Page 57 of Her Rugged Orcs

This catches my attention. "What do you mean?"

"Grash reminded me of how protective you always were of me when we were young. Fierce, willing to fight anyone who threatened what you loved." She smiles softly. "Murok has your wit, your sharp mind. And Dren..." She pauses, swirling her wine. "Dren has that quiet depth you always had as a child. Theway you'd observe everything, understood more than you let on."

My eyes widen slightly, understanding starting to dawn on me.

She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. "I chose them because I knew you'd trust them, eventually. They each represent a fundamental part of who you are." She pauses for a moment. "I just didn't expect you to fall in love with all three of them."

I think of Grash's protective growl, Murok's challenging remarks, and Dren's quiet understanding. "Neither did I."

"But it makes sense," she continues. "They're not just pieces of who you were - they're who you've become as a whole. Strong, strategic, silent when needed."

The candles flicker, casting dancing shadows across the fine china. Everything here speaks of luxury, of safety, but my thoughts keep drifting to rough hands and warrior's hearts.

"Tell me about them," Kira says. "Really tell me."

I trace the rim of my wine glass, thinking of how to describe something that feels bigger than words. "Grash makes me feel safe without making me feel weak. Murok challenges me to be stronger and smarter. And Dren..." My voice catches. "Dren sees every broken piece of me and loves them all."

Kira's eyes shine with understanding. "You want to go to them now, don't you?"

"Yes," I admit. "But I don't want to leave you either."

"We have time," she assures me.

I smile, grateful for her understanding as my heart beats in time with three names.

40

GRASH

Ipace across the wooden floor of our modest living space. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting shadows across the walls of the home we three warriors share. My fists clench and unclench as I imagine Eira in her sister's grand hall, surrounded by luxury and comfort we could never provide.

"She won't come," I growl to myself, running a hand over my face. "Why would she choose this?" I gesture at our simple furnishings - the worn chairs, the basic wooden table, the weapons rack against the wall.

The door creaks open and my heart leaps, but it's just Murok supporting Dren. The disappointment tastes bitter in my mouth.

"Stop wearing a hole in the floor," Murok says, helping Dren to his favorite chair by the fire. "The healer says he's recovering nicely, though he'll have an impressive scar to show for it."

I grunt, resuming my pacing. "She's with her sister. In the great hall. With its silk cushions and golden plates and servants to attend to her every need."

"And you think that matters to her?" Murok's voice carries that edge of superiority that makes me want to punch him sometimes.

"Of course it matters!" I slam my fist against the wall, making the weapons rattle. "We offer her what? A warrior's life in a humble home? Shared with three scarred orcs?"

"You're an idiot," Dren mumbles from his chair, his silver eyes glazed with lingering pain but still sharp.

"What did you say?" I turn on him, my temper flaring.

"She doesn't want silk cushions," Dren continues, his quiet voice somehow filling the room. "She wants us. Her home is with us."

"You don't know that," I snarl, but my voice cracks. "Her sister can give her everything she deserves. Everything we can't."

Murok sighs heavily. "For someone so fierce in battle, you can be remarkably dense about matters of the heart."

I open my mouth to argue, but the sound of footsteps outside stops me cold. My heart races as I stare at the door.

The door creaks open with agonizing slowness. My breath hitches as Eira steps inside, her pale blonde hair catching the firelight from the hearth. My muscles tense, ready for her disappointment, for the moment she realizes what a downgrade this is from her sister's grand hall.

She takes in our living space - the worn but sturdy furniture, the weapons displayed on rough wooden racks, the simple cooking area. Her green eyes drift over everything, lingering on the fresh herbs hanging from the rafters, the stack of firewood I just chopped, the thick furs draped over our chairs.

---