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I was too busy berating myself for the fact I’d nearly kissed Wynthea in the kitchen this morning.
More than kissed her, frankly. The sight of her bare neck had snapped some vital thread of restraint inside me. My Dragon Caste control was slipping, my Orcborne need filling me further and further. Curses, it was probably the Dragon Caste side coiling with need, too, to be honest. Dragon Caste men might typically adhere strongly to things like logic, decorum, and control, but once they found their mates, their need was near unmatched.
Matched only, perhaps, by the virility of an orc.
I’d never cursed my ancestry before.
I cursed it now. Cursed it for making my blood run so hot for Wynthea. Cursed it for making me so tightly wound with desire.
The need wasn’t just physical. This trip to the market proved that. The fact I’d kept her here in the very first place proved it. I wanted Wynthea protected as much as I wanted her slick heat clamping down on my cock.
I wanted her taken care of.
And, it turned out, I wanted to be the only one to do it. My gaze had become a dagger when Hildfree suggested she might come to the market with us. It satisfied me far too much when my old friend saw my face and changed her mind.
I should have let her come. As protection. So that I don’t do something colossally stupid.
Like put Wynthea in a new gown only to tear it off of her.
Blast it all, I was a beast. She was so good. Too good. Hard-working and optimistic and sweeter than summer tree sap. Smart as a whip, too. I’d been more than impressed with how quickly she’d picked up the things she needed to help me in the library. She wasn’t fluent in Dragon Caste yet, of course, but she’d learned more than enough so that she did not slow me down.
No, the only thing slowing me down lately was how many times I stopped working to stare at her.
And now her hair was long enough to tie back which meant she’d be parading that pretty neck in front of me day in, day out.
Sigwulf, I am very sorry to say that it would appear you are entirely doomed.
I was shaken from my brooding thoughts by a chirruping birdcall beside me. Only it wasn’t a birdcall. It was Wynthea, leaning forward in her saddle.
“Is that it? We’re getting close!”
I grunted in acknowledgement. We were indeed getting close.
This village was a small one, a smattering of houses and other wood and stone buildings at the top of a broad hill, but it hosted a sizeable enough market. Hildfree fetched many of our supplies for the castle from here. The seamstress in this village, an old Orcborne woman named Frilda, made almost all of my clothing, custom-sewn to encompass my wide frame and my wings and tail.
We dismounted.
I watched Wynthea dismount gracefully with a combination of impressed pride (it was a large horse to be able to carry my weight, and Wynthea was not at all a large person, even for a human) and regret. Regret that I didn’t get to clasp my hands around her waist under the pretence of helping her down.
Though that was probably a good thing.
I’d always considered myself a man with a strong enough constitution. But I was fairly certain that, at this point, simply touching her waist might cause me to keel over from lack of blood to the brain. I’d already gotten achingly hard this morning just from watching her pulse in her throat and touching her skin as I pulled up her hood. It had taken most of the cold ride here for that erection to subside.
We tied the reins of our horses to a nearby post and then walked the short distance to the village. On market day, various tables were set up along the main stretch of houses and buildings. All of the vendors were Orcborne, but the crowds mingling and buying wares were a combination of Orcborne and human, as there were several other smaller human and Orcborne villages and homesteads nearby.
Wynthea beamed as we threaded through the market’s other customers, clearly happy about this outing. Her smile was like the sun turning flowers towards its warm light. People noticed her. Men noticed her.
A human man ahead of us broke off his conversation with Haralk, the Orcborne blacksmith, his gaze turning hungry as it snagged on Wynthea’s lovely face.
His face drained of all colour when his eyes met mine a heartbeat later.
My wings twitched, and I held his gaze menacingly as I pressed a protective hand against Wynthea’s lower back, guiding her closer to my side.
A quiver went through her.
We passed the blacksmith’s table, along with the now terrified man there, and continued on our way.
I realized after several steps that my hand was still resting on Wynthea’s lower back.
