Page 54 of Savage Devotion
My grip tightens on Tarn's shoulder, fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises. The urge to snap his neck here in the shadows burns through me like molten steel, clean and simple. One quick twist, and the spy who threatens Ressa disappears forever.
But killing him solves nothing. Heldrik would simply find another informant, another weapon to use against her. And if Tarn's body turned up after our confrontation, suspicion would fall squarely on the orc who's been whispering in Lady Ressa's ear.
Think like a tactician, not a berserker.
"Walk away from this," I tell him, my voice pitched low enough that it barely carries beyond the canvas walls. "Stop the messages. Stop the surveillance. Find some other way to serve your commander."
Tarn's laugh is bitter, mocking. "Or what? You'll kill me? Prove everything I've been saying about orc treachery?"
He's right, and he knows it. Any direct action against him plays perfectly into the narrative he's been building. The savage orc, corrupting noble Lady Ressa, finally revealing his true nature through violence.
I release him and step back, but my posture remains predatory. "Consider this a warning."
"No, orc. Considerthisa warning." Tarn straightens his jacket with deliberate calm, smoothing away the wrinkles from my grip. "Your time here is ending. Soon. And when it does, when Lady Ressa finally sees you for what you really are, she'll thank me for opening her eyes."
He brushes past me toward the main camp, confident in his untouchability. I watch him go, my mind churning through possibilities, scenarios, ways to protect Ressa from the web closing around her.
But doubt creeps in like poison through a wound.
What if he's right?
Not about me being a spy. That's paranoid fantasy. But about the correlation between my presence and increased Bloodfang activity. I've been so focused on building trust with Ressa, on proving myself valuable to her command, that I haven't questioned whether my information sharing might have unintended consequences.
The intelligence I've provided about Ironspine patrol routes, clan territory boundaries, traditional hunting grounds, all of it could theoretically be useful to a rival clan planning raids. If someone in Ressa's command is feeding information to the Bloodfang, then every tactical discussion we've had becomes a potential weapon against human interests.
Have I been the knife at her back without realizing it?
The thought makes my stomach clench with something worse than guilt. If my presence is genuinely endangering her, not through active betrayal, but through naïve trust, then the honorable thing would be to leave. To remove myself from her command before my mere existence destroys everything she's worked to build.
But last night surfaces unbidden: her body warm against mine in the firelight, her fingers tracing scars on my chest while she whispered secrets about the forge techniques her grandfather taught her. The way she looked at me afterward, not with the calculated assessment of a military commander, but with something raw and unguarded and terrifyingly vulnerable.
She trusts me.
That trust is the most precious thing I've ever possessed, or the most dangerous weapon I've ever wielded against her. And I'm no longer certain which.
I make my way back through camp, noting the subtle changes in how people look at me. Sidelong glances and whispered conversations, which stop when I pass, now replace the respectful nods from yesterday. Tarn's work, most likely. Doubt is a poison that spreads quickly through military ranks, especially when it confirms existing prejudices.
The thought of what Ressa must be facing, the questions and suspicious looks from her own officers, makes anger surge through me again. She's spent years building her reputation, proving herself worthy of command despite her gender and her family's questionable political alliances. Now, that reputation is being systematically undermined by a man who sees her trust in me as weakness rather than strength.
I find her near the eastern ridge, standing alone at the edge of camp where the rocky ground drops away into a maze of shallow canyons. Her posture is rigid, controlled, but I can see thetension in her shoulders, the way her hands clench and release at her sides.
"Ressa."
She doesn't turn. "Tell me something, Kaelgor. In your clan, when warriors doubt their chieftain's judgment, how do they handle it?"
The question hits closer to home than she probably realizes. "Depends on the nature of the doubt. And the chieftain."
"My uncle thinks I've lost my objectivity. That my personal feelings are compromising my tactical judgment." Now she turns, and I see the strain in her face, the command made heavier by isolation. "He's probably right."
"About your judgment being compromised?"
"About my feelings affecting my decisions." Her gaze finds mine, holds it. "This morning, when he questioned your presence here, my first instinct wasn't to consider the tactical implications. It was to defend you. Not because of your military value, but because of... other reasons."
Other reasons.The careful euphemism for whatever passed between us last night, whatever connection we've forged that transcends simple military alliance.
"That doesn't make your judgment wrong."
"Doesn't it?" She moves closer, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "When I make decisions about troop movements, supply routes, intelligence sharing, how much of that is based on sound tactical reasoning and how much is because I trust you more than I should?"
