Page 6 of Saved By the Mountain Man Orc
I do as I’m told, acutely aware of how he watches every spoonful enter my mouth. Not hungry or predatory.Protective.Like he's making sure I'm taking care of myself.
"The tea helps with pain," he adds when I reach for the cup.
The brew is bitter but soothing, warming me from the inside out. Whatever's in it, it makes the throbbing in my ankle fade to a distant ache.
After a long silence, I work up the courage to ask, "Are there more of you?"
He pauses in the act of banking the fire. "A few."
"Do they know I'm here?"
He doesn't answer that, which is an answer in itself.
My heart thumps irregularly. "Am I in danger?"
His jaw tightens, tendons standing out in his neck. When he speaks, his voice is lower, rougher. "Not with me."
That's not exactly reassuring, but something in his tone makes me believe it's the most honesty I'm going to get.
Later, when the fire has burned down to glowing embers and exhaustion starts to pull at me again, I shift restlessly under the fur blanket. My body is healing, but my mind is spinning with everything that's happened. I need to move, to prove to myself that I'm still capable, still in control of my own fate.
I push the blanket aside and test my weight on my good foot. The injured ankle protests, but it's bearable.
I limp slowly toward the cabin door, using the wall for support.
"You shouldn't be up." His voice comes from behind me, but he doesn't try to stop me.
"I'm fine." I reach for the wooden door handle, hand trembling slightly. "I just need air."
He appears between me and the door with that impossible speed, not quite touching me but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin.
"I said you're not ready."
Something in his tone—not quite commanding but close—makes me bristle. I glare up at him, craning my neck to meet his eyes.
"Am I your prisoner?"
His chest rises and falls with a deep breath. Golden eyes search my face, and I see something flicker there—conflict, desire, something darker that makes my stomach clench.
"No," he says softly. "You're not."
But he doesn't move.
The space between us crackles with tension. He's close enough that I can see the individual scars that map his skin, the way his dark hair has escaped its leather tie to frame his face. Closeenough to smell that wild, clean scent that seems to be uniquely his.
His hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, hovering near my face. When I don't pull away, his fingertips brush against my cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with infinite care.
My skin tingles where he touches me. My breath catches.
It's like he's touching something sacred. Like he's holding back every instinct he has with nothing but sheer willpower.
When his tusks catch the edge of his lower lip, something low in my belly tightens with want.
I don't move away.
Neither does he.
And in that charged silence, something unspoken sparks between us, dangerous and electric and impossible to ignore.
