Page 19 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
She's become what I never dared hope for—not just accepted, but valued.
"Brooding again, Chieftain?" Grimna settles beside me with the casual ease of decades-old friendship. "That's becoming quite the habit."
"Observing," I correct, though the distinction feels thin. "There's a stark difference."
"Is there?" My second-in-command follows my gaze to where Zahra laughs at something Khela has said, the sound bright as mountain streams. "She's settling in well."
An understatement. Zahra has proven herself in ways that would take most outsiders months to achieve. She's mastered the intricacies of clan politics, learned to navigate the subtle hierarchies that govern warrior society, and demonstrated tactical insights that have improved our defensive strategies.
More than that, she's begun to heal.
The haunted expression that shadowed her features during those first days has given way to something approaching peace. Her nightmares have grown less frequent, her startled responses to unexpected sounds less pronounced. The war paint Khela taught her to apply has become a daily ritual, marking her transformation from refugee to recognized clan member.
And yet, something remains unfinished between us.
"The claiming words you spoke," Grimna says, his voice carefully neutral. "Have you acted on them?"
Heat floods my chest at the question. The claiming I declared before the war council carries legal and cultural weight among our people, but it remains incomplete without physical consummation. In the chaos of preparing for battle and the subsequent days of adjustment, we've had little opportunity for private conversation, much less intimate contact.
"These things take time," I mutter.
"Do they? Or are you making excuses because the idea of vulnerability terrifies you more than facing a dozen dark elf sorcerers?"
The observation hits uncomfortably close to truth. I've led warriors into hopeless battles without hesitation, faced death with the calm acceptance that leadership demands. But thethought of opening my heart to someone who could disappear from my life as suddenly as she entered it... that prospect makes my hands shake.
"She's been through trauma," I say. "Pushing for intimacy before she's ready would be cruel."
"And how do you know she's not ready? Have you asked?"
I haven't, of course. Despite my declaration of claiming, despite the way she responded to those words, I've maintained careful distance. Protective, yes. Possessive in my thoughts, certainly. But I haven't dared test whether the connection I feel might be reciprocated.
"Coward," Grimna says with the blunt honesty only old friends can manage.
"Careful," I growl.
"Truthful. You've claimed her before the clan, marked her as yours in ways that carry serious implications. But you haven't made the claim real, haven't given her the chance to accept or reject it freely." He shakes his grizzled head. "That's not protection, Rogar. That's cowardice disguised as consideration."
Movement near the cooking fires draws my attention before I can formulate a response. Zahra has risen from her conversation with the other warriors, her gaze scanning the gathering until it finds mine across the flickering light. Something passes between us in that moment—recognition, perhaps, or invitation.
She approaches with measured steps, her war paint gleaming in the firelight. The patterns Khela taught her have become more elaborate over the past week, incorporating symbols of her own design.
"Chieftain," she says, settling beside me with fluid grace. "Planning tomorrow's patrol routes?"
"Something like that." The casual question doesn't fool me—there's tension in her shoulders, purpose behind her approach. "Is there something you need?"
"Actually, yes." She meets my gaze directly, those dark amber eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "I need to speak with you privately. About the claiming words you spoke."
My pulse quickens despite every effort at composure. "What about them?"
"Whether you meant them." Her voice carries steady resolve despite the vulnerability lurking beneath. "And if so, what you intend to do about it."
Grimna's snort of amusement draws sharp looks from both of us. "I believe that's my cue to find urgent business elsewhere," he says, rising with exaggerated dignity. "Good evening, Chieftain. Lady Zahra."
The formal address makes her blink in surprise. Among the Stormfang, such titles are reserved for recognized mates of clan leadership—wives in truth as well as law. Grimna's words carry the weight of assumption, marking his belief that the claiming will be completed.
"We should talk," Zahra says once he's beyond hearing range.
"Yes," I agree, rising and offering my hand. "We should."
