Page 26 of Her Orc Protector

I thought about Uldrek in the garden earlier, the careful way he'd explained the claiming ritual. “This isn’t about ownership,” he’d said. “It’s not a leash. It’s a tether—if you want it.”

The distinction mattered more than I could express. Belonging to someone... I'd tried that once. I'd given myself to Gavriel piece by piece, and each time, he'd held what I offered a little too tightly, reshaped it a little too much, until I no longer recognized what remained. Until I doubted whether I'd ever truly known myself at all.

A small voice whispered in the back of my mind—a voice that still sounded too much like Gavriel's.You're being dramatic. Overthinking. Making problems where none exist.

It was the voice that had made me doubt every instinct, every feeling, until I'd nearly lost the ability to trust myself at all. Thevoice that had convinced me, for too long, that my perceptions were flawed, my fears exaggerated, my needs secondary.

I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to quiet it. Trying to hear my own thoughts beneath the echo of his dismissal.

What did I know about Uldrek, really? A wandering orc warrior with no permanent ties, who'd agreed to a false claim out of... what? Instinct? Pity? Some warrior's code I didn't understand?

And yet.

He'd stood unflinching in the Council hall, speaking of our bond as if it were something real—something he believed in, even if it had begun as a lie. He'd brought me food at the Archives, not as a grand gesture but as a simple kindness. He'd held Ellie with a gentleness that belied his size and strength, his scarred hands cradling her as if he'd done it a hundred times before.

Most of all, he'd given me space to choose. To decide for myself, without pressure or manipulation. "This has to be your choice," he'd said. "All of it."

My hand drifted unconsciously to my shoulder, to the spot where the claiming mark would go. There was nothing there yet—no bite, no scar, no bond. But as my fingers brushed the skin, I felt a faint warmth, a subtle hum of possibility. As if my body already knew what my mind was still debating.

I looked down at Ellie again, at her perfect, innocent trust. At the life I was building for her, brick by careful brick.

"I can't afford to be afraid of real things anymore," I whispered to her, the words barely stirring the air between us. "Not for your sake. Not for mine."

Fear had been my constant companion for so long—justified fear, necessary fear, the kind that kept us alive. But there was a difference between caution and paralysis. Between protecting ourselves and hiding from every offered hand.

I gathered Ellie into my arms, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair, feeling her tiny heartbeat against mine. Then I rose, decision forming not as a sudden clarity but as a quiet, steady knowing. Not certainty, perhaps, but resolve. A willingness to step forward without knowing exactly where my foot would land.

Downstairs, the kitchen was bathed in the golden light of oil lamps and the hearth's steady glow. Gruha stood at the counter, her strong hands kneading dough with practiced efficiency. Leilan sat nearby, sorting linens into neat piles, her hair falling forward to hide her face as she worked. They both looked up as I entered.

I held Ellie a little tighter, fighting the instinct to retreat to the safety of our room and the comfort of indecision. This was the first real test—asking someone else to care for her, even for a short time.

"I need to go see someone," I said, the words catching slightly in my throat. "For a little while."

Gruha's thick eyebrows rose, but she didn't pause in her kneading. She just nodded once, then turned to open the warming drawer where she kept milk and food ready for Ellie's irregular feeding schedule.

Leilan's response was more direct. She set down the cloth she'd been folding and looked at me steadily, her eyes soft with understanding.

"You've never left her before," she said.

I nodded, feeling a tightness in my throat that threatened to become something more. "I know," I managed. "But I think... I think it's time I learned how to trust someone else to watch her if you’re willing. Just for a little while.”

Leilan stood and crossed to me, her slender arms encircling both Ellie and me in a gentle hug. "We've got her," she whispered. "Take your time."

Gruha appeared at my side, holding a small jar of warmed milk. "There's extra in the drawer if she needs more," she said matter-of-factly. Then, unexpectedly, she pressed a rough hand to my back—a brief touch, but firm and steadying. "Go on, then."

I felt tears threatening and blinked them back, suddenly overwhelmed by the gentle strength of these women who had become something close to family in such a short time.

Slowly, I transferred Ellie to Leilan's waiting arms. My daughter stirred but didn't cry, settling against Leilan's chest with the same trusting instinct she showed with me. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, breathing in her scent one more time, then stepped back.

"I won't be long," I promised, though I had no idea if that was true.

"She'll be here," Gruha said. "So will we."

I nodded, gathered my cloak from the hook by the door, and stepped out into the gathering dusk. The air was cool against my skin, carrying the scents of woodsmoke and fallen leaves. Fall was deepening into winter, the days growing shorter, the nights longer and more insistent.

My arms felt too light without Ellie's weight, as if I might float away without her to anchor me. I wrapped them around myself, feeling strangely exposed. Vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with physical danger.

What if I was wrong again?The thought came uninvited, coiling low in my spine—his voice still embedded beneath the quiet, like splinters I hadn’t managed to dig out.

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