Page 8 of Her Rugged Orcs

"You should rest," he says.

I can't. Not with three corpses cooling in the corner. Not with my skin still crawling from the guards' touches. Not with these three warriors watching me like I'm something precious instead of broken.

But I comply instinctively, and settle into the corner furthest from the bodies, drawing my knees to my chest. The stone wall presses cold against my back, but I don't mind – it helps keep me alert, keeps my thoughts from spinning out of control. I watch my unlikely protectors through lowered lashes.

Grash paces like a caged beast, his massive form casting shifting shadows in the torchlight. Murok sits cross-legged, his clever eyes following his brother's movement while his fingers weave another braid into his dark hair. Dren remains still as death, but I feel his silver gaze on me, watchful, protective.

An hour passes, marked only by the steady drip of water somewhere in the darkness and Grash's measured steps. My racing thoughts begin to slow, replaced by an unfamiliar feeling of gratitude within me. These warriors killed to keep me… safe.

"You really should sleep," Murok rumbles softly, his blue eyes finding mine.

I shake my head, but exhaustion tugs at my limbs. Without conscious thought, I find myself moving closer to them, drawnlike a moth to a flame. I settle between Grash and Dren, their massive forms bracketing me like living walls.

"Better?" Grash asks, his hand hovering near me but not touching.

"Yes," I whisper, surprised to find it true. Their warmth seeps into me, chasing away the perpetual chill of the cell. Dren shifts closer, his presence solid and reassuring.

My eyes grow heavy as an unexpected peace settles over me. These aren't just warriors anymore – they're my protectors. I should be terrified by this sudden desire to stay close to them. Instead, it feels right in a way nothing has before.

Sleep claims me between one breath and the next, cradled in the safety of their presence.

6

MUROK

Ilean against the rough stone wall of our cell, watching Grash pace like a caged animal. My braids brush against my shoulders as I shake my head at his restlessness. Strength got us this far, but it won't get us out. Not with three dead guards hidden under the straw at our feet. The metallic scent of their blood mingles with the musty underground air.

I turn my head and look out our open cell door into the dimly lit corridor. The guards' overconfidence in leaving it open while they attempted to kidnap Eira last night might be our only advantage.

She sits in the corner, her pale hair catching what little light filters in. Those green eyes of hers miss nothing. Just like me. She's been trained to survive, to read situations and people. That kind of intelligence is worth more than brute force right now.

Grash continues his relentless pacing. "We should fight our way out now," he growls, flexing his massive shoulders.

I remain silent. Three days until the guard change. Three days to use this situation to our advantage. We need more than just the three of us – we need allies who know the layout, the routines, the weak points of this hellhole.

I lean forward, my braids sliding over my shoulders as I break the tense silence. "No, we need to use what you started."

"What do you suggest?" Dren's silver eyes catch the torchlight, his voice low.

"We play the game." I sweep my gaze across our cell, taking in the dried blood staining the straw. "Every fighter in these pits saw Grash claim her. They're waiting to see what happens next. Let's give them something worth watching – and worth joining."

Grash stops his pacing, his massive frame blocking the dim light from the corridor. "Explain."

"Three days until the guard change. Three days where no one will look for these bodies." I tap my boot against the concealed corpses. "That's our window. But we need more than just us. We need the ones who know every crack in these walls, every shift change, every weak point."

The sound of distant fighting echoes through the stone corridors as I turn to Eira. "You're a human slave. You know how to negotiate, don't you?"

Those green eyes of hers sharpen instantly, catching my meaning. The way she holds herself changes subtly – shoulders softening, head tilting just so. She knows exactly what I'm suggesting – using her perceived weakness as a strength, offering what these fighters think they want to secure their help.

"The other fighters will expect you to be passed around," I continue, keeping my voice steady despite the way my jaw clenches at the thought. "We can use that expectation. Make them think helping us is their only chance to have what Grash claimed for himself."

Dren shifts in the shadows, his presence becoming more menacing. Grash's growl rumbles through the cell. But I keep my eyes on Eira, watching the calculations running behind those sharp eyes of hers. She hasn't responded yet, but I can see her mind working, weighing options just as I would.

Her fingers still their tracing in the dirt, and the bitterness in her voice cuts through the dank air. "So, you want me to use the only thing I was trained for."

My jaw tightens. The truth of her words tastes bitter in my mouth, but survival demands pragmatism. "I want you to use what they expect against them. Their assumptions are their weakness."

She rises from her corner, dirt falling from her simple silk dress. The torchlight catches the faded marks on her pale skin, testament to years of "training" I'd rather not contemplate.

---