Page 108 of Her Orc Protector

He nodded, hands coming to my hips to steady me as I slowly lowered myself onto him. The stretch was just on the edge of too much, but I welcomed it, savored it. Inch by inch, I took him in, until he was fully seated within me, filling me completely.

For a moment, we both stilled, adjusting to the sensation. His thumbs traced small circles on my hip bones, soothing, patient. I braced my hands on his chest, careful of the bandages, and began to move.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't punishing. It was intentional—a claiming that wasn't about possession but presence. With each roll of my hips, each slide of him inside me, I reclaimed another piece of myself. Not just my body but my desire, my pleasure, my choice.

Uldrek let me set the pace, his hands moving only to caress, to encourage. Up my sides, over my breasts, down to where we were joined. When his thumb found my clit, I gasped, my rhythm faltering briefly before finding a new, more urgent cadence.

Our bodies moved like they remembered each other, like muscle memory. The rhythm deepened, built. Sweat slicked our skin, making every slide smoother, every touch more acute.

And then it happened—the claiming mark, so quiet since that night at the cottage, sparked back to life. Not with the blinding intensity of our first time but with a steady, golden glow that spread warmth through my chest like coals being stoked beneath my skin.

Uldrek's hands tightened slightly at my hips when it happened, his gaze fixing on the mark with wonder. "Guess that answers that," he muttered, voice hoarse.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. "Shut up and come," I said, grinding down harder against him.

He laughed—a choked, wrecked sound—and then his hips bucked up to meet mine, his control finally breaking. His hands gripped me tighter, fingers digging into my flesh as he drove into me from below, once, twice, three times, before his whole body tensed, and he came with a groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him.

I followed a heartbeat later, the sight of his pleasure pushing me over the edge. My second climax washed over me like a wave taking its time, intense but more controlled, more complete. I buried my face against his neck, inhaling the scent of him—salt, skin, home—as the aftershocks rippled through me.

For several long moments, we lay tangled together, his arms around me, my cheek pressed to his chest where his heart still thundered. Ghost snorted somewhere nearby, apparently unimpressed with our activities. A night bird called from a nearby tree. The world spun on.

Slowly, carefully, I lifted myself off him and settled at his side. He immediately turned to face me, pulling me back against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around my middle. I could feelhis breath against my hair, the steady thump of his heart against my back.

The town glowed faintly in the distance. Ellie would be wondering where I was. People would worry.

"We should go home," I whispered, staring at those distant lights.

"Yeah," Uldrek murmured, his arms tightening slightly around me. "We should."

But we didn't move yet. Not just yet. For a little while longer, we stayed there, wrapped in each other, watching the lights of Everwood grow brighter as the night deepened around us.

Chapter 31

Morning light poured through the high windows of the Archives, turning dust motes into floating gold. I balanced on the sliding ladder, carefully returning a stack of bound scrolls to their proper place on the uppermost shelf. The weight in my hands was satisfying—solid, real, purposeful. Three weeks had passed since that night at the inn, and my hands had healed completely, leaving only the faintest pink marks that would fade with time.

Below me, Ellie sat on a patchwork blanket spread across the stone floor, babbling happily as she stacked the wooden blocks that Uldrek had carved for her. She knocked them down with a delighted squeal, then immediately began rebuilding them, her little face screwed up in concentration.

"Careful with the ninth-century treatises, Miss Fairbairn," Fira called from her worktable across the room. The dwarf was hunched over a stack of water-damaged manuscripts, her nimble fingers working a preservation charm that glowed faintlyblue. "They're older than some of the rocks in my grandmother's garden."

"Older than the rocks in your head, more like," came a grumbling voice from the corner, where Hobbie was aggressively mopping a floor that didn't need mopping. The brownie had officially moved in with us at the cottage, but she still appeared at the Archives most days, fussing with cleaning tools and muttering about "the state of things."

I smiled to myself, sliding the last scroll into place before descending the ladder. These morning hours in the Archives had become a refuge—not to hide, as they once were, but to belong. To contribute. To be seen doing something I was good at.

"All the ninth-century treatises are accounted for," I reported, brushing dust from my hands. "And in significantly better condition than when I found them."

Fira gave a grudging nod of approval. "You've got a proper eye for order," she admitted. "Unlike some." She cast a pointed look toward one of the junior scribes.

Ellie suddenly abandoned her blocks and crawled rapidly toward the open area between bookshelves, her destination clear: a puddle of sunlight that pooled on the stone floor. She reached it and sat back on her haunches, chubby hands extended into the light, fascinated by the way it transformed her skin to gold.

My heart swelled. She had never looked more like herself—curious, determined, filled with wonder. The shadows of our flight from Gavriel had faded from her, replaced by the sturdy confidence of a child who felt safe in her world. She was growing so quickly: new words every day, new attempts at standing, holding herself up on furniture before plopping back down with a triumphant laugh.

"She's going to walk soon," Hobbie announced, appearing suddenly at my side. "Mark my words. Stubborn thing's just waiting for the most inconvenient moment."

The main doors opened with a familiar creak, and Edwin Fairweather entered, his cane tapping a steady rhythm against the stone floor. He wore his usual gray robes, ink-stained at the cuffs, and carried a sealed scroll tucked beneath one arm. His expression was oddly formal, though a certain brightness in his eyes betrayed an emotion I couldn't quite place.

"Good morning, Master Edwin," I greeted him.

"Miss Fairbairn," he replied with a nod that included everyone. "I trust the cataloging is progressing well?"

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