Page 24 of Her Rugged Orcs

EIRA

The morning light filters through the crumbling stone walls, casting long shadows across the ruins' floor. I sit by the fire, my fingers absently tracing the rough texture of Dren's cloak wrapped around my shoulders.

My body still remembers Dren's touch from last night—the gentle way his fingers threaded through my hair, how perfectly I fit against the broad expanse of his chest. The memory makes my skin tingle, and I hate myself for it. The ghost of his warmth lingers on my skin, a cruel reminder of what I can't have.

A mission. That's all I am. A package to be delivered to my sister, wrapped in pretty lies and false protection. The thought twists in my gut like a knife.

The fire pops and sends sparks dancing into the air. I watch them fade, each one a reminder of how easily things can disappear. How foolish I was to think their touches meant something more, to believe that when Dren held me, it was because he wanted to.

My fingers clench in the fabric of his cloak. I should take it off, throw it back at him, but I can't make myself let it go. Thescent of leather and pine clings to it—his scent. It makes my chest ache with a longing I shouldn't feel.

From across the ruins, I hear the low murmur of their voices. I don't look up. I can't bear to see Dren's eyes, knowing now that every gentle touch, every moment of protection, was just part of their duty. My sister's orders.

The fire blurs before me, and I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall. I've survived worse than this. Survived being property, being nothing. I can survive being their mission.

But I can't deny how Dren’s touch last night felt like coming home. How his arms seemed to promise something I've never had before. Safety. Belonging. Things I was stupid enough to believe I could have some day.

The morning light grows stronger, and with it, my resolve. I won't be their mission anymore. I won't be anyone's anything.

I watch through narrowed eyes as Murok returns from hunting, a brace of rabbits in his hands. The way he prepares them, careful and methodical, makes my stomach twist. Everything they do seems calculated, measured—a performance for my benefit.

"Eat," Grash says, holding out a portion of the cooked meat. His golden-brown eyes are soft, concerned. I take it without meeting his gaze, my fingers barely brushing his.

The food tastes bitter in my mouth. Every bite is a reminder of their deception. Why pretend to care? Why touch me with such gentleness when I'm nothing but a mission objective?

Dren shifts closer, his shoulder nearly touching mine. The heat from his body makes my skin prickle, and I hold back from leaning into him. His eyes catch mine for a moment before I look away.

"You need to regain your strength," Murok says, his voice carrying that edge of authority that makes me want to refuse just to spite him.

I force myself to chew, to swallow, while my mind races. There has to be an angle here. No one gives without expecting something in return.

Yet Grash's hands are gentle when he passes me a water skin. Murok's eyes track my movements with something that looks like genuine concern. And Dren... Dren stays close enough that I can feel his presence like a physical touch, protective without being possessive.

It just doesn't make any sense. If I'm just a package to be delivered, why do they look at me like I matter? Why did Dren hold me last night like I was something precious?

The rain starts again, drumming against the stone ruins, and I wrap Dren's cloak tighter around myself. Each kindness they show feels like a knife twisting deeper. Each touch, each look, each moment of protection—it has to be some kind of manipulation. Has to be.

Because if it's not... if they actually care...

No. I can't afford to believe that. I can’t let myself trust the way Dren's fingers felt in my hair, or how Grash's laugh makes something warm unfurl in my chest, or how Murok's strength makes me feel safe.

They're just very good actors. They have to be.

Murok's footsteps are silent behind me, but I sense his presence before he speaks. The heat of his body radiates against my back, making my muscles tense up.

"You look nervous," he says, his voice low and rich.

I turn to face him, studying the sharp planes of his face in the firelight. "I am."

His usual smirk fades, replaced by something more intense, more dangerous. He settles beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush. The contact sends electricity dancing across my skin.

"You don't have to be," he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans hot against my ear. His braids brush my shoulder, and his scent—earth and something uniquely him—makes my head spin.

I should pull away. Should remember that I'm nothing to him. But my body betrays me, swaying toward his heat like a flower seeking sun. His presence overwhelms my senses, and for a minute, I forget why I'm supposed to resist.

Then I remember—I was trained for this. Taught how to make men want, how to use their desire as a weapon. My lips curve into a practiced smile as I lean closer, letting my breath ghost across his neck. Two can play this game.

"What if I want to be nervous?" I whisper, watching his pupils dilate. Years of training taught me exactly how to pitch my voice, how to make it sound like silk and sin.

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