Page 29 of Her Orc Healer

For a brief, breathless moment, I thought—whoever did this came back.

Then, a voice. Low, steady. "Rowena."

It was Kazrek.

I didn’t turn. I couldn’t.

He didn’t push. He didn’t speak again. He simply stood there, a quiet presence filling the wrecked space of my shop. And somehow, that stillness—that unwavering calm—was worse than any shouted accusation could have been. It forced me to confront the shaking in my own hands, the frantic beating of my heart. It forced me to acknowledge the fear that had settled deep in my bones.

“They won’t help her,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. The words caught in my throat, thick with unshed tears. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud. Hadn’t meant to admit the defeat that had settled in my chest like a stone.

He still didn't speak. But I felt him move closer. Not crowding, not imposing, just… there.

I scrubbed harder at the wall, the rough fabric tearing against the wood, against my skin. I could feel the ink staining me, marking me with the same word that marred the wall.Taken. A label. A curse.

His hand, large and warm, closed around my wrist. He didn’t pull the rag away, didn’t try to stop me. He simply held me there, his touch a steady pressure against my frantic scrubbing. And in that touch, in that silent understanding, something inside me cracked.

The tears came, hot and stinging, blurring my vision. I didn’t try to stop them. I couldn’t.

His other arm slipped around my waist, drawing me back against his chest. The movement was gentle but inexorable, like the tide pulling at shore-worn stones. He was so much larger than me—all warmth and solid strength—and for the first time in years, I let myself be held.

I didn't turn. I couldn't bear to face him, to let him see the tears that wouldn't stop falling. But I didn't pull away either. Something in me had finally given way, like a dam breaking after years of pressure, and I was too tired to fight it anymore.

Kazrek didn't speak. He simply held me, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm against my back. His hand stayed wrapped around my wrist, thumb brushing softly over my pulse point, while his other arm kept me anchored against him. Protection. Comfort. Things I hadn't allowed myself to need in so long I'd forgotten how it felt to accept them.

The rag slipped from my fingers, falling forgotten to the floor. Ink dripped down the wall, red as blood in the fading light. But Kazrek's warmth seeped into me, making the word seem less immediate, less threatening. For just a moment, I could breathe.

I felt the gentle press of his tusks against my hair as he bowed his head, sheltering me. The gesture was so tender it made my chest ache. How long had it been since someone had held me like this? Since I'd felt safe enough to let them?

"I can't lose her," I whispered, the words raw and broken. "I can't—"

His arms tightened, just slightly. A promise without words.

And there, in the ruins of my shop, with ink staining my hands and fear churning in my gut, I finally stopped trying to be strong. I let myself lean back into him, let myself feel the solid warmth of his chest, the steady beat of his heart. Let myself, just for a moment, not be alone.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy, but Kazrek didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply stayed.

I let out a slow, unsteady breath. My body felt wrung out, spent, the last of my fight dripping away with the ink on my fingers.

"You should go," I murmured, my voice hoarse.

Kazrek was quiet for a long moment. Then, low and steady, he said, "Not yet."

He didn’t ask. He didn’t push.

He simply… stayed.

Chapter 8

Iwoketothewarmweight of Maeve curled against my side, her fingers tangled in the fabric of my tunic. My head ached, my eyes felt swollen, and the room was bright—dawn long past. I had slept too late.

It took a moment for the previous night to come crashing back. The word smeared on the wall. The shattered ink jar. The way my control had splintered, leaving me shaking in Kazrek’s arms. Heat crawled up my neck, staining my cheeks. I’d cried. Broken down like some… some weak, helpless thing. And he had seen it all. He'd seen me break. Not just fraying at the edges, not just holding myself together with spit and stubbornness—break.

I had let himholdme.

We hadn’t spoken much after that. He’d simply taken the rag from my numb fingers and started cleaning, his movements methodical and precise. I’d helped, too, driven by a desperate need to do something, anything, to erase the mess and the memory of my weakness. We’d worked in silence, the only sounds the scrape of the rag against wood and the clink of glass shards as we swept them into a dustpan.

By the time the shop was somewhat presentable, it was late. Exhaustion had settled deep in my bones, leaving me shaky and hollowed out. I’d mumbled a barely coherent goodnight, stumbled up the stairs, and collapsed into bed. I hadn't even properly thanked him.

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