The Dwarf’s Forbidden Love

By J.B. Black

Javohir lost everything in the war. His mother died in its beginning, and right before the dragons forced a treaty between the dwarves and the humans who sought to take the wealth of their mountains, Javohir watched his brother die by a sadistic sorcerer.

Struggling in the aftermath, love is the last thing he wants. Especially to fall in love with a druid, one of the few types of magic users to stay neutral during the war.

But he hadn't prepared for Eoghan.

Eoghan avoided people. A brand on his spine from an ex-lover and a path of dead bodies by that same man's hand told him the exact cost of his freedom, but if he must be alone, Eoghan will do the best he can with what he have - working hard to heal the forests and fields most hurt by the war.

He couldn't afford love. Whoever grew close always ended up dead, so when he saw the handsome, gruff dwarf making the first merchant trek from the mountain since the war began, Eoghan intended to stay as far away as possible. A den of newborn wolf pups forced his hand, and touch-starved, Eoghan fumbled into a friendship too good to be true.

When the knots of their past turn out to be more entwined than either could have predicted, will these two wounded men find true love? Or will their secrets tear them apart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.B. Black
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005813543

J.B. Black

Three sides to take care of all your wanton desires:Jess adores the steamy side of romance, exploring the quick scenes that leave your heart fluttering as strong, fertile heroines find their Happily Ever Afters!If you enjoy mpreg and a wake on the more fantastical side with fated mates, JB Black will fulfill your every desire.Brendol enjoys M/M without the fantastical edge. No pregnancies, just gay sex and romance!

Book preview

The Dwarf’s Forbidden Love

Gay Fantasy Romance

J.B. Black

The Dwarf’s Forbidden Love by JB Black

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

THE DWARF’S FORBIDDEN LOVE

Copyright © 2021 J.B. Black

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

In war and love, all men have secrets.

Javohir lost everything in the war. His mother died in its beginning, and right before the dragons forced a treaty between the dwarves and the humans who sought to take the wealth of their mountains, Javohir watched his brother die by a sadistic sorcerer.

Struggling in the aftermath, love is the last thing he wants. Especially to fall in love with a druid, one of the few types of magic users to stay neutral during the war.

But he hadn't prepared for Eoghan.

Eoghan avoided people. A brand on his spine from an ex-lover and a path of dead bodies by that same man's hand told him the exact cost of his freedom, but if he must be alone, Eoghan will do the best he can with what he have - working hard to heal the forests and fields most hurt by the war.

He couldn't afford love. Whoever grew close always ended up dead, so when he saw the handsome, gruff dwarf making the first merchant trek from the mountain since the war began, Eoghan intended to stay as far away as possible. A den of newborn wolf pups forced his hand, and touch-starved, Eoghan fumbled into a friendship too good to be true.

When the knots of their past turn out to be more entwined than either could have predicted, will these two wounded men find true love? Or will their secrets tear them apart?

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

If a man were to see the hands of Javohir, they would expect them to pick up a warhammer. Large for his height and covered in calluses with short cropped nails, his hands belonged well to the rest of him. His thighs were thick. Muscular from the broadness of his shoulders to the defined curve of his calves, Javohir suited armor, and despite how dapper he made his beard in recent days, the braids and metal clasps often brought the minds of men to Vikings and warlords.

Not that Javohir minded. He rarely left the mountain, and in the eyes of his fellow dwarves, they saw his hands and the fine workmanship of the metallic clasps upon his beard and in his hair as a sign of something else entirely. Matched with the durable but expensive fabric of his clothes, the quality of his boots, and the scarring on the tips of his fingers, they saw him as a jeweler, and a well-off one at that.

Neither reached a perfect conclusion, but both were correct. In his early days, Javohir apprenticed with his maternal uncle, a successful fine jewelry craftsman, but the death of his mother led him to serve as a blacksmith in the early days before war drew him and his younger brother to the battlefield.

Nowadays, he worked odd hours, avoiding the eyes of his fellow craftsman. Even if the others didn’t stare, he felt the eyes of those who visited them on his face. Customers would see his scars, and an uneasiness rose. Guilt brought him a good number of customers, but he rather others sold his wares, so that he didn’t have to wonder if the buyers wanted his goods for the care he placed in his craft or how he suffered as a soldier.

Many dwarves died in the war. More still suffered worse injuries, losing limbs to the swords of the men who sought to kill all dwarves. All in the name of that damned King Eldar.

Heat radiated from the forge. Silver melted, boiling, and when the first bubbles appeared, Javohir lifted it from the fire with the tongues, tilting it carefully to pour in each cased ring mold. Sweat beaded on his brow, but his hands remained steady. As long as he kept moving, Javohir’s mind held only his work in his sight. He placed aside the empty crucible. One by one, he lifted the molds, placing them on the far shelf as the metal solidified once more. When he set the last one on the shelf, he took the first mold, and cracking it open, he pulled the cooled silver ring free, setting it upon his desk as he reached for his first file.

Meticulous artist work — ornate necklaces commissioned by the nobles or other jewelry made upon request — took more space in his mind than rings like this. These rings would be for the graduating class of healers. Every ring had to be the same, but there were a number needed in each size. However, they were simpler than what he would usually make. The same curves and engravings for each with not a gemstone in sight. Eventually, his mind fogged as he filed, tending the forge for the less delicate work he would need as the ironwork he had agreed to fix.

Between the heat and the scrape of the file, his mind drifted. Hold the line. Forge fire had nothing to mage’s fire. Held to a purpose and contained, the forge served him. If it overheated, only the one caring for it could be blamed, but fire born of magic came from nothing. Chaos formed it.

Fire burned the fields. Across the mountain, pines glowed, torches in the predawn light. Wizards called down lightning. Each strike exploded, finding the highest raised sword and traveling across the armor of the dwarven soldiers, but ages of old taught smiths to forge to disperse the plasma, sending it to the ground and keeping the dwarves inside the armor standing.

But nothing prepared them for the fire. The same insolation of the armor which saved the men from the lightning made the fire that much worse.

Sweat poured down Javohir’s face, blurring his vision as he held fast to his shield, holding the line as the mortal men sent their cavalry. Horses charged. Their footsteps thundered.

"Hold the line!" Commander Sherzod bellowed, keeping his shield above his head to form the top of the turtle formation.

Like a tidal wave, the horses and men crashed into the front, and the force traveled along the wave, but the dwarves stood firm. Again and again, the men charged forward, working to break the line as mages and sorcerers sent their fire down, boiling the dwarves within their armor.

When the next charge came, Jasur stumbled, and Javohir shifted, using his hip and elbow to catch his younger brother before he fell. Jasur gritted, nodding as he widened his stance, keeping his shield in place.

He had been so young. Sense should have kept Jasur from the field, and it had for so long, but with Eldar’s army moving on the mountain hall which served as home to the dwarves in the range, all able-bodied dwarves had been sent to the field. Male or female — they lined up side by side, calling upon what scant knowledge they had in position. Lack of training should have placed Jasur with the other inexperienced youths, but Javohir thought he knew better.

If the untrained stood together in a separate unit, they were the most vulnerable. No matter where they were placed, a magic user could simply teleport into the midst of them and strike them down with a well-placed spell, so Javohir used his experience, teaching Jasur what he could and making enough noise to get his younger brother placed at his side.

He thought he knew best.

Javohir! There you are. His uncle, Mansur, broke him from his reverie. The fine white curls of his mustache bounced as he smiled broadly, puffing up his chest as if he wanted to show off the brilliant crimson stitching on his new jerkin. You’ve got to set nicer hours, my boy! You can’t take over all these tasks in the wee hours. Every morning, the set list for the next day is already done, and my craftsmen are left twiddling their thumbs.

Taking a deep breath to settle himself, Javohir reviewed the work on the rings, and the pans he had fixed in between. Couldn’t sleep.

You need to get out more. Work and home, and work and home. Mansur shook his head.

Went with Sitara to the mines.

Mansur’s aquamarine eyes narrowed. That was three months ago. Once you both confirmed the quality of the new vein, we’ve been having them delivered.

Deliveries I unload, Javohir retorted as he set the last of the rings in its box and placed it with the others on the shelf.

In the shop. Where you spend your nights rather than in your bed, his uncle scolded, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The curls of his beard fell nearly to the level of his forearms where they settled over the barrel of his chest.

Under his concerned gaze, Javohir squirmed like a child. Grown and tempered by war, he had no reason to flounder, but he had no excuses. Insomnia tormented him. Whenever he closed his eyes, his brother’s nervous face appeared behind his eyelids. The tremble of his chin. The rapidness which he blinked, trying to fight the sweat which reddened his eyes and blurred his vision. That pull toward the point between his two thick brows — it tensed and relaxed and tensed again as he waited for the next charge to slam up against the front of their formation.

At his side, Javohir clenched his hands and unclenched them, fighting to calm the way his heart raced. I’m fine. I’ll go to sleep now.

Your schedule is backwards! You need sunlight. Socialization! his uncle insisted, slapping his hands to punctuate the second. Javohir did his best to resist the urge to back away at the sudden sound, but Mansur must have seen something, and with a sigh, his uncle’s shoulders sagged in defeat. You can’t keep living like this. The war is over. We’ve signed treaties. We’re prepping items to send for sale at Kheve again.

Javohir’s teeth ground together. It’s too dangerous.

"I’ve traded with Ilham since I started this shop with just my own hands