her were her combinations. The beast hadn’t even left her stays.
Face turning a violent red, she pressed herself flat against the wall and hissed, “Is this what the Chain does to their prisoners of war? Strips them to their skivvies?”
The orc leaned back on his haunches. Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, he bleated, “You were soaked through with mud and… other things. I worried you’d catch a cough.”
“Oh, certainly!” Dragging the blanket up to her chest, she drew her shoulders back and demanded, “Take me to your commanding officer, sir!”
The orc winced. “Ah, my blessing?—”
“I have rights! I’m a prisoner of war and a healer. I demand to speak to your commanding officer— and— and to be given suitable clothing!”
Mabel looked around, but instead of the tent walls or cell bars she expected to see, she was alarmed to find what looked like an abandoned office. A heavy secretary desk had been pushed against the door and a fire had been built in a rusted metal vat.
“Wha… What is this?” She drew her knees up to her chest as her alarm grew. “Where’s the camp?”
“This isn’t a camp,” the orc answered. “You’re not a prisoner.”
“What do you mean this isn’t a camp?” Mabel pressed the blanket to her throat. It wouldn’t do anything to shield her from the hammer-wielding maniac in reality, but having it was better than sitting there in her underthings.
The orc let out a noisy exhale. Shuffling backward a bit, he stood up slowly and walked toward the fire. “Here,” he muttered, snagging a canteen off a makeshift grate over the barrel. “You need to warm up. I’ve made some tea for you, and I’ve got some rations for you to eat if your stomach can take it.”
“Answer my questions,” she demanded, voice pitched high.
The orc ambled back over on his massive booted feet. He was obviously wounded, with blood seeping through clumsily applied bandages beneath his uniform, but he didn’t appear to care. Kneeling next to the bedroll, he held the canteen out to her by the frayed strap.
Instead of answering her, he said, “My name’s Henrik. What’s yours?”
Mabel stared at the steaming canteen with a deep dread. “Mabel.”
“Mabel,” he rumbled with far, far too much pleasure. “That’s a very pretty name. Please drink some tea, sweet Mabel.”
Heat rose to her face in a different sort of way when he looked at her like he did then — all pretty eyes and a soft smile. Pale fangs peeked out just above his lower lip when her hand lifted without her permission. Their fingers brushed.
She was so shocked by the thrill that brief contact inspired that she looked at his hand, which must’ve had some sort of magical ability she’d never encountered before.
But no, it was just an ordinary — if comically large — orcish hand. A kohl-black, iridescent hand.
Her mind halted like a cart’s wheel catching a rut in a road. Before she could get it moving again, Henrik rumbled, “You’re not a prisoner and I’m no longer a soldier. We’re mates, my blessing.”
He was very lucky she didn’t have the stomach to kill him.
Mabel tightened his oilskin jacket around her body as she huddled against the wall. Henrik, the orc who’d kidnapped her, sat in a chair by the makeshift stove, knife and stick in hand. He was clearly pretending not to notice her scrutiny, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. Every few seconds his eyes would flicker in her direction before fixing back on his whittling.
He’d tried reasoning with her. He’d tried reassuring her. He’d tried to explain that it was totally normal for an orc to snatch his mate, and it was evenmorenormal for him to barricade them in an office.
