Page 17 of Her Rugged Orcs

"Mine to protect," I breathe into her hair, the words both a promise and a prayer. "Mine to keep safe."

She sighs in her sleep, one small hand curling into my shirt. Trust. Raw and pure and completely unconscious. It steals the air from my lungs.

The cave's shadows dance across her sleeping face, and I memorize every detail. The slight furrow between her brows that even sleep doesn't completely smooth. The faint scar near her temple. The way her lashes fan across her cheeks.

I will keep this vigil. She will not wake alone. Not ever again.

Suddenly, my name falls from her lips like a prayer, soft and yearning in her sleep. The sound strikes me harder than any blade, sending a shockwave through my body. My arm tightens around her, pulling her closer against my chest.

"Dren," she whispers again, her fingers curling tighter into my shirt.

Her pale hair spills over my arm like liquid moonlight. Every point where her body touches mine burns with an intensity that threatens to consume me.

"What are you doing to me, little one?" I murmur, trailing my fingertips along her arm. The contact sends electricity through my veins. "You should fear me. Run from me. Not whisper my name like that."

She shifts in her sleep, pressing even closer. Her breath fans across my chest, warm and sweet.

My free hand clenches into a fist. The urge to claim, to mark, to possess crashes over me like a tidal wave. I want to wake her with my touch, to hear her say my name while conscious, to watch those green eyes darken with desire.

"Mine," I growl softly, the word rumbling deep in my chest. "You're already mine, aren't you? Even if you don't know it yet."

She moans softly in her sleep, and the sound shoots straight to my core. My body responds instantly, hardening with need. I grit my teeth, fighting for control.

"Sleep, precious one," I whisper. "I'll keep these thoughts to myself. For now."

But I know the truth now. I'm lost to her. Completely. Irrevocably. This fierce need to protect has transformed into something deeper, something primal and possessive. Something that demands I make her mine in every way possible.

12

EIRA

Sunlight pierces my eyes, and I blink away the remnants of sleep. The first thing I notice is warmth - not just from the dying embers of our fire, but from the solid presence behind me. Dren's arm drapes across my shoulders, his breath steady against my hair. My head rests against his chest, rising and falling with each breath.

My heart pounds. This closeness, this protection - it's foreign. Different. No grabbing hands, no demands, no pain. Just... safety.

I shift slightly, and his eyes meet mine. For a moment, we're frozen in this strange intimacy. His gaze holds something I can't decipher - something that makes my chest clench with an unfamiliar ache.

Then, as if burned, he drops his arm and stands in one fluid motion. No words, no expectations, no lingering touch. He simply walks away, disappearing into the shadows at the back of the cave.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself, missing his warmth even as confusion tangles in my gut. My fingers brush againstthe spot where his arm had been, and I try to remember the last time someone held me without wanting something in return.

Never.

"You didn't have to," I whisper to his retreating form, though I'm not sure what I'm trying to say. Thank you? Stay? Don't be kind to me because I don't know what to do with kindness?

The cave feels colder now, and I draw my knees to my chest. This gentleness is more terrifying than any blade. I know how to handle cruelty, how to survive it. But this? This softness that expects nothing in return? It leaves me raw, exposed, vulnerable in ways violence never could.

I press my palm against my chest, trying to steady my racing heart. The memory of his warmth lingers, and I feel something bloom inside of me - something I thought had died long ago.

The scent of fresh meat suddenly hits my nostrils before I see Murok enter the cave, his braids swaying with each step. Blood stains his hands as he carries what looks like a young deer. My stomach cramps at the sight, reminding me how long it's been since I've eaten properly.

"Found breakfast," he says, setting the deer down and working to prepare the meat for cooking.

I watch his skilled movements as he sets up a makeshift spit over our fire. The flames dance across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features. My mouth waters as the first drops of fat sizzle into the fire.

"Here." He hands me the first piece, still steaming. "You need it most."

"Thank you," I whisper, surprised by the genuine care in his voice. The meat burns my fingers, but I don't care - it's the first real food I've had in days.

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