Page 27 of Bound to the Orc Warrior

I grunt. My friend speaks true. I pitch said tent close to the tree line on a soft layer of pine needles, spreading my furs across the floor.

“Oh! This is nice,” Naomi says from behind me. “Do you happen to have any silky cloth?”

“Silky?”

She lifts the skirt of her pink dress and steps close enough to press the satiny fabric into my hands. “Like this.”

Her scent surrounds me, making my mouth water, and my voice emerges as a growl. “No, I have nothing like this.”

“I guess I can cut up my dress.” A tiny frown tugs down the corners of her lips as she lets out a sigh. “I really like this one.”

I despise that frown. “Donotcut your dress. Tell me what you need.”

“I need something silky to wrap my hair in for sleep.”

Dammit! I have nothing! Anger, familiar and sharp, rises within me. This is such a small thing, yet I already fail my bride.

“Do you have a shirt I can wear?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Her lips purse, but before she can say anything, I strip my shirt off, holding it out to her. “Take this one.”

My bride’s eyes go wide, and she bites into her plump bottom lip.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Naomi

Oh.Oh.

Words are supposed to be my thing, but there are no words.

Firelight dances across the bulges and dips of Wranth’s muscles, making his chest a fascinating display of light and shadow. So many muscles! I know he’s strong because of the way he keeps picking me up, but his shoulders are unbelievably wide.

I swallow and bite my lip as my eyes drift lower. Is that an eight pack? Is an eight pack even anatomically possible? I’ve read it in books, but this is the first time I’ve actually seen one.

“Will this do?” The hand holding the shirt stretches even closer.

“Yep.” My voice is a breathless squeak as I snatch it out of his hand. “That’s perfect.” I’m not talking about the shirt.

He crouches, pulls another shirt out of a pack and starts to wipe it down with the cleaning cloth. The play of muscles in his forearms…

Get a grip, girl!

I spin away from the fire, and the forest in front of me is an inky black as I step around the tent. I shrug out of the cardigan and hang it from the tent corner. My fingers curl under the hem of my skirt, and I straighten, pulling the dress off over my head. Wranth’s shirt settles around me, huge and comfy and still warm from his body. Instinctively, I lift the neck to my nose and take a deep sniff. It smells of pine and leather and man. Yum. Then I realize what I’m doing and drop the shirt back into place.

After cuffing the sleeves so they no longer cover my hands, I lean forward until my head hangs upside down. I gather my hair together and wrap my satin dress around my head and the bulk of my curls. When I straighten up, I’m sporting a turban that’s open at the top, the ends of my curls poking out of it in an improvised pineapple that’ll protect my hair while I sleep.

When I walk back to the fire, Wranth looks at me, his dark eyes so intent I feel his gaze like a caress. Which is kind of ironic, because his shirt hides more of my body than my spaghetti-strap dress ever did.

He’s clothed again, too, and a spurt of disappointment goes through me. My fingers curl into the soft weave of the cardigan, wanting to touch him instead. Flustered, I turn toward the tent. The only tent. Just one.

That doesn’t help with the fluster, not one tiny bit.

“You should rest,” his deep voice says. “I’ll keep watch.”

It’s my turn to say, “No.” I’m an adult. I’ve shared tents before. It doesn’thaveto mean anything. I crawl into the tent and sit on the furs, the ground surprisingly soft underneath me. Then I look at him. “You aren’t sleeping outside on the ground.”

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