Iwake to the sensation of movement—Nelrish stirring beside me, his chest rising and falling beneath my cheek where it rests against his shoulder. The world feels different in the grey light of dawn, reality seeping back in like cold water through wool. But I don't pull away. Not yet.
His arm tightens around me instinctively, a protective gesture even in sleep that makes something warm unfurl in my chest. I've never woken in a man's arms before. The experience leaves me feeling exposed and cherished in equal measure, like I've crossed some invisible threshold I can't uncross.
Last night replays in fragments—his hands on my skin, the way he looked at me like I was something precious, the careful restraint even in passion. The memory sends heat flooding through me despite the morning chill, but it's followed immediately by the familiar weight of uncertainty that's become my constant companion.
When Nelrish shifts again, I feel him wake fully. His breathing changes, becomes more deliberate, and I know he's aware of me pressed against his side. For a moment we simply lie there, neither acknowledging the intimacy nor breaking it.The silence stretches between us, comfortable and charged at once.
Then he moves, carefully extracting himself without jostling me too much. I let my eyes drift closed, feigning sleep as he rises and moves away from our makeshift bed. The loss of his warmth hits immediately, cold air rushing in to fill the space his body occupied, but I force myself to remain still.
His footsteps crunch softly through the snow as he moves away from the lean-to, probably to check our surroundings or tend to necessities. The practical part of me appreciates his vigilance—we're still too close to Redmoon territory for comfort, still vulnerable to discovery. But another part wishes he'd stayed longer, wishes I could have allowed myself a few more moments of that unfamiliar safety.
What he said last night echoes in my mind: "Come with me. Let me keep you both safe."
The offer should terrify me. Everything I know about orcs, everything I was taught in the bunkers, screams that following him would be the height of foolishness. Orcs don't protect humans—they use them, trade them, discard them when they're no longer useful. The scars on my wrists from the shackles at Broken-Tusk are proof enough of that reality.
But Nelrish isn't like the others I encountered. He could have taken what he wanted from me by force—I've seen his strength, know he could overpower me without effort. Instead, he waited for my permission, my invitation. He handles Eira with patience that seems genuine, not the calculated kindness of someone with ulterior motives.
Still, trusting him with my own safety is one thing. Trusting him with Eira's is another entirely.
I think of the way the Broken-Tusk orcs looked at her when I was pregnant—the speculation in their eyes, the conversations that stopped when I entered a room. She's half-orc, which makesher valuable in ways I don't fully understand but know enough to fear. What if Nelrish's clan sees her the same way? What if his protection only extends as far as his interest in me?
The questions circle in my mind like carrion birds, picking at every doubt I've nursed since his offer. But underneath the fear, a treacherous voice whispers that maybe—just maybe—this could be the answer I've been searching for without knowing it.
Winter is coming. The Redmoon clan is hunting. I have no supplies, no shelter, no plan beyond running until we can't anymore. Following Nelrish might be a risk, but staying on our own feels increasingly like a death sentence with extra steps.
A small sound from the lean-to draws my attention—Eira stirring awake. I listen to her soft breathing change, the little sighs she makes when consciousness returns. She's always been an early riser, alert and curious about the world from the moment her eyes open.
"Mama?" Her voice is whisper-soft, mindful even in sleepiness of the need for quiet.
I turn toward her, abandoning any pretense of sleep. "I'm here, sweet girl."
She sits up, dark curls wild from sleep, and looks around the lean-to with the sharp awareness that's become second nature to her. "Where's Nelrish?"
The casual way she says his name, like he's already part of our small family unit, makes my chest tight. "He's checking our camp. Making sure we're safe."
Eira nods solemnly, accepting this explanation with the matter-of-fact resilience that never fails to both impress and break my heart. No five-year-old should be so comfortable with the concept of constant vigilance, but she's adapted to our reality with frightening ease.
I help her from the bedroll, both of us moving quietly through our morning routine. She needs to relieve herself, whichrequires a careful trip to the designated spot Nelrish established yesterday—close enough for safety but far enough for privacy. I stay within sight, scanning the forest for any sign of movement while she handles her business with the efficient dignity she's developed.
When we return to the lean-to, I hear footsteps approaching through the snow. My hand moves instinctively toward the knife at my belt before Nelrish's familiar silhouette emerges from between the trees. He carries something in his hands—small game from the look of it, probably caught in the snares he set yesterday.
"Good morning," he says quietly, his eyes finding mine with an intensity that makes me remember exactly how his hands felt against my skin. Heat floods my cheeks, but I manage to nod in response.
"Morning," I murmur, proud that my voice sounds steadier than I feel.
Eira has no such reservations. She brightens visibly when she sees him, though she keeps her voice appropriately low. "Did you catch breakfast?"
"I did." He holds up two rabbits, already cleaned and ready for cooking. "The snares worked better than expected."
I watch him prepare the fire with efficient movements, coaxing flames from tinder and kindling with the ease of long practice. There's something soothing about his competence, the way he handles these survival tasks that still feel foreign to me despite weeks of necessity. In the bunkers, food came from ration lines and reconstituted packets. This kind of self-sufficiency is a skill I'm still learning.
As the meat cooks over the flames, I catch myself stealing glances at him. The morning light reveals details I missed in the darkness—the precise way he tends the fire, the careful attention he pays to our surroundings even while focused oncooking. Everything about him speaks to a man accustomed to responsibility, to keeping others safe.
He catches me looking during one of these stolen moments, and our eyes hold for several heartbeats before I force myself to look away. The awareness between us feels thick as honey, sweet and dangerous at once.
Eira, blessedly oblivious to the undercurrents, chatters quietly about the birds she can hear waking in the trees around us. Nelrish responds to her observations with genuine interest, pointing out calls she might not recognize and explaining which species they likely belong to. His knowledge impresses me—not just the practical understanding of a woodsman, but the way he shares it with patience that never feels condescending.
When the meat is ready, we eat in companionable silence, the food warming me from the inside out. Real protein feels like luxury after days of berries and roots, and I can see color returning to Eira's cheeks as she works through her portion with determined focus.
