Page 32 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
The confession opens floodgates I've kept barred since childhood, releasing emotions too complex for simple words. Fear and hope, desire and determination, the fierce protective instincts that make rational thought nearly impossible when she's threatened.
"Rogar." Her voice carries new urgency. "If tomorrow goes badly, if the battle turns against us, I need you to know something."
"What?"
"That you gave me something I never thought I'd have again. A home worth defending, people worth fighting for, the chance to be someone who matters rather than merely survives." Her hand finds mine, fingers intertwining with surprising strength. "You made me feel human again, in the best possible sense."
The declaration breaks something loose in my chest, a knot of tension I've carried since the moment I laid eyes on her defiant form in the wasteland. She's not just describing gratitude—she's acknowledging transformation, the way our bond has changed her from survivor to warrior to partner.
"And you," I say, bringing her hand to my lips to press gentle kisses against her knuckles, "reminded me that strength without purpose becomes meaningless. That leading warriors is less important than creating something worth following."
The setting sun paints the canyon walls in shades of crimson and gold, creating the kind of beauty that makes mortality feel both precious and fragile. Tomorrow may bring death or victory or something between the two, but tonight offers the possibility of connection that transcends tactical concerns.
"Come with me," I say, rising and offering my hand.
She accepts the gesture without question, trusting me to lead even when our destination remains unclear. We descend from the watchtower through increasingly quiet sections of the settlement as evening routines give way to pre-battle preparations. Warriors tend weapons and armor with ritual precision while families gather close, understanding that separation may become permanent before dawn.
My quarters feel different tonight—less like a command post and more like the sanctuary they were always meant to be. The maps and tactical documents remain, but they seem less important than the sleeping furs arranged around the central fire pit, the personal touches that mark this space as home rather than mere shelter.
"What are you thinking?" Zahra asks as I tend the fire, coaxing flames from carefully arranged kindling.
"That I've spent too much time preparing for war and not enough time living." The admission surprises me with its honesty. "That if tonight is all we have, I want to spend it remembering why survival matters."
She moves closer, the firelight playing across her painted features in patterns that make her seem both fierce and vulnerable. "Show me."
The simple request is beyond physical desire. She's asking me to share not just my body but my heart, to demonstrate through action what words struggle to convey. It's an invitation to intimacy that encompasses far more than mere physical release.
I frame her face with hands that have known only violence and command, marveling at the softness of her skin beneath calloused palms. The war paint she wears daily has become part of her identity, but touching her reminds me of the woman beneath the warrior's mask.
"You're sure?" I ask, searching her amber eyes for any sign of hesitation.
"I've never been more certain of anything." Her hands move to the buckles securing my armor, working with practiced efficiency despite her injured arm. "I want to feel alive before we face death. I want to know what it means to be completely yours, just as you're completely mine."
The armor falls away piece by piece, revealing skin marked by countless battles and the responsibilities of leadership. But under her touch, those scars become testimony to survival rather than reminders of violence. Her fingers trace the tribal tattoos covering my shoulders, following patterns that speak of victories won and enemies defeated.
"So many stories," she murmurs, pressing gentle kisses to particularly prominent marks. "So much history written in flesh and ink."
"Your stories too," I reply, helping her remove the leather armor that's become her second skin. "Each scar a testament to strength that refused to break."
The ritual of undressing becomes something sacred, an acknowledgment of vulnerabilities shared and trust freely given. When she stands before me in nothing but firelight and determination, I'm struck by the transformation she's undergone since that first desperate morning in the wasteland.
Gone is the broken refugee seeking shelter. In her place stands a warrior-born female who's claimed her power through blood and steel, who carries herself with the confidence of someone who knows her worth. The scars remain, but they no longer define her—they're simply part of the complex tapestry that makes her extraordinary.
"Beautiful," I whisper, though the word feels inadequate to describe what I see.
"Yours," she corrects, stepping closer until our bodies nearly touch. "Completely, absolutely, irrevocably yours."
The claiming kiss that follows burns with weeks of suppressed hunger, desperate longing given physical form. She tastes like courage and determination, like the promise of tomorrow despite all evidence suggesting otherwise. Her injured arm limits her mobility, but she compensates with passion so fierce, it makes the ache in my chest throb worse than any blade.
I lift her carefully, mindful of healing ribs and tender muscle, cradling her as if she’s made of something far more precious than bone and blood. She clings to me, breathing hard, her legs wrapping around my waist as if afraid I might vanish.
As if we don’t know what waits on the other side of dawn.
I lower her to the sleeping furs with reverence, like she’s an offering I’ve bled for, killed for—and gods help me, I would again. The firelight paints her skin in gold and shadows, the war paint smudging in streaks across her cheekbones and collarbones as I press kisses to every inch of exposed skin. I map her with mouth and hand like a cartographer desperate to remember the shape of something before it's lost forever.
Her chest rises and falls rapidly beneath me, the swell of her breasts flushed, her nipples hard and begging for attention. I take one in my mouth without hesitation, sucking slowly, rolling the tight bud between my tongue and teeth until she arches with a broken gasp.
“Rogar,” she breathes, her voice already hoarse. “I need you. Gods, I need youso badly.”
