"You're the only one."
The words land somewhere deep in my chest. "Really? What about... before?" I gesture vaguely. "Before you crossed?"
Is he blushing? Under that green skin, I can't tell for sure, but his expression shifts. He focuses very intently on the washcloth.
"I was eight when I crossed."
Oh.
Oh.
I just took an orc's v-card.
"Diesel—"
"Don't." His voice is gruff, but not angry. Embarrassed, maybe. "It's not—I didn't want—" He exhales. "There were opportunities. After. Human women who were... curious. But I didn't want to be someone's experiment. Someone's story to tell her friends." He meets my eyes. "I wanted it to matter."
My throat tightens. This massive, terrifying orc who just fucked me like he was trying to ruin me for anyone else—he waited. For something real.
For me.
"It mattered," I say quietly. "It matters."
He doesn't answer. Just lifts my other arm, runs the cloth down it with hands that are suddenly unsteady.
"Then how do you know what to do?" I ask after a moment. "If you've never..."
"I have brothers." His voice steadies, grateful for the subject change. "And they have human women."
I blink. "You guys talk about—"
"I've heard things." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Crow won't shut up about Maya. And Vargan—" He shakes his head. "Man's useless since Savvy."
I laugh. It comes out watery, exhausted. "So you took notes?"
"Something like that." He moves the cloth to my collarbone. "Orcs are... bigger. Rougher. What we just did—" His jaw tightens. "Humans need care after. I know that."
The tenderness in his hands contradicts everything I just experienced. The same fingers that left marks on my hips are now tracing gentle circles on my skin, washing away the sweat and the sex and the intensity.
"Tell me about this one." I touch the tattoo on his forearm. A series of symbols I don't recognize, angular and sharp.
"Clan markings. From before." His voice is matter-of-fact. "Orcs use tattoos as memory books. Everything important gets recorded on the skin."
"And this?" My fingers find his inner wrist, where a barcode sits above a string of numbers. Clinical. Ugly.
His jaw tightens. "Camp tattoo. They tagged us when we crossed. Like livestock."
My stomach turns. I trace the numbers gently, wishing I could erase them.
"This one's better." I move to his chest, where a motorcycle breaks through a circle of chains. "Ironborn?"
"Yeah." Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Got that when I patched in. First ink I chose for myself."
I sit up a little, water sloshing. "You remember? Before the Rift?"
"Some." He resumes washing, moving to my neck, my throat. "I was eight when it happened. Old enough to remember bits and pieces. Young enough that the camps could shape me into something else."
"What was it like? Before?"
