Page 16 of The Orc Outcast's Conquest

“Should you have need or pain, you will state it, and I will provide remedy.”

His words were odd, but the intention was clear enough. “I’m thirsty.”

His brows rose in surprise, as if he hadn’t thought she would actually ask him for something.

He reached into his pack, produced a soft leather pouch, and uncorked it.

What was this, the Middle Ages?

He handed it to her, and she struggled to get it into a suitable position. She almost dropped it, startling the man into gripping it. His hand covered the entire lower half of the bag while both her hands could only manage the top quarter.

“What are you?” she finally asked. Her gaze was stuck on his huge hands.

He jumped. His green eyes grew wide and dark brows rose. The expression of pure, unabashed confusion was adorable. “What?”

“What are you? Or are you a human in some kind of cosplay?”

“Cos . . .? I am an orc.”

That’s when Miranda knew for certain she was in a delusion of her own making. “An orc? Like from a fantasy novel?” His brows pinched together, and she wanted to smooth it again, but her hands were full. “You don’t look like an orc. Aren’t orcs supposed to be ugly? Like rotting flesh and crooked teeth?”

Once again, he was flummoxed. His jaw was even a little slacked, which let her see his lower tusks better. His under-bite was extreme, hiding his upper lip beneath it.

Then anger contorted his features. His jaw lowered more, making his face less squat.

He looked good. Scary, but good. She’d have to figure out how to irritate him more often.

“You humans may have dwindled our numbers, but I still find it unbelievable that you have never seen an orc before today. Regardless, you will come with me. And if you try to flee, I will hunt you. Do you understand?”

“Pretty much.” She was in no condition to run away from him, even if she wanted to. Finally, she lifted the pouch to her lips.

She expected straight sand to pour into her mouth. She had no faith in her own imagination anymore.

But she got water.

Clean, crisp, cool water. It drenched her tongue, flooded her throat. Her gulps turned frantic as she sucked down as much as she could.

“Stop. Woman, stop!”

The orc tore the bag away from her, and she let out a pitiful whimper. The man’s face contorted again with an emotion she couldn’t read.

“Woman, you will make yourself ill.”

“Miranda.”

“What?”

“My name is Miranda. You should know that as a figment of my imagination.”

He paused, looking her over. “I am not an imagining, woman.”

“Sure. Can I have the water back?” She would have tackled him for it if she wasn’t so worried about him dropping the precious thing and spilling it. Her mouth had just started to taste like something other than mud when he’d ripped it away.

“Slowly,” he demanded, pressing the nozzle to her lips again. He gripped the bag, stopping her when she tried to pull it closer. Drink faster. She could only manage a few sips at a time.

He was cruel. She couldn’t get sick in her own dream. Or she supposed she could, but it wouldn’t matter. She was about to throw a fit over it when he took it away and reached back into his bag, producing something that looked like bread.

The water was forgotten as he held the delectable roll in front of her face. “I will give you this, if you follow willingly and do not try to flee.”

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