Page 90 of Her Orc Healer

His gaze dropped to the mark, then back to mine. “Didn’t want to.”

Something caught in my throat.

He didn't explain. I didn’t ask. But the meaning hung between us like smoke—sharp-edged and unspoken.

A part of me wanted to stay like this forever—curled in his lap, wrapped in the heat of him, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my cheek like proof the world hadn’t ended yet. I wanted to believe this moment could stretch long enough to hold onto. That maybe, if I just stayed still, it would all stop slipping away.

But it wouldn’t. Not really.

Because I knew what I was going to do.

And I thought—maybe he knew it too.

That knowledge settled hard in my chest. Not anger. Not fear. Just the quiet ache of knowing love wasn’t always something you got to keep. Sometimes it was the thing you gave up, so someone else could stay whole.

I shifted carefully in his lap, and he eased me down beside him, tucking the blankets around us without a word. His arms came back around me without hesitation, holding me close, his hand finding the small of my back. I pressed my face against his chest and closed my eyes.

I let him hold me until his breathing evened out, slow and deep, his hand still splayed warm and solid against my spine.

And when I was sure he was asleep—when his grip softened and the weight of his arm went slack—I slipped from the bed.

Quiet as I could.

Gathered my clothes from the floor. Dressed slowly in the dark, swallowing down the ache in my throat with every movement.

I paused at the edge of the bed. Watched him, just for a moment. The soft curve of his mouth. The furrow still lingering between his brows, even in sleep. One arm outstretched, like he’d reached for me even after I’d left his arms.

I reached down and brushed my fingers along his jaw. Light. Barely a touch.

He didn’t stir.

I slipped out into the hall, then through the darkened clinic, my footsteps silent on the worn floorboards. The moonlight caught on the edge of a glass jar as I passed, casting a pale glow across the room. Familiar. Steady. Like nothing had changed.

The streets were quiet as I walked home alone, the first hints of dawn painting the edges of the buildings in pale gold. A few early risers nodded greetings that I barely registered, my mind still in that dim room, with him.

Beneath my shawl, the mark on my neck pulsed gently in time with my heart. Not a wound. A tether. A reminder that—for a breath, for a night—I had been seen. I had been held. I had been loved. Even if that love couldn’t stay.

One mark given in darkness. One left in love.

Both would fade, eventually.

But I would remember, for as long as I could.

Chapter 25

Thestreetswerestillmostly empty when I turned the last corner toward the shop. Pale morning light skimmed over the rooftops, brushing the cobblestones in silver. The air smelled like damp stone and ash, like a fire that had gone out hours ago and left nothing behind but smoke and cold.

I walked slower than I meant to. My legs ached, my body sore in ways that had nothing to do with the walk. I could still feel him—his hands, the weight of his body, the sound of his breath just before sleep. The mark he left.

But I hadn’t let myself think about that. Not yet.

I kept my focus small. One foot in front of the other. The weight of my cloak over my shoulders. The shop just ahead, shuttered and still.

Everything looked the same.

Which was the first sign something was wrong.

Brindle always opened the shutters at sunrise. She said it let the light chase off any lingering mischief. But the windows were still dark, the bolts still drawn.

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