Page 20 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
She accepts the gesture, her fingers small and warm against my calloused palm. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, a reminder of how carefully I've been avoiding such simple touches. Leading her through the settlement toward my private quarters feels like crossing a threshold I can't uncross.
My tent reflects the pragmatic simplicity that governs most aspects of clan life—sleeping furs arranged around a central fire pit, weapons and armor organized with military precision, maps and tactical documents stacked on a low table. It's the space of someone who lives for duty rather than comfort.
But as Zahra's presence fills the chamber, it suddenly feels more like a home than a command post.
"Impressive," she says, studying the detailed maps that cover every surface. "You've marked patrol routes, defensive positions, supply caches... you really do think of everything."
"Leadership requires preparation for every contingency."
"Even for conversations like this one?"
The gentle teasing in her voice makes my chest tighten. "Especially for conversations like this one."
She moves to the fire pit's edge, the flames casting dancing shadows across her painted features. "Then you know what I'm going to ask."
"I know what I hope you'll ask."
"The claiming words—did you mean them as legal formality or something more personal?"
The direct question demands an equally direct answer, even if honesty exposes vulnerabilities I've spent years learning to hide. "Personal," I say. "Very personal."
Relief flickers across her expression before she nods. "Good. Because I've been thinking about what Khela told me, about what those words mean in orcish tradition."
"And?"
"That claiming works both ways. That you're as much mine as I am yours. We’ve had talks." She turns to face me fully, firelight playing across the war paint that marks her as warrior-born. "Is that true?"
"Yes." The word emerges rougher than intended, weighted with implications I'm only beginning to understand.
"Then I need you to know something." She steps closer that I can smell the leather and steel scent that clings to her skin. "I've never belonged to anyone willingly. Never chosen to trust someone with power over my life and heart."
"Zahra—"
"I'm not finished." Her hand rises to silence my interruption. "I've spent years learning that survival means self-reliance, thatdepending on others leads to betrayal and pain. But these past weeks... you've shown me something different."
"What?"
"That strength can protect instead of dominance. That power can serve instead of consume." She reaches up to trace the tribal tattoos that mark my shoulders, her touch feather-light against my skin. "That maybe, just maybe, I can trust someone with the pieces of myself I've kept hidden."
The admission breaks something loose in my chest, a knot of tension I've carried since the moment I first claimed her. She's choosing this—choosing me—not from desperation or gratitude, but from genuine desire for connection.
"Are you certain?" The question scrapes from my throat like ground glass. "Once claimed, the bond isn't easily broken. You'd be mine in truth, subject to clan law and warrior tradition."
"And you'd be mine," she counters, "subject to my expectations and standards. Bound to protect not just my body, but my heart." Her smile holds wicked promise. "I think I can live with those terms."
The space between us evaporates as if it never existed. My hands frame her face, thumbs tracing the war paint that marks her transformation from victim to warrior. She feels impossibly delicate beneath my touch, yet I know the steel that lies beneath her soft skin.
"Zahra," I whisper, her name a prayer and promise combined.
"Rogar." She rises on her toes, bringing our faces level. "Stop talking and kiss me."
The command breaks my restraint like a dam bursting under spring floods. My mouth claims hers with weeks of suppressed hunger, years of loneliness finding solace in her willing response. She tastes like courage and defiance, like hope tempered by hard-won wisdom.
Her hands fist in my hair, pulling me deeper into the kiss with surprising strength. For someone so small, she radiates power—not the crude dominance of those who rule through fear, but the quiet confidence of someone who knows her worth and refuses to settle for less.
"I need you to understand," I say against her lips, "what this means to me. What you mean to me."
"Show me," she breathes.
