Page 21 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
My hands map the contours of her body through the leather armor, tracing scars that tell stories of survival and strength. Each mark speaks of pain endured and overcome, of a spirit that refused to break despite impossible circumstances. She's beautiful not in spite of her damage, but because of how she's transformed it into something powerful.
"Here," I murmur, fingertips ghosting over a thin white line along her ribs. "This is where King Kres cut you during the ritual."
"Yes." Her voice catches as I press gentle kisses to the scar.
"And here." I find the brand mark on her shoulder, the cruel symbol burned into her flesh as punishment for defiance. "This is where they tried to mark you as property."
"But failed." Her back arches as my mouth follows the path my fingers traced. "I was never truly theirs."
"No," I agree, working at the buckles that secure her armor. "You were always meant to be free. Always meant to choose your own path."
The leather falls away piece by piece, revealing skin that bears the history of her struggles written in scars and calluses. She should be broken by what she's endured. Instead, she stands before me like a goddess of war and resilience, claiming her power through survival.
"Your turn," she says, her hands already working at my own armor fastenings.
I let her undress me with the same reverent attention I showed her, though my scars tell different stories. Where hers speak of endurance and survival, mine chronicle battles won and enemies defeated. Each mark represents a choice to fight rather than flee, to protect what matters even at personal cost.
"So many," she whispers, tracing a particularly prominent scar that crosses my chest. "How do you carry all this history?"
"The same way you carry yours. One day at a time, with the understanding that pain can create strength if we don't let it define us."
Her smile holds depths I'm only beginning to fathom. "Wise words for someone who claims not to be good with feelings."
"You inspire wisdom I didn't know I possessed."
The admission seems to please her, because she rises on her toes to claim another kiss. This one burns with different fire—not the desperate hunger of first contact, but the slow smolder of desire tempered by genuine affection.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she fixes me with a look of absolute certainty. "I choose this," she says. "I choose you. Not because I need protection or shelter, but because I want to know what it feels like to belong somewhere completely."
"Even knowing the dangers? The enemies who'll come for you, the battles we'll face together?"
"Especially knowing those things." Her hand covers my heart, feeling its rapid rhythm. "I've spent too many years surviving alone. I want to try thriving with someone who understands that strength and vulnerability aren't opposites."
The declaration shatters the last walls around my heart.
I claim her mouth again, pouring everything I can’t put into words into the contact. She tastes like hope wrapped in defiance, the sharp, metallic promise of battle softened by the warmth of something far more dangerous—trust. Her hands fist in my hair,tugging me deeper into the kiss, and I give her everything. Every unsaid vow. Every broken piece I’ve kept buried beneath duty and blood.
When I lift her into my arms, she doesn’t flinch. She curls against me with trust so complete, it robs the breath from my lungs. This woman—scarred, stubborn, gloriously untamed—offers herself not out of fear, not out of obligation, but because she wantsme. And that knowledge makes my heart thunder like war drums.
I carry her across the tent, past the maps and weapons and war plans, to the sleeping furs laid near the glowing embers of the fire. Shadows dance over the curved canvas walls, casting flickers of flame across her painted skin.
“This isn’t just claiming,” I murmur, laying her down with care I don’t give to anything else in my life. “This is recognition.”
Her smile is soft but sure. “Then see me, Rogar. All of me.”
I kneel over her, letting myself drink her in. She’s still partially dressed in the worn leather she’s fought in, survived in. But she looks more like a queen than a warrior now—painted, primal, fierce. Mine.
“You’re not just seen,” I rasp. “You’re fucking revered.”
My hands move over her body with reverence and need, undoing buckles and laces one by one. The armor loosens, parts, falls away—until it’s just her beneath me, all golden skin and defiant scars and eyes that burn with something unspoken. Her breath hitches as I bare her breasts, as I trace the scar under her ribs with my thumb.
“Here,” I whisper, pressing my mouth to the line of pale skin. “This is where you bled and lived.”
“Here,” she echoes, guiding my hand to the brand on her shoulder. “Is where they tried to own me.”
I bend and kiss it, slow and lingering. “They failed.”
Her fingers tremble as they slide down my chest, to the laces at my side. “Take this off,” she demands, voice low and urgent. “I want to seeyou, too.”
