Page 27 of Scoring the Orc

He’s testing me, pushing me to see how far I’ll go. And I hate that a part of me wants to prove myself to him. So I refuse to break. I only bow demurely and scurry out of his path, hating the way I hope I pleased him.

The day drags on, each task a distraction from the thoughts that plague me. When night falls, I find myself alone in the kitchen, cleaning up after the evening meal. The servants have gone to bed, and the silence is a welcome relief. I scrub at the pots and pans, my mind wandering.

I hear his footsteps before I see him. My body tenses, anticipation and excitement rushing through me. He steps into the kitchen, his presence filling the room. I don’t look up, but I can feel his eyes on me.

“Emilia,” he says, his voice softer than usual. But that deep rumble is still there.

I glance up, my heart pounding. He’s standing there, his expression unreadable. He crosses the room in a few quick strides and grabs my arm, pulling me close. His lips crush against mine, a kiss filled with urgency and need.

I gasp against his mouth, my hands clutching at his shirt. He kisses me deeply, his hands roaming over my body. I want to push him away, to tell him no, but my body betrays me. I melt against him, my fingers tangling in his hair.

He breaks the kiss, his breath ragged. “Do you know what you do to me?” he growls, his hands gripping my hips. “You drive me insane.”

I tremble in his arms, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. “Jurto, please…”

He silences me with another kiss, his hands sliding under my dress. I moan into his mouth, my body responding to his touch despite my conflicted feelings. He lifts me onto the counter, his fingers delving between my legs.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice filled with possessiveness. “Only mine.”

I arch against him, my thoughts scattering. How can I desire someone who treats me like this? How can I crave his touch when he humiliates me so cruelly? But as he drives into me, all I can think about is the way he makes me feel, the way he sets my body on fire.

When it’s over, I cling to him, my breath coming in shallow gasps. He holds me for a moment, his hands gentle on my skin. But then he steps back, the mask of indifference slipping back into place.

“Clean yourself up,” he says, his voice cold.

I nod, my heart aching. He leaves without another word, and I’m left alone in the dark, my body trembling with the aftershocks of our encounter. I slide off the counter and sink to the floor, tears streaming down my face.

How can I continue like this? How can I keep pretending that I don’t want him, that I don’t crave his touch?

I wrap my arms around myself, sobbing quietly. I know I should hate him. I know I should despise the way he treats me. But my body betrays me every time, responding to his dominance with a need that shames me.

Yet I catch myself stealing glances at Jurto, noticing details like the jagged scar on his brow, the way his muscles ripple under his skin. At night, I lie awake, remembering the feeling of his powerful arms around me, the way he holds me as if I am the only thing that matters.

I know these conflicted feelings are wrong but cannot seem to stop them from blooming. I both long for and dread our private moments together, the intensity of his touch and the fire it ignites within me.

Burying my confusion, I focus on finishing my tasks for the night, knowing defiance will lead to another bittersweet encounter. I feel myself fracturing, torn between my mind’s resistance and my yearning body’s surrender. It’s becoming a battle between what I know is right and what I cannot help but desire.

When I finally make my way back to my quarters, my thoughts are a tangled mess. I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, my mind replaying every moment of our encounter. His kisses both thrill and shame me, leaving me flushed with arousal and self-loathing.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. How much longer I can deny the way he makes me feel. But as I drift off to sleep, I know one thing for certain: I’m trapped in this twisted dance, and there’s no way out.

18

JURTO

It is no longer a question of if I’m losing my mind. I’ve fully lost it – or it’s been snatched rather by a little iyippin I have running around my home.

My practices have been brutal but not skillful. My teammates have noticed how on edge I’ve been. And even so, all I can think about is Emilia. I wonder where she is and what she’s doing as I make my way toward the dining hall, the aromas wafting toward me making my stomach growl.

But it’s not what I truly yearn for. Instead, I already feel myself craving Emilia as I take a seat, my servants poised to give me whatever I need. The impulsive desire for her grows until there is practically a buzzing in my skull, and I slam my fist on the table, jolting everyone in the room.

“I can have whatever I damn well please in my own home,” I growl, realizing a beat too late that the room was silent before. The servants have no knowledge of my internal struggle.

“And what is it that you would like?” The closest one asks tentatively.

My lips curl around the word before my mind can stop my mouth. “Emilia.”

I ignore the sidelong glances of my servants as they scurry to fetch her. The anticipation gnaws at me, impatience and an odd twinge of vulnerability pulsing through me. When Emilia finally arrives, there’s hesitation in her eyes, but she obediently takes the seat opposite me. I gesture for her to fill her plate.

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