Page 29 of Her Rugged Orcs

"I need water," I gasp, my throat raw from the thin mountain air.

"Should've filled your waterskin at the last stream," Grash replies coldly.

This grueling pace and treatment continue for several more miles along the winding mountain path. Finally, Murok stops up ahead.

"We should rest here," Murok says, his voice clipped. Gone is the casual banter, replaced by cold efficiency.

The wind whips through the sparse trees, and I pull my cloak tighter. Grash drops his axe nearby but keeps his distance. Just days ago, he would have wrapped his arms around me, sharing his warmth without hesitation.

"I'll take first watch," Dren murmurs, melting into the shadows before I can catch his eye.

My chest tenses as I watch them set up camp. They move like a coordinated unit, but I'm no longer part of their rhythm. When Murok passes me some dried meat, his fingers don't linger like they used to.

"Something wrong?" I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

"Nothing that concerns you," Grash mutters, and the dismissal stings worse than the cold.

"We need to move faster tomorrow," Murok rumbles, his blue eyes scanning the horizon rather than meeting mine.

The distance grows with each passing hour, like a chasm I can't bridge. The warmth of their touch, the safety of their presence - it's all slipping away. And the worst part? I feel like I deserve it. Nobody could ever really care for a pleasure slave. I'm just damaged goods, plain and simple.

Later that night, the flames sizzle between us, but the warmth doesn't reach my skin. Their silence has become a physical thing, pressing against my chest until I can barely breathe. I watch as Grash methodically sharpens his axe, the rhythmic scraping setting my teeth on edge. Dren lurks at the edge of the firelight, a shadow among shadows, while Murok studies a crude dirt map with unnecessary intensity.

My fingers dig into my arms as I cross them. "What is it?" The words burst from me, sharp and desperate. "Why are you all acting like this?"

The scraping stops. The map vanishes. Even the shadows seem to still.

Murok's blue eyes finally meet mine across the flames, cold and calculating in a way I haven't seen since the pits. "The dark elves have been tracking us too well." His voice cuts through the night air. "There's only one logical explanation."

I frown, my mind racing to piece together what he's implying. The way they've been avoiding me, the whispered conversations, the suspicious glances...

The realization suddenly hits me like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath. They think I'm betraying them. After everything we've shared, everything we've been through, they believe I'm leading the dark elves to us.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with accusation. My throat closes up as I look at each of them in turn - Grash's stony expression, Dren's averted gaze, Murok's clinical assessment. The same males who held me, protected me, made me feel truly safe, now look at me like I'm a stranger. Or worse, an enemy.

The fire snaps, sending sparks into the night sky. Still, none of them speak. They're waiting for me to defend myself, to prove my innocence. But how do you prove loyalty to those who've already decided you're guilty?

My chest aches with a pain I’ve never experienced before.

"The dark elves must be getting tipped off." Grash's voice cuts through the night air, his golden-brown eyes pinning me in place. Those same eyes that once burned with passion now freeze me to my core. His massive frame towers over me as he stands, and for the first time since the pits, I feel small again.

Something inside me withers and dies. The fragile hope I'd been nurturing, the foolish belief that I could belong somewhere, with someone - with them. My throat tightens as tears build behind my eyes, but I blink them back. Years of training taught me how to swallow pain, how to wear a mask of indifference.

I won't cry. Not now. Not for them. I didn't shed tears when masters beat me, when they sold me, when they used me. I won't break for these orcs who clearly think so little of me.

Murok's calculating gaze dissects my every movement, searching for signs of guilt. Dren remains in the shadows, but I feel his eyes on me. The same eyes that watched over me while I slept, that softened when I touched him.

"Well?" Murok prompts, his voice carrying that edge of authority I once found compelling. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

I lift my chin, meeting their accusations with steel in my spine. Let them think what they want. They've already decided my guilt. Just like everyone else in my life, they see only what they expect to see - a broken slave, a betrayer, a thing to be used and discarded.

"Nothing," I say, my voice steady despite the storm raging in me. "Nothing at all."

Grash's jaw clenches, his massive hands curling into fists. Even Dren shifts in his shadows, the movement betraying his tension.

They don't know that I know about their mission, about my sister. They don't realize I understand exactly what I am to them- just another objective to complete. The irony of them accusing me of betrayal when they've been lying to me all along tastes bitter on my tongue.

22

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