Page 16 of Her Rugged Orcs

"Keep it low," I remind him unnecessarily. "We don't need smoke giving away our position."

Eira inches closer to the growing warmth, her arms wrapped tight around herself. Her shoulders tremble slightly – from cold or exhaustion, I'm not sure which.

"Here." I shrug off my cloak and drape it over her shoulders. She starts to protest, but I silence her with a look. "Your teeth are chattering. You're no good to us if you freeze."

Outside, Dren's shadow passes the cave entrance as he maintains his watch. Always vigilant.

I settle against the wall, watching as Eira's eyelids grow heavy. She fights it at first, but exhaustion wins. Her body curls inward, making herself as small as possible. Something fierce and protective stirs in me at the sight.

The urge to gather her close, to wrap myself around her and shield her from everything that's hurt her, hits me with unexpected force. I've never wanted to protect someone like this before. It's... unsettling.

11

DREN

From my position against the rough cave wall, I watch Eira stir from her sleep. Her eyes flutter open, adjusting to the dim light of our makeshift shelter. The dancing flames paint shadows across her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheekbone, the subtle tremble of her lip.

Murok's cloak drowns her small frame as she pulls it tighter, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her gaze fixes on the fire, lost in thoughts I can only imagine. The weight of our escape, the blood on her hands – I recognize that distant stare. I've worn it myself.

"So much fight in such a small thing," I whisper to myself, the words barely a breath in the cave's silence.

The firelight catches on her pale hair, turning it to molten gold. Something pulls at my chest when she absently tucks a strand behind her ear, her fingers lingering on her neck.

Outside, Grash's heavy footsteps mark his patrol route. Inside, Murok's steady breathing joins the crack and pop of burning wood. But it's her silence that speaks loudest to me. The way she holds herself – straight-backed despite her exhaustion, alert despite her vulnerability – tells stories of survival.

"Dangerous," I murmur, more to myself than anyone. Not because she poses a threat, but because of how she makes me feel. This urge to protect, to shelter, to... claim. My fingers flex against my thigh, remembering the satisfaction of breaking that human's wrist when he dared touch her.

The fire reflects in her green eyes, and for a moment, I see flames of a different kind – the burning determination that drove her blade into that guard's throat. She's more than what they made her to be. More than a slave, more than a survivor.

My muscles tense as a shiver runs through her small frame. The instinct to go to her, to wrap her in my arms instead of just that cloak, is too overwhelming. I suddenly push off the wall and walk across the cave to the fire.

I settle beside her by the small fire, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her small frame but not close enough to touch. My fingers itch to pull her against me, to wrap her in the protection of my arms, but I keep them firmly at my sides for now.

"You're quieter and calmer than the others," she murmurs, studying me with that penetrating gaze that seems to strip away layers.

I give a slight nod, swallowing back the words that threaten to spill out. What could I possibly say? That I've ended more lives than I can count? That watching her kill that guard awakened something primal in me – not disgust, but pride? That seeing her strength, her survival, makes my chest ache with emotions I don't understand?

The firelight catches on a fading bruise along her collarbone, and my jaw clenches. Every mark on her skin is a testament to what she's endured, what she's survived.

She shifts slightly, and Murok's cloak slips from her shoulder. My hand twitches with the urge to fix it, to let myfingers brush against her skin, but I remain still. She's not ready for that – maybe she never will be.

"Some things don't need words," I finally manage, my voice rough from disuse.

The cave falls silent again, filled only with the crack of burning wood and Grash's steady footsteps outside.

Her body soon sways, and before I can process what's happening, she's leaning against me, her slight frame pressing into my side. The contact sends a jolt through my system, like lightning striking deep in my core. My arm moves of its own accord, wrapping around her shoulders.

She fits perfectly against me. Her head finds the spot between my shoulder and chest as if it was made just for her. Her breath evens out, warm against my skin. The scent of her – spring rain and something uniquely her – fills my lungs.

"So small," I whisper into the cave's darkness, marveling at how fragile she feels beneath my touch. "Yet so fierce."

My thumb traces small circles on her arm through Murok's cloak. Each point of contact burns like a brand, marking me as surely as any battle scar. Her hair spills across my chest, catching the dying firelight.

"Sleep, little warrior," I murmur, tasting the endearment on my tongue. "I have you now."

She burrows closer, seeking warmth or comfort or both. My grip tightens instinctively, protectively. The urge to gather her fully into my lap, to wrap her completely in my embrace, nearly overwhelms me.

Instead, I remain still, becoming her anchor in sleep as she was mine in waking. My free hand rests on my blade, ready. Nothing will reach her here. Not while I draw breath.

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