Page 22 of The Savage Vow
She bent over her workbench and focused. She pressed her tongue lightly to the corner of her mouth as she shaved a careful curl from the bow stave clamped in front of her. The curve was nearly perfect.
Nearly.
She adjusted her grip and drew the blade along the curve again. Only this time she went slower and listened to the whisper of the wood yielding beneath her hands.
Perfection took patience.
Orlena straightened and flexed her fingers. They ached slightly. Sunlight filtered in through the narrow window high on the wall. It illuminated the heavy amount of dust that lined the floor and lingered in the air. She blinked and forced her thoughts back to the bow.
Her mind had been everywhere but where it should be.
Which was dangerous.
The sharp blade in her hand could take a finger off.
That morning, she had woken to Bula’s face still vivid in her mind. Those amber eyes, the warmth of her presence lingering like a touch she missed. Orlena had lain in her narrow bed and stared at the ceiling for half of the night. Her heart had pounded away like a runaway shukan, and her most intimate places had ached.
An orc.
She had bested her in an archery contest and somehow had ended the night walking home beside her. It was foolish of her to develop a crush on Bula or imagine there could be more between them.
Bula would eventually leave. She was a nomad. A woman who went everywhere but belonged to nowhere.
And Orlena…was stuck here in Soza.
Each day brought the same thing. Working in the shop, walking the same path home to the human quarters, only to turnaround and do it again the next day. Day after day, solar after solar.
It was pitiful.
She had friends—humans who were like herself. They were bound to contracts and obligations. They shared bread when they could, laughed together when they had the energy. They were always tired. They worked constantly and were resigned. They each had dreams that were folded away like garments saved for a special occasion that never came.
Orlena had learned long ago not to allow hope into her heart.
Yet hope always found a way in.
She set the blade down and rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Stop,she told herself. At the moment, she shouldn’t want what she couldn’t have. Wanting someone—like Bula—was definitely wrong.
The workshop door creaked open wider.
“Orlena!” Yambul barked. His head peeked through the opening of the door. “A customer wants a recurve. Says his old one snapped.”
His head disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. From the sounds of the voices, it must be busy out there.
“I’ll bring it out,” she called. She stood to her full height and stretched her back. She wiped her hands on her apron and lifted the finished bow from the rack. It was smooth, balanced, and the grip wrapped in the dark leather she’d cured herself looked great. She loved this part of her job, even though the credit was never truly hers.
It was Yambul who people thought of when they wanted archery supplies.
Not the apprentice who worked for the master bowyer.
Out front, Yambul stood hunched behind the counter. His tusked mouth was pulled into a sneer as he haggled with abroad-shouldered orc warrior. His beady eyes flicked to Orlena when she approached.
“It’s about time,” he muttered. “Did you bring what I told you I needed?”
“Yes, sir. Here you go.” She placed the bow on the counter and stepped back.
The orc tested its draw. Satisfaction filled his face.
