Page 26 of Ashes, Apples, & Amorous Orcs

The ‘please’ does it. A victorious sound rips from his chest. He slams back into me, one hand fisting in my hair, tilting my head back to expose my throat. “My good girl. My perfect, filthy girl. Take it. Take all of me.”

And I do.

I come with a broken cry against his mouth, my body clamping around him in rhythmic pulses that make him groan. He follows me over the edge, his thrusts turning ragged as he spills deep inside me, his forehead dropping to my shoulder with a shudder that rocks through both of us.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our ragged breathing and the distant chatter of evening birds.

He rolls onto his back, taking me with him and making sure I'm resting safely on his body instead of on the ground. And then he says something I never thought he would.

"You're my queen, Isolde."

CHAPTER 16

DRAVEN

Ihelp Isolde to her feet, my hands gentle despite their size as I brush dirt from her shoulders and back. Lavender petals cling to her dark curls, and I carefully pluck them free, each small touch sending warmth through my chest. Her dress is rumpled, twisted from our urgency, and I smooth the fabric with reverent fingers.

The flush across her cheeks makes my blood heat all over again. That rosy pink screams of what just happened between us—marks me as surely as any physical claim. The sight of her, disheveled and glowing, makes me want to push her back down into the earth and take her again.

"Your hair," I murmur, finger-combing the tangles from her curls and removing the last bits of crushed herb. She looks up at me with those hazel eyes, still dark with satisfaction, and my restraint nearly snaps.

"Draven..." she starts, her voice soft and uncertain.

"Draven!"

The sharp bark of my name cuts through the evening air like a blade. I whip around to see Brakkor Vane charging through the apple trees, his grey-green face grim with urgency.

"Brakkor?" Confusion floods my system as I step protectively in front of Isolde. "What are you⁠—"

"Another moore wolf!" He doesn't slow down, his heavy boots crushing fallen apples as he closes the distance. "They need you on the east side, quickly!"

Ice floods my veins, washing away every trace of warmth and satisfaction. I spare Isolde only a glance—taking in her wide eyes and the way she's smoothing her skirts with trembling hands—before my instincts kicks in.

"Where?" I'm already moving, falling into step beside Brakkor as we head toward town.

"East perimeter, near the old well ." His breathing is ragged from running. "Sarah was doing her evening message rounds when the bastard came out of nowhere. Clipped her wing before she could get altitude."

My stomach drops. Sarah, with her quick wit and mischievous grin, reduced to a broken wing because I was too busy buried between Isolde's thighs to do my job.

"How bad?"

"Bad enough that she can't fly. Timmy saw the whole thing from the mill road—kid came tearing into town screaming about pixie blood and wolf teeth." Brakkor shoots me a sideways look. "Been looking for you. Where the hell were you?"

Guilt slices through my chest. Sarah has been hurt for I don't know how long while I was lost in pleasure, shirking my duties for selfish want. The taste of Isolde still lingers on my lips, but it's turned bitter with shame.

"Never mind." Brakkor's tone carries an edge I haven't heard in the short time I've known him. "Just move your ass. That wolf is still out there, and if it's bold enough to get this close to the village, who knows what it'll do next."

Brakkor takes me straight to the scene. Blood spatters the cobblestones near the old well, dark droplets catching the fading light. Sarah's wing lies crumpled at an unnatural angle, the delicate membrane torn in three places. She sits propped against the stone wall, her usual glow dimmed to barely a flicker.

"Bastard came out of nowhere," Timmy babbles, his freckled face pale as parchment. "Just—just lunged right at her! Sarah tried to dodge but⁠—"

"Easy, lad." Brakkor places a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "You did good raising the alarm."

I crouch beside the blood trail, my fingers hovering over the dark stains. The metallic scent mingles with something else—wild musk and old earth. Moore wolf, definitely. The paw prints pressed into the soft ground tell the story: calculated approach, explosive attack, hasty retreat when voices carried from town.

This is my fault. Every drop of blood, every tear in Sarah's wing, every tremor in Timmy's voice—all because I was too busy thinking with my cock instead of doing my job.

"Will Sarah be all right?" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Can Liora fix her wing?"