Page 47 of Her Rugged Orcs

I've been telling myself that I could keep my distance, that I could lock away these feelings until they withered and died. But watching him bleed out because he stepped between me and death, it shatters every wall I've built, every doubt I've had.

And I realize with startling clarity that I don't care anymore about betrayals, doubt, or fear. I just need him to live. Need all of them to live.

"You stupid bastard," I whisper, gripping his face between my bloodied palms. My thumb traces the scar on his jaw, memorizing the texture, terrified this might be the last time I touch him.

"Still here," Grash rasps, the corner of his mouth twitching up despite the agony etched into his features. His attempt at a smirk breaks something inside me.

Tears spill down my cheeks, dropping onto his chest where they mix with his blood. I can't stop them, can't fight them back. They fall faster as his breathing grows more labored, as his skin pales beneath its natural green-gray tone. Each tear carries the weight of every moment I pushed him away, every time I pretended not to care.

The forest around us fades away. There's only Grash, only the weak pulse beneath my fingers, only the desperate prayer repeating in my head: don't leave me.

I lean down, pressing my lips against his with desperate intensity. His mouth is hot with fever, tasting of copper and salt, but I don't care. I pour everything I've been holding back into that kiss - my fear, my anger, my love.

His hand weakly cups my face, his thumb brushing away my tears.

"About time," he whispers against my lips, his voice rough with pain but tinged with that familiar cockiness.

A choked laugh escapes me.

Movement draws my attention. Murok and Dren kneel beside us, their faces etched with concern - and something else. Something I've been too scared to name. Murok's blue eyes hold mine, filled with that familiar intensity that makes my breath catch. Dren's silver gaze burns with quiet devotion that speaks louder than any words could.

"We need to stop the bleeding," Murok says, his hand covering mine where it presses against Grash's wound.

Dren silently tears strips from his shirt, working quickly to bind Grash's chest. His movements are gentle, at odds with the deadly grace I just witnessed in battle.

Looking at them - these three orcs who've killed for me, bled for me, waited for me - I finally understand. This is what love really is. Not the false affection I was trained to give, not the calculated exchanges I learned to survive, but this: Protection. Sacrifice. Choice.

"I love you," I whisper. "All of you."

Grash grips my hand. Murok inhales sharply. Dren goes still.

"We know," Murok says simply, his voice thick with emotion.

34

GRASH

The pain in my chest burns like hellfire, but I barely notice it. All I can focus on is the lingering warmth of Eira's lips on mine, the salt of her tears still fresh on my tongue. She loves us. She actually loves us, even after everything.

Dren's fingers work methodically, wrapping strips of his torn shirt around my wound. The fabric pulls tight against my skin with each pass, but I welcome the sting. It grounds me, keeps me from floating away on this surge of joy that threatens to overwhelm me.

"Hold still," Dren mutters as I shift to watch Eira. She's hovering nearby, her green eyes never leaving my face. The worry in them makes my chest tighten with something fiercer than pain.

"I'm fine," I growl, reaching for her hand. When she takes it, her fingers intertwine with mine without hesitation, and my heart pounds harder than it did during the fight. "Takes more than a dark elf's blade to keep me down."

"Stupid, reckless male," she whispers, but there's no bite in her words anymore. Just that softness that makes me want to pull her closer to me, wound be damned.

The forest air feels electric around us, charged with everything that's changed in these past moments. Her kiss wasn't just a kiss - it was forgiveness, acceptance, love. Everything I've wanted, everything I thought we'd lost.

"There," Dren says, securing the bandage. His eyes meet mine, and I see my own relief mirrored there.

I squeeze Eira's hand, relishing how she squeezes back. She's not running anymore. She's not building walls. She's ours, and I'll make sure she never doubts us again.

Dren and Murok's hands grip under my arms, lifting me from the blood-soaked earth. My muscles protest, but I refuse to show weakness. The wound in my chest throbs with each heartbeat.

"I can walk," I growl, though my legs shake as they steady me.

"Shut up and let us help you," Murok mutters, adjusting his grip. "Your stubbornness won't heal that wound faster."

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