Page 47 of Her Orc Healer

There was nothing tentative about this kiss. This wasn't a stolen moment in the woods, a fleeting brush of lips before fear sent me running. This was fire.

He kissed me like he was starving, like I was the only thing that could satisfy him. And I kissed him back with the same ferocity, my body arching against his as if I could somehow get closer, as if I could press myself into him and lose the last sliver of distance between us. His grip on me tightened, locking me against him, and his other hand slid down, past my waist, settling with firm possession against the curve of my hip.

Heat coiled low in my stomach, sharp and insistent. Every nerve in my body was alive, every inch of me attuned to the way he felt beneath me—solid muscle, steady strength, the roughness of his scars beneath my fingertips. His tusks scraped against my jaw as he tilted his head, angling the kiss deeper, and I gasped against his lips.

Kazrek made a low, satisfied sound in response—a rumble deep in his chest that sent shivers crawling over my skin. There was something heady about it, the way he held me there, kissing me like he was proving a point. Like he was staking a claim. Like he was letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that this wasn't a mistake.

This was deliberate. Intentional. I wouldn’t be running from this.

His fingers pressed into my hip, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles that sent sparks racing up my spine. I twisted slightly, pressing closer, and the shift only made things worse—better. His body was a furnace against mine, and I felt him everywhere. I arched into him again, and this time, his restraint cracked. He rolled, swift and decisive, shifting me beneath him, pressing me down into the furs as his weight settled over me. It should have felt like too much.

It didn’t.

It felt inevitable.

I lifted a hand, running my fingers along the sharp edge of his jaw, tracing the heat of his skin. His throat worked as he swallowed, his muscles tensed beneath my touch, but he didn’t pull away. He was so steady, so still, as if waiting for me to decide—if I would push him back or pull him closer.

His eyes searched mine, dark with want, but steady. “I’m not going to chase you.” His voice was rough, like he was holding something back.

A lump rose in my throat.

His thumb brushed slow, steady circles against my hip, grounding, waiting.

“I’ll wait,” he said, softer this time. “As long as it takes.” His fingers flexed slightly against my waist. “Just don’t run from me again.”

Something in my chest ached, sharp and deep. Because wasn’t that what I always did? Run before I could be left behind? Before someone could decide I wasn’t worth holding on to?

But Kazrek wasn’t asking me to promise anything. He wasn’t demanding answers or certainty. He was just asking me to stay.

The tightness in my throat burned. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I didn’t. Instead, I shifted, pressing closer, letting my fingers curl against the heat of his skin.

Kazrek made a low sound, something almost like relief, and then he eased back down beside me, pulling me with him. His arms wrapped around me, solid and warm, steady in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

I let him hold me. Let myself press against him, feel the quiet certainty in the way he kept me close.

Chapter 13

Ithadbeentwodays since I’d woken tangled in Kazrek’s arms, and we hadn’t spoken about it once. But his hand still found mine when no one was looking, and I hadn’t pulled away. That was something.

Now, the Everwood Night Market pressed in—loud, bright, alive—and I was back in my booth, pretending like everything hadn’t changed.

I adjusted a bottle of ink on the wooden display table, carefully arranging it alongside neatly bound journals and parchment stacks.

The festival had been an opportunity I couldn’t afford to pass up. With the extra coin, I could restock supplies for the shop, maybe even afford some repairs before winter settled in fully. But right now, as a steady stream of customers perused my wares, each demanding my attention, I wished I had thought this through better.

Maeve had been off with Kazrek for the past hour, an arrangement that had started as an attempt to keep her entertained but had, admittedly, made things easier for me. She adored him, and he hadn’t exactly said no when she pulled him toward the stalls with a bright-eyed plea.

I had just finished reorganizing a stack of parchment when they returned, Kazrek’s steady presence registering before I even saw him. I glanced up just as he set something on the counter in front of me—a pastry wrapped in parchment, golden syrup glistening under the lantern light.

“Eat,” he said simply.

I blinked at him, then at the pastry—an Elandor roll. I hadn’t had one since I was a girl.

Maeve appeared beside him, already licking sticky syrup from her fingers. “The baker says it tastes like home,” she announced, grinning.

I picked it up, tearing off a small piece, and pressing it past my lips. The warmth of it spread through me, something rich and sweet, something that tasted of old memories and quiet promises.

Kazrek gave a small nod, as if satisfied, then turned his attention to a passing customer, seamlessly shifting back into the rhythm of helping at the stall.

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