Page 62 of Her Rugged Orcs

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DREN

The dawn light seeps through the gaps in our wooden walls, painting stripes across Eira's sleeping form. My side still aches, but the pain is nothing compared to the warmth spreading through my chest at the sight of her curled against me.

Mine. Ours. Finally.

I ease myself up, careful not to wake her or my brothers. Grash's snores rumble softly while Murok sleeps like a predator, ready to spring even in rest. The furs beneath us still hold our combined warmth.

The wound pulls as I stand, but I ignore it. Nothing will stop me from providing for Eira this morning. Our humble kitchen waits, and I know exactly what to make - the hearty stew my mother taught me before I became a warrior.

My fingers trace the wooden counter as I gather ingredients. The simple act of chopping vegetables grounds me in this new reality where Eira chose us - chose me. The knife moves steadily through carrots and potatoes as I remember her words from yesterday.

"You can't die. We were supposed to share our future together."

The memory makes my hands pause. I'd faced death before, but never had I fought so hard to live as I did in that moment, seeing the tears in her fierce green eyes.

I stoke the hearth fire, letting the flames lick higher. The iron pot settles with a satisfying weight as I add meat and vegetables. The scent of cooking food fills our home - our home, not just a shelter or hiding place.

"You're up early," Eira's sleepy voice comes from behind me.

I turn to find her wrapped in one of our furs, her hair tangled from sleep. The sight steals my breath. She could have had anything - her sister's wealth, a normal life. Instead, she chose this. Chose us.

"Go back to sleep," I murmur, but she's already padding toward me, bare feet silent on the wooden floor.

"Smells good," she says, peeking into the pot. Her presence next to me feels right, like a missing piece slotting into place.

I pull her close, careful of my healing wound, and press my face into her hair. She fits so perfectly against me. The stew can wait for a moment. Right now, I just want to hold what I never thought I'd have - a future, a home, a woman who sees past the monster to the heart beneath.

Eira soon slips one of my shirts over her head, the fabric draping to her mid-thigh. My possessive nature flares seeing her in my clothing. She catches my stare and a slight blush colors her cheeks as she moves to join me at the cooking pot.

"What can I do?" she asks, reaching for a knife to help cut the remaining vegetables.

I guide her hands, showing her how to slice the carrots just right. The simple domesticity of teaching her my mother's recipe fills me with a peace I've never known. Her small frame fits just right against my chest as I stand behind her, my hands covering hers.

"Like this," I murmur against her ear, guiding the blade. She shivers at my touch, and I have to resist the urge to forget about breakfast entirely.

A loud yawn announces Grash's awakening. "Something smells good," he rumbles, stretching his massive frame.

Murok sits up more gracefully, his braids perfectly intact even after sleep. "Well, well. Our silent brother cooks?"

"My mother's recipe," I say simply, adding the vegetables to the pot while keeping one hand on Eira's waist. She's mine to touch now, and I won't waste a moment of it.

We gather around our rough-hewn table, the morning light streaming through the windows. Eira ladles the stew into wooden bowls, and something within me tightens watching her serve my brothers. This is what I fought for, what I nearly died for - this simple moment of family.

"This is actually good," Murok says, surprise evident in his voice.

Grash just grunts in approval, already on his second helping.

Eira sits between us, her leg pressed against mine. "Thank you," she whispers, and I know she means more than just the meal.

I squeeze her thigh under the table, watching my brothers banter over breakfast, watching her smile more freely than she ever has. I don't deserve this happiness, this peace after all the blood on my hands. But I'll hurt anyone who tries to take it from us.

My fingers trace the delicate bones of Eira's wrist as she sits beside me, her skin warm under my touch. The morning light catches in her pale hair, turning it to molten gold. Every breath she takes, every subtle movement, draws my attention like a moth to flame. Mine. Ours.

The wooden bowl before her still holds traces of the stew, and the domesticity of sharing this meal with her, with my brothers,fills my chest with an unfamiliar warmth. Her pulse quickens under my fingers - she feels it too, this connection that needs no words.

Grash reaches across our rough-hewn table, his massive hand engulfing hers. "We're never leaving you, Eira." His voice carries the weight of an oath. "You belong to us, and we belong to you. Forever."

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