Page 46 of Bite Sized Bride
I reach him. I kneel beside him. My hand, trembling, reaches out to touch his shoulder.
He is warm. He is real.
With a strength I didn’t know I possessed, I push, rolling him onto his back.
And I see his face.
It is not the monstrous, tusked visage of the Urog. It is the face of an orc, harsh and angular, with a strong jaw and a proud, straight nose. The broken tusk is gone, replaced by two full, healthy tusks that curve up past his lips. The fused collar of shame is gone, leaving only a dark, circular brand on his neck, a permanent reminder of his torment. His face is a canvas of old scars, but they are the honorable scars of a warrior, not the twisted marks of a curse.
It is a stranger’s face.
But the eyes, when they flutter open, are the same.
They are the color of ancient sap, of wild honey in the sun. They are the eyes of the monster who saved me. They are the beautiful eyes of the orc I fell in love with.
They find mine, hazy with confusion at first, then clearing with a dawning, miraculous recognition.
“Mikana?” he whispers, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble, a voice I have never heard from a mouth that is not twisted in a permanent snarl. It is the most beautiful sound in the world.
Tears, hot and silent, stream down my face. I cannot speak. I can only sob, a raw, broken sound of a grief so profound it has become joy.
“Kael,” I finally manage to choke out.
He reaches up, his hand, a warrior’s hand, strong and unclawed, cups my cheek. His thumb wipes away a tear.
“I am home,” he whispers.
And he pulls me down to him, his lips finding mine in a kiss that is not about passion, or desperation, or grief. It is a kiss of pure, unadulterated, impossible homecoming. He is free. He is whole. He is Kael. And he is mine.
24
KAEL
The axe feels right in my hands.
The weight of it, the smooth, worn hickory of the handle, the satisfyingthunkas the steel bites deep into a log of tiphe wood—it is a feeling that settles a deep, restless part of my soul. It is a warrior’s tool, but I am not using it for war. I am using it to build a home.
I split the log with a single, clean blow, the two halves falling neatly to either side of the chopping block. My body, this new-old body, moves with a fluid power that is still a daily miracle. I am an orc. I am Kael. I am whole. The muscles in my back and shoulders bunch and release, a symphony of strength that is mine to command. The sun is warm on my green skin, a feeling I once thought I would never experience again.
Our valley is a well-kept secret, a cup of green and gold held in the stony palms of the Pref mountains. A stream, clear and cold, cuts through its center, its banks thick with fylvek grass and the bright, cheerful faces of rirzed blossoms. We found it a month after the Wildspont, a place so remote, so untouched, that it felt like the world had forgotten it existed. We are the only two souls for a hundred miles. We are a clan of two.
I stack the firewood against the wall of the small, sturdy cabin we built with our own hands. It is a crude thing of logs and mud and stone, but the roof does not leak, and the hearth draws true. It is more of a home than any I have had since the snows of the Stonefang valley.
A movement at the cabin door catches my eye. Mikana.
She steps out into the sunlight, a waterskin in one hand, a small, hopeful smile on her face. The months of peace have worked their own magic on her. The gaunt, haunted look is gone from her eyes, replaced by a quiet, steady light. There is a healthy color in her cheeks, and her body, once so thin and sharp, has softened into gentle curves. She is no longer just a survivor. She is thriving.
She is beautiful. The word is a constant, aching truth in my chest.
“You’ve chopped enough to last us through the winter,” she says, her voice carrying a light, teasing note that would have been unthinkable a few months ago.
I grunt, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “Winter is long.”
“It is,” she agrees, walking toward me. She is wearing a tunic and trousers I fashioned for her from the supple hide of a dae. They fit her better than the rags she escaped in. “But you’ve been at this since dawn. You’ll wear yourself out.”
She offers me the waterskin. I take it, my large, green hand dwarfing hers. Our fingers brush, and a familiar, quiet fire sparks between us. I drink deeply, the cool water a balm to my dry throat.
When I am done, she does not move away. She reaches up, her small, ink-stained fingers tracing the line of the dark, circular brand on my neck. The permanent, ugly reminder of the Urog’s collar. Her touch is not one of pity. It is a simple, quiet acknowledgment of the scars we both carry.
