Page 45 of Her Orc Healer

I ignored that, already stepping past him toward the shelf of neatly labeled jars. I didn’t know his system, but I knew enough about herbs to recognize feverfew, willow bark, and ginger when I saw them.

Behind me, Kazrek let out another slow breath, like he was weighing whether it was worth the fight. Then, after a long pause, I heard the rustle of blankets as he sat on the edge of the nearest cot.

I glanced back over my shoulder. He was watching me, his eyes lidded with exhaustion, his tusked profile sharp against the lantern’s glow.

I turned back to the task at hand, pouring hot water from the kettle into a clay mug. “You’d better not die on me, Kazrek,” I muttered.

He let out a soft huff of laughter, low and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chapter 12

Theclothwaswarm,damp from the basin. I wrung it out and smoothed it over Kazrek’s forehead, down his cheek, along the column of his throat to the hollow of his collarbone. He shifted, just barely, his breathing slow and even. The firelight caught on the curve of his tusks, the ink winding down his arms shifting as his muscles tensed in sleep.

He was so big. I’d always known that—he took up space without trying, presence like stone, solid and steady. But like this, with my hands on him, it felt different. More real. His skin was hot, the old scars rough beneath the cloth. I exhaled sharply, sitting back in the chair I’d pulled beside his bed.

At least he was in his bed now. That had taken more effort than it should have.

Now, he lay sprawled atop thick furs, his dark hair damp against the pillow, deep green skin dulled with fever. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but now and then, his brow twitched—discomfort pulling at the edges of his usually unreadable expression.

I dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, and passed it over his forehead. Practical. That’s all this was. The fever needed to break. He needed to cool down.

That was the only reason I was still here.

But as my hand smoothed over his fevered skin, I became acutely aware of something else. I was touching him. Really touching him.

And it had been so long since I had touched anyone like this.

Maeve still curled into me at night when the shadows outside made her uneasy. Iris hugged me on occasion, brisk and firm. But those touches were different—needed, given, expected.

This was something else entirely. Not obligation or practicality.

This was me, sitting in the quiet warmth of Kazrek’s home, running a cloth over his skin, noticing how his lips parted slightly in sleep and how the firelight turned his tusks to gold.

This was me, not pulling away.

I set the cloth aside.

It was supposed to be the end of it—wipe him down, make sure he was cooling, then let him rest. But I didn't move away.

My fingers hesitated at the edge of his wrist, hovering over the ridges of old scars, the dark ink of his tattoos. I traced the black lines where they curved over the thick muscle of his forearm. The patterns weren’t just decorative—they meant something. Somewhere in these lines were stories he hadn’t yet told me.

My hand moved over his forearm, up the ridge of his bicep, where another scar intersected the ink—something jagged, long-healed but unmistakably born of violence. A blade, maybe. A battlefield wound.

I pressed my palm to the curve of his shoulder, just to feel the weight of him. Even now, weakened and asleep, he felt unshakable.

My hand drifted upward, almost without thinking, to the line of his throat. His tusks curved from his lower jaw, smooth and ivory-pale in the firelight. I brushed a fingertip over one, curious. He shifted—just a breath—and made a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh or a growl.

Something clenched in my chest. This was dangerous.

And still, I didn’t stop.

I moved up, fingers ghosting over the edge of his scar—the one slashing down his face, just missing his eye. I had wondered about it before but touching it now, feeling the faint ridge beneath my fingertip, was something else entirely. It made it real. It made him real. A man who had bled, who had survived, who had changed. A man who had hesitated before meeting my lips when I kissed him in the woods—who hadn’t taken, hadn’t expected, just waited.

A man who wasn’t awake to see how I was looking at him now.

The thought sent a jolt through me, but even then, I found myself smoothing back the strands of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.

And that was my mistake.

---