Page 28 of Her Orc Protector

"Something spiced," I said, my voice soft. "Just small."

Bren nodded and moved away to prepare my drink. I noticed how she glanced back at us, curious but not intrusive. Uldrek must be a regular here—comfortable enough to be on first-nameterms with the staff but not so embedded that my presence caused a stir.

"So," Uldrek said, turning more fully toward me, "what brings you to my disreputable corner of Everwood?" His tone was light, but his eyes were watchful, searching my face for clues.

Before I could answer, Bren returned with a small, steaming mug that smelled of cinnamon and cloves. I wrapped my fingers around it gratefully, feeling the slight tremble in my hands. I took a sip—sweet and warm, with a subtle kick of something stronger beneath the spice. It burned pleasantly down my throat.

"I've never done this before," I said after a moment.

"Had spiced cider?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting again.

"Been in a tavern," I clarified. "Alone. Like this."

His expression sobered slightly. "Ah."

"It's not..." I paused, trying to find the words. "Gavriel liked formal settings. Controlled environments. Places where everyone knew their role and stayed in it."

Uldrek's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of Gavriel's name. He rarely asked about my past, but he always listened when I offered pieces of it. Always remembered.

"And what was your role?" he asked quietly.

I looked down at my mug, watching the steam curl upward. "To be perfect. Silent when needed. Charming when required. To reflect well on him, never to eclipse."

The memory felt distant now, like a story I'd read rather than lived. Gavriel's hand on my lower back, steering me through rooms full of powerful people. His smile when I said exactly what he expected. His cold disappointment when I didn't.

Uldrek took a long drink from his own mug, then set it down with deliberate care. "Well," he said finally, "no one here gives a rat's ass about perfection. Bren might murder you if you spill hergood cider, but other than that, you're free to be as imperfect as you like."

The words settled around me like a blanket. I took another sip of my cider, feeling the warmth spread through me. Free to be imperfect. What a strange, wonderful concept.

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, the noise of the tavern flowing around us without intruding. Uldrek didn't push for why I'd come, didn't demand explanation or reassurance. He simply waited, solid and patient beside me, occasionally raising his mug to the barkeep for a refill.

Finally, I set my half-empty mug down and turned to face him fully.

"I came to tell you I've decided," I said, the words coming out steadier than I'd expected.

Uldrek went very still. The casual ease drained from his posture, replaced by an intensity that was almost palpable. "Decided what, exactly?" he asked, his voice lower now, almost a growl.

I swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to look away. "I'm ready," I said. "For the bite.”

His expression shifted subtly—not quite a smile, something deeper and more complex. His eyes darkened, not with anger or lust, but with a fierce kind of reverence that made my breath catch.

"You're sure?" he asked, the question barely audible over the tavern's noise.

I nodded. "I've thought about it. About what it means. What it could mean." I took a breath. "I want this to be real."

For a heartbeat, Uldrek didn't move. Then, with deliberate calm, he lifted his mug and drained the last of his drink in one long swallow. He set it down and leaned closer to Bren, who was wiping glasses nearby.

"Need the upstairs room," he muttered. "Just for a few hours."

Bren raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. She reached beneath the bar and produced a heavy iron key, tossing it to Uldrek without ceremony. He caught it mid-air, his reflexes fluid despite the drinks he'd had.

"Third door on the right," Bren said, her eyes flicking briefly to me before returning to her work. No judgment in her gaze, just the practiced neutrality of someone who'd seen it all before.

Uldrek stood, pocketing the key. He left a few coins on the bar—more than our drinks would have cost—then turned to me. He didn't offer his hand or make any grand gesture. He simply placed his palm lightly against the small of my back, a question that was also an invitation.

"Come with me," he said softly.

I slid from my stool, my legs steadier than I'd expected. This was happening. I was choosing this—not out of desperation or fear, but because something in me recognized something in him. Because I wanted, finally, to claim something for myself rather than being claimed by circumstance.

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