Page 40 of Her Orc Protector

Gruha looked up from the kettle, her expression unreadable in the firelight. "Would you prefer we go?"

The question hung in the air. Simple. Direct. No pressure behind it—just a genuine willingness to respect my answer, whatever it might be. No one was moving to leave. They were just waiting, arms full of my child, hands busy with tea and balm and blankets, to hear if I wanted them to stay.

I could say yes. I could thank them politely, reclaim my solitude, take Ellie back, and return to the quiet darkness and long night ahead. They would go, I knew. They would understand.

Or I could say no—and they would stay. And I would not be alone with the weight, with the worry, with the endless stretch until dawn.

"We can take her for a few hours," Dora offered, filling the silence. "Let you rest properly. Four of us, one of her—good odds, I'd say."

I almost said yes to just that—to the practical help, the chance to close my eyes without listening for Ellie's every breath. But something deeper stirred beneath the exhaustion.

I'd been alone for so long. Not just physically—though the miles I'd traveled to reach Everwood had been solitary enough—but in the deeper sense. Alone in my fear. Alone in my vigilance. Alone in the space between heartbeats, where no one else had been allowed to tread.

"I don't want to be alone," I said finally, the words barely more than a whisper.

The room went very still. Outside, rain began to patter against the roof—a gentle sound, like fingertips drumming on wood. Ellie's fussing had quieted to occasional whimpers as the balm took effect, her eyes heavy-lidded in Leilan's arms.

Gruha turned from the kettle, her face softening in a way I hadn't seen before. "Then don't be," she said.

And just like that, it was settled.

Dora beamed, patting the blanket she'd arranged on the floor. "Well then! Slumber party it is."

Hobbie snorted, but I noticed she was already settling on a cushion near the window, her tiny legs crossed beneath her shawls. "Humans and their names for things," she muttered. "When I was young, we called it 'keeping watch.' Much more practical."

The kettle began to sing softly, and Gruha moved it off the heat. The scent of the tea she'd brought—something herbal and soothing—filled the room as she poured it into the waiting cups.

"Chamomile and linden," she said, handing me a steaming cup. "Helps calm the nerves."

I took it gratefully, letting the warmth seep into my palms. "Thank you. For all of this."

Gruha made a dismissive noise, but her eyes were kind. "Women have been sitting together through the night since time began. Nothing special about it."

But it was special. It was extraordinary. These women had appeared in my darkest hour without being summoned. They'd brought food and warmth and gentle hands.

They'd brought themselves.

We settled into a circle of sorts—me on the edge of the bed, Gruha in the room's only chair, Dora and Leilan (still holding Ellie) on the blanket, Hobbie perched on a cushion like a bird on a nest. The tea steamed in our cups, the fire crackled softly, and outside, the rain continued its gentle percussion.

For a while, we just sat in companionable silence. The quiet wasn't empty; it was full of small sounds: Ellie's occasional whimpers growing softer, the clink of Gruha's spoon against her cup, Dora humming under her breath.

"She looks like you around the eyes," Gruha said finally, nodding toward Ellie. "Same way of looking at things. Measuring them."

I smiled despite myself. "People used to say she looked like..." I trailed off, catching myself before I spoke his name. "Like her father."

"People say all sorts of nonsense about babies," Hobbie declared, waving a hand dismissively. "Babies look like themselves. Everyone else is just guessing."

Dora laughed softly. "My mother swore all seventeen of her daughters’ children looked exactly like her. Different fathers, mind you, but somehow all the spitting image of Grandma Tilly."

"Seventeen?" Leilan's eyes widened.

"Halflings," Dora said with a shrug and a grin. "We're prolific. And my oldest brother has four wives. All living together in one enormous warren of a house." She took a sip of tea. "Chaos from sunrise to sunset. Someone always crying, someone always laughing. Never a moment's quiet."

"Sounds exhausting," Gruha muttered.

"It was," Dora agreed. "But also wonderful in its way. Always someone to grab your hand when you were scared. Always someone's shoulder to cry on." She looked down into her cup. "I never learned how to be still until I got here. Never had the chance."

"What brought you here?" I asked Dora, genuinely curious. It was the first time I'd asked anyone about their story.

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