He stood in the doorway for a moment, just… looking at her. Deliberately. Lingeringly. The heat in his eyes was unmistakable.
Her spine straightened. She met his gaze without flinching, daring him to press, refusing to betray the faintest trace of vulnerability—even though she stood there damp-haired, wrapped in nothing more than a robe.
Where had he found these things? How had he known what she would need? She shoved the questions aside, unwilling to let them rattle her.
Then—he bowed. Not mocking, not exaggerated. A simple, sincere gesture. Almost… playful.
The baffling lightness in him unsettled her. He had chosen a fate different than her death, and somehow that had shifted him. A man who had once stood over her with a dagger now handed her combs and clothing.
"Your things, my queen," he said, his voice deep, carrying a weight that struck her somewhere she didn't want to acknowledge.
He stepped inside, his nearness pressing against her like a physical thing as he laid the garments on the bench. His scent—spice, smoke, and something uniquely his—wrapped around her.
For one terrible moment, she teetered. On the edge of giving in, of letting herself be drawn into the orbit of his power, his orcish charm.
Why? Why did she find this creature so dangerously attractive? He was her enemy. Her strategic opponent.
"Leave me," she snapped before the tension could tip into something else.
He bowed again, shallower this time, tusks catching in the light with a wicked gleam.
And then he was gone, curtain whispering shut behind him.
But she knew he hadn't gone far. He was just outside. Listening. Always listening. How much could he hear? Surely, those pointed ears weren't just for show.
A ripple moved through her body, unwelcome, uncontrollable—a flicker of heat she crushed down as quickly as it had come.
Eliza forced her hands to steady as she gathered the garments from the bench. The robe clung damply to her skin, and she willed her breath into evenness, refusing to let the silence press her into weakness.
But in the stillness, something lingered.
His voice.
My queen.
The words echoed through her, low and resonant, curling around her like the shadows he commanded. Two simple words that carried weight beyond their syllables. She told herself it was mockery, some cruel twist of formality meant to remind her of her captivity. That she should be insulted, outraged.
Yet her heart betrayed her, beating harder at the memory of how those words had sounded on his lips. No one at court ever said her title that way—as if it were something precious rather than political, something personal rather than performative. As if he were claiming not just her crown buther.
And worse—far worse—was the treacherous part of her that wanted to hear him say it again.
So she cursed him with all her heart, while at the same time, her heart betrayed everything she thought she'd stood for.
Chapter
Twenty
Eliza lifted the garment from the bench, the velvet heavy and cool against her fingers. For a moment she simply studied it, brow furrowed.
It was a dress, robe-like in its cut, with ties meant to fasten at the waist—similar to what she'd glimpsed on female orcs during border negotiations years ago. Nothing like the elaborate silks and layered gowns of Maidan, which clung and shimmered with jewels, designed to enhance a woman's figure while restricting movement. This was different—starkly so. Simple in its lines. Practical enough for a warrior to move in, yet elegant in its own alien way. And the fabric was sumptuous, rich, the same kind of velvet she had seen on the robe he himself wore—a fabric she now recognized as a marker of rank among his people. A prince's garment. Or perhaps a prince's mate.
And it would fit her. She could tell. The sleeves were narrower than she would have expected, the length just right for her height. Orc women were larger, broader. He must have?—
Her lips pressed together, heat rising in her cheeks. Had he truly arranged this? Had it been made for her, tailored before she ever arrived here?
The thought unsettled her.
The color was striking—a rare, deep shade of blue, richer than midnight, unlike any dye she had seen in Maidan. It shimmered faintly in the daylight that spilled from the windows above, a quiet power in its simplicity.
