Page 107 of The Pumpkin Bride

Oh, shite. There was someone who might remember the loophole.

“What is it?”

“There was a squire—he’s now a knight. He has no love for Crispin, but he’s beholden to the prince for his job.”

She curled her fingers over the edge of the tub. “Can we trust him?”

“We?”

“You and me. We’re in this together.” She twisted toward him. “You get that, right?”

A breath shuddered out of him. He truly wanted to believe her. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that she stood firm on this because she wanted her blond knight in shining armor back. After three years in this skin, he didn’t feel like that man anymore.

But he didn’t feel like an orc, either.

No, he existed somewhere between the wide-eyed young man who aimed to conquer the world and the grumpy orc who’d been beaten by it.

Marigold loved him—that, he could believe.

But there was no way she would stay here with him. Nor should she. Grimroot Farm would cage this princess destined for a bigger life, just as it had caged him. He’d coped within the borders because the circumstances of his birth were humble. He’d love to have the freedom to step past the farm’s borders, feel the snow-capped chill of the Gildfall Mountains or the ocean spray of the Sea of Red Tides. But not if it meant putting Marigold at risk. No, he’d sacrifice himself ten times over if it kept her safe.

“Bram?” She nudged his shoulder. “Where’d you go?”

“Lost in thought.” He dried his hands.

“I see.” Like Venus, she rose from the bath, water cascading over her curves and hollows. His body gravitated toward her, like sunflower to sun. “You could use a bath as well,” she said. “Join me?”

“There’s not enough room.”

“This basin is as big as the public bath pool in Thornwick.” She tugged him to her by the belt. “There’s room.”

Once again, his body won over his brain.

He shucked his shirt, then slipped into the hot bath. “Saints, how do you stand this heat?”

She knelt between his bowed legs. “I thought orcs ran hot.”

“We do. This is steaming for me, so it must scald you.”

“I like hot things.” She lifted the linen rag, lathered it with his soap, then roughly scrubbed his chest.

“Ow,” he said.

“Sorry.” She eased the pressure. “Are you anxious about breaking the curse?”

“Did you invite me in here to ask uncomfortable questions while I’m captive and vulnerable?”

“Yes, obviously.” She dragged the linen across his shoulders, then down his arms. “I’m incapable of deception, Bram. You know that. Emotions show up on my face as brightly as gold leaf on an illuminated page.”

He caught her hand to the center of his chest. “It’s one of the things I love best about you.”

A shy grin played on her lips. “You love me? Still?”

His insides melted faster than the pine soap. As transparent as Marigold was with her feelings, he was opaque. Feelings were a luxury in his childhood and in the guard, which was why his friendship with Marigold was such a bright treasure. She was all feeling, and her free expression in turn unchained him in their private moments.

Since his hermitage, he’d regressed.

“Always, Marigold. Always and forever.” His heart was a thick thump under their joined hands. “Have I not told you?”