Page 18 of Her Rugged Orcs

Grash settles beside me, his massive frame radiating heat in the cool morning air. "Southeast is still our best bet," he says between bites. "Dark elves rarely patrol those borders."

"Too many hill tribes," Murok agrees, passing more meat around. "They won't risk losing soldiers there."

"Unless they really want us back," I say, licking the grease from my fingers.

"Let them try." Grash's voice rumbles with challenge, but then his expression shifts as Murok nearly drops a piece of meat into the fire. "Your grace rivals a drunk dwarf, brother."

The sound that follows startles me - Grash's laugh, deep and genuine, rolling through the cave like summer thunder. It's nothing like the cruel laughs I'm used to hearing. This sound wraps around me like a warm blanket, settling something inside me I didn't know needed settling.

Dren soon emerges from his corner, accepting his portion with a nod. His fingers brush mine as he takes the meat I pass him, and that earlier warmth floods back through me.

Before long, I wipe the last traces of grease from my lips, watching as Murok kicks dirt over our fire. The cave feels different in daylight - less threatening, more like a temporary haven we're leaving behind.

My muscles protest as we start our journey southeast. The terrain grows rougher with each mile, and my legs shake from the endless walking. My lungs burn, unused to this kind of exertion. After what feels like hours, I stumble over a root, catching myself against a tree trunk.

"Grash?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "Could you... I mean, would you mind..."

He's already moving before I finish, scooping me up like I'm weightless. His arms cradle me against his chest, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat drums against my ear.

"Should've asked sooner," he rumbles, adjusting his grip so my head rests more comfortably against his shoulder.

I've been carried before - thrown over shoulders like a sack, dragged by my arms - but this... this is different. His hold is firmbut gentle, protective without being possessive. My body relaxes without my permission, melting into his warmth.

As Grash walks, my fingers trace absent patterns on his chest, following the lines of his tribal tattoos. He tenses slightly, then relaxes, his thumb brushing against my arm.

When dusk approaches, Dren signals us to stop. He's found a hollow beneath a massive fallen tree, its roots creating a natural shelter. The ground beneath is dry, protected from rain by the thick canopy above.

Grash sets me down with surprising gentleness. My body misses his warmth immediately, and I hug myself, trying to hold onto that feeling of safety.

"Rest," he says, his golden-brown eyes soft as he looks at me. "We'll keep watch."

I settle into the hollow, watching as they move around our makeshift camp with practiced efficiency. This strange comfort terrifies me - how easily they've slipped past my defenses, how natural it feels to trust them. I've never known protection without a price, yet here they are, offering it freely.

My hand finds the spot where Grash's warmth still lingers on my skin. Is this what it feels like? To be cared for without conditions? To be held without demands?

I'm not sure I'm ready to answer those questions.

I curl into myself beneath the fallen tree, trying to sort through the chaos in my mind. The ground beneath me is surprisingly soft with moss, but I can't relax. Not when my thoughts keep circling back to them.

Grash's laughter echoes in my memory - deep, genuine, warming me from the inside out. The way he carried me, like I was precious rather than property. My fingers trace the spot on my arm where his thumb had brushed against my skin.

Then there's Murok, with his calculating blue eyes that see too much. He'd given me the first cut of meat, ensuring I atebefore taking his own portion. No one's ever put my needs first like that.

And Dren... My chest constricts remembering how he let me sleep against him, asking nothing in return. The memory of his steady heartbeat under my ear makes something flutter in my stomach.

"Stop it," I whisper to myself, pressing my palms against my eyes. "They want something. Everyone wants something."

13

EIRA

Morning light filters through the tangled roots above. I blink away sleep, watching Murok stoke the remains of last night's fire. The confusion that's been gnawing at me surges back full force.

Grash hands me a makeshift water skin. "Drink," he says, his voice low. Not an order - an offer.

My fingers brush his as I take it, and that familiar warmth spreads through my chest. I hate how my body betrays me, responding to their kindness like a flower turning toward the sun.

These are orcs. Monsters. The stories I grew up with painted them as brutal creatures driven by base desires. Yet here they are, treating me with more care than any human or dark elf master ever has.

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