Page 36 of Scoring the Orc

“Humans are so strange,” Burna says, shaking her head while she gives a lackluster shine to the nearest bookshelf. “They can hardly speak for themselves, they can’t fight, they don’t have any autonomy of their own.”

“They’re pitiful creatures, indeed. No wonder they’re traded like clothes in the zyrphix arenas,” Yalia remarks with a wistful tone.

How I wish I could turn around and tell them off for slacking off while I clean the floors by myself, but there’s no use making enemies here when it seems I’ve made an enemy of the orc in charge.

I suppress a sigh, thinking about Jurto and how we went wrong. What could I have done differently?

Continuing to scrub the floor, I press the brush harder against the tiles, each stroke a bit sharper, a bit harder, channeling my frustration into my work. Burna and Yalia's murmurs morph into a background hum—irritating but ignorable. I don't need their sympathy or their mockery. I just need to get through this day.

Suddenly, a shadow falls over me, chilling and vast. I don't need to look up to know who it is. The heavy, oppressive presence can only belong to one person in this house. I try to keep my focus on the floor, on anything but him, but then his hand, large and unyielding, clasps my shoulder. I stiffen, my whole body coiled tight as a spring.

“You two,” Jurto rumbles, referring to Burna and Yalia. “Leave.”

Soon afterwards, I hear a scuffle of footsteps hurry out of the room. At least they’re gone. But now, I’m alone with Jurto.

"You're not going to run from me, Emilia."

Jurto's voice is low and rough, like gravel being crushed underfoot. His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to ensure I can't turn away. Reluctantly, I stop my scrubbing and face him, his dark eyes burning with an urgency that startles me.

"Gargash has thrown down a challenge," he rasps, his gaze never wavering. "He wants to win you in the next zyrphix match."

The floor seems to sway beneath me, and for a moment, I'm dizzy with a cocktail of fear and anger. "And what did you say?" My voice comes out sharper than I intend, edged with accusation.

Jurto's eyes narrow slightly, the lines at the corners deepening. "I haven’t answered yet. But you know I can't refuse. It's not just about you—it's about honor, about standing."

I pull away from his grip, anger flaring. "So, I'm just a pawn then? Something to be wagered and won, over and over?" The words tumble out, bitter and twisted. Aleryn’s wager is fresh in my mind.

He doesn't flinch at my words. If anything, his expression hardens. "You know it's not like that. This is how our world works, Emilia. I’m doing what I must to protect you, to keep you here with me."

"By fighting for me like I'm a trophy?" I shoot back, my hands clenched at my sides.

Jurto steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "No," he says firmly. "By fighting for us. Because whether you believe it or not, I want you here, Emilia. Not as a prize, but as—" He hesitates, his usual confidence faltering as he searches for the right words.

"As what?" I challenge, my heart pounding in my ears.

"As someone I care about. More than I should." His admission hangs between us, raw and unexpected.

I stiffen under his grasp, the old, familiar sensation of helplessness washing over me. Not this again, I think. The cycle of being fought over, the object in a game of brutal strength and cunning—it's too much. I laugh, a harsh, bitter sound that surprises even me. "Why should I believe you? After all, I'm just your slave."

Jurto's grip tightens, his fingers digging into my shoulders just enough to command my full attention. He leans in, his face only inches from mine, his expression fierce. "Don't be foolish," he growls, his voice low and menacing. "I won't lose you to that scum."

The intensity in his eyes, burning with a ferocious fire, ignites something in me. It's the look of a warrior, a protector, but also of desperation. This game, this life we're entangled in, it's more than just survival—it's about possession, power, and pride.

I shake my head, trying to free myself from his unsettling grip and the conflicting emotions it stirs within me. "Why? Why go through all this for me? I’m just?—"

"You’re not 'just' anything, Emilia," he interrupts sharply, his voice softening slightly, the harsh lines of his face smoothing as his anger gives way to something else, something painfully sincere. "You think I don't see how they look at you? How they underestimate you? But I know your worth. I see your strength, your resilience. And damn it all, I?—"

He stops, his jaw clenching as he struggles with his words, something uncommon for a man usually so dominated by sheer will and force. His hand moves from my shoulder to gently cradle the back of my neck, his thumb stroking my skin in a rare display of tenderness.

"This isn't just about keeping you as a prize. This is about choosing where you belong," he continues, his voice now a husky whisper. "With me. Not because you have to be, but because it’s where you should be—free from the likes of Gargash."

My heart pounds fiercely in my chest, a chaotic rhythm that matches the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my head. Jurto's closeness, the heat of his body, the palpable concern in his eyes. All of it makes it hard to think, to breathe.

"But what if you don’t win?" The question slips out, vulnerable and laden with fear. The possibility hangs between us, heavy and ominous.

Jurto's face hardens, the warrior reemerging. "I will win," he states with conviction, his grip firm but no longer painful. "I have to. For both of us."

Before I can gather my thoughts into words, Jurto closes the distance between us. His hand cradles the back of my head, pulling me toward him, and then his lips crash against mine in a searing kiss. It's forceful and desperate, filled with all the unspoken tensions and raw emotions that have been building between us.

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