Page 56 of Her Rugged Orcs

I touch the fabric, marveling at how something so simple can feel so foreign. "It's strange," I admit. "To wear something that isn't..."

I can't finish the sentence. Isn't meant to display me. Isn't meant to mark me as property.

Kira brushes my damp hair, her touch gentle. "You're home now," she whispers.

But "home" feels different than I remember. I'm different. The girl who loved lavender and pretty dresses died long ago in a dark elf's dungeon. The woman who emerged is harder, sharper, marked by more than just physical scars.

My thoughts drift to Dren in the healers' hall, to Grash and Murok in their own home. Strange how I feel more complete in this moment, and yet more lost without them near.

"Would you like some tea?" Kira asks, breaking into my thoughts.

I nod, grateful for the distraction. "Yes, please."

The dress swishes around my ankles as I follow her, the fabric a constant reminder that I'm no longer running, no longer fighting, no longer surviving.

Now I just have to learn how to live.

The tea warms my hands through the delicate porcelain cup as I sit across from Kira in her parlor. Silk cushions cradle me, so different from the hard ground I've grown accustomed to. Everything here speaks of comfort, of safety—the gleaming wooden floors, the gossamer curtains dancing in the breeze, the subtle scent of jasmine hanging in the air.

But it feels wrong. Like wearing someone else's skin.

"You seem distant," Kira says, setting down her cup with a gentle clink.

I trace the rim of my cup, watching ripples form in the amber liquid. "Everything's changed."

"Of course it has. Ten years is a long time." She reaches across the table, her fingers brushing mine. "But you're home now. You can start over, be who you were meant to be."

The words stick to me like thorns. Who I was meant to be died in those dark elf dungeons years ago. That innocent girl who dreamed of pretty dresses and spring flowers was carved away, replaced by someone who knows how to kill, how to survive, how to love three orc warriors who saw past my scars.

"You don't have to go back with them," Kira tells me gently, misreading my silence.

My chest aches at the mere thought of leaving them. Images flash through my mind—Dren's silver eyes watching me in the darkness, Murok's knowing smirk when I challenge him, Grash's massive hands so gentle when they touch me.

"I do." The words come out raw, honest. "I do have to go back to them."

"Why?" She leans forward, confusion etching lines between her brows. "You're safe here with me. Protected. You could have a normal life."

A laugh bubbles up, bitter as the tea cooling in my cup. "Normal? I stopped being normal the day they took me." I set the cup down before my trembling hands can betray me. "The orcs... they didn't just save me, Kira. They saw me. All of me. The broken parts, the sharp edges, everything I became to survive. And they didn't try to fix me or change me. They made me stronger."

"But they're?—"

"Mine," I cut her off. "They're mine, and I'm theirs." My fingers brush the faded scar on my wrist, remembering how theyhad accepted every mark on my skin as part of who I am. "I love them."

The words hang in the air, simple and true and terrifying in their power. Kira's eyes widen, understanding finally dawning in their depths.

"They're my home now," I whisper, and ever since entering this beautiful house, I feel my shoulders relax. Because home isn't about silk cushions or jasmine-scented air. It's about belonging. And I belong with them.

Kira soon stands up and leads me to the next room. The dining hall gleams with candlelight, casting warm shadows across polished wood and crystal glasses. Kira guides me to a table laden with dishes I haven't seen in years - roasted pheasant, honeyed vegetables, fresh bread still steaming.

"Let's celebrate," Kira says, pouring wine into delicate goblets. "To unexpected love."

I smile, but my mind drifts to Dren in the healers' hall, wondering if he's eaten, if his wound pains him. The wine tastes rich on my tongue, but I find myself missing the sharp bite of Murok's banter.

"You're thinking about them again," Kira observes, cutting into her pheasant.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Your eyes get distant." She sets down her knife. "You know, when I learned you'd been sold to the pits, I chose them specifically."

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