Page 22 of Her Rugged Orcs

Thunder booms overhead, making the ruins tremble. Eira jumps, though she tries to hide it. Her wet hair hangs in pale ropes down her back, and she wraps her arms around herself, shivering.

My cloak is soaked through, offering little warmth, but I find myself wanting to wrap it around her anyway. These protective instincts are becoming dangerous. She's not just a mission anymore, and that realization unsettles me more than I care to admit.

"At least the rain will cover our tracks," I say, more to distract myself than anything else. My voice echoes slightly in the empty space, mixing with the steady drum of water on stone.

The rain's steady drumming finally peters out, leaving behind a heavy silence broken only by water dripping from stone. Grash shoulders his axe and heads out to gather firewood. I maintain my position by the entrance, scanning the treeline for movement while keeping Eira in my peripheral vision.

She's huddled in the driest corner, knees drawn to her chest, her sodden dress clinging to her slight frame. Her lips have taken on a concerning blue tinge, and fine tremors wrack her body despite her obvious attempts to suppress them. The sight stirs something deep in me – an urge to protect, to warm, to claim. I push it down. She's proven herself more than capable of asking for help if she needs it.

But she won't ask. That's what fascinates me most about her. Even now, freezing and miserable, she maintains that iron core of dignity. Most humans would have broken long ago under the weight of what she's endured. Yet here she sits, chin lifted defiantly despite her chattering teeth.

"She's going to freeze to death," Dren murmurs from his shadowed corner, voice pitched low enough that only my orc hearing catches it.

I grunt in acknowledgment, watching as Eira absently wrings water from her hair. "She's stronger than she looks."

"Strong doesn't mean invincible."

I arch an eyebrow at him. "Since when do you care?"

His eyes narrow, but he doesn't respond. Typical. I return my attention to the forest, but my thoughts keep going back to our stubborn human charge. Her refusal to show weakness speaks of years of learned survival tactics. But there's something else there too, a core of steel that has nothing to do with training and everything to do with pure, innate strength.

The kind of strength that makes a person dangerous. The kind that makes them survive against impossible odds. The kind that makes them worth… claiming.

From my position by the entrance, I watch Dren finally break his stoic vigil. He moves like smoke across the room, unfastening his cloak - somehow still fairly dry despite the downpour. His eyes never leave Eira as he drapes the heavy fabric around her shoulders, his movements careful and deliberate.

"I'm not fragile," she mutters, but there's less bite in her words than usual. Her fingers curl into the fabric, betraying her need for warmth despite her protest.

Dren settles beside her without a word, close enough that his body heat reaches her. The way she leans into him, almost imperceptibly, speaks volumes. My jaw clenches at the sight.

Water drips steadily from the ceiling, marking time as I study her. Even now, shivering and drenched, she holds herself with that unmistakable pride. Her chin lifts defiantly when she catches my gaze, but I see the minute tremors she's fighting to control.

Ever since that day we found her in the pits, she hasn't broken down. She doesn't beg for help or comfort. She just endures, like she's clearly done her entire life. She reminds me of myself. Something fierce and possessive stirs within me.

"You're going to survive this escape," I say across the ruins, my voice rougher than intended. The words carry more weight than I meant to reveal.

Her green eyes meet mine, searching for the lie, the hidden agenda she's certain exists. But for once, I let her see the truth - that I believe in her strength, her resilience. That I want to be there when she proves everyone wrong about what she's capable of.

What I don't say, what I can't say, is how much I want her to choose to stay with us when this is all over. How I want to be the one she turns to, not just for protection, but because she wants to. Because she sees me as more than just another monster.

But those are dangerous thoughts for another time. Right now, she needs to focus on surviving. And I need to focus on keeping her alive long enough to make that choice.

Grash's heavy footfalls announce his return before I see him. He emerges from the rain-soaked forest carrying an armful of relatively dry wood and two rabbits slung over his shoulder. The sight of fresh meat makes my stomach growl, reminding me how long it's been since our last real meal.

He drops the wood near the center of our stone refuge. His movements are precise as he arranges the kindling, those massive hands surprisingly deft at the delicate work of building a fire.

I watch Eira watching him, noting how her eyes track his every movement. She's still wrapped in Dren's cloak, but color has returned to her cheeks. The fire catches quickly, casting dancing shadows across her face.

"You should eat first," I tell her as Grash prepares the rabbits. "You need it more than we do."

She bristles at that. "I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity," I counter, letting a hint of steel enter my voice. "It's strategy. You're smaller. We need you strong."

The logic seems to appease her pride, though she still hesitates slightly when Grash hands her the first portion. The meat is barely cooked - we can't risk too much smoke - but she tears into it with surprising ferocity.

The warmth of the fire soon seeps into my bones as we eat in companionable silence.

16

---