"Get out!" The words tear from my throat, high and sharp with panic. Heat floods my cheeks—not from the bath water, but from pure mortification at being caught so exposed, so vulnerable.
He doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. His massive frame remains perfectly still in the doorway, those dark eyes drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst. His jaw works silently, muscles bunching beneath the ritual scars that mark his rank. There's something raw in his expression—shock, yes, but beneath that lies something deeper. My breath catches despite my fury.
The way he looks at me... it's the same expression he wore that night months ago, when firelight painted his skin bronze and his hands trembled as they traced my curves. Like I'm something precious. Something he's afraid to touch for fear of breaking.
But that was before. Before councils and betrothed orcs and the harsh reality of what carrying his child truly means.
"I said get out." My voice shakes with anger and embarrassment, though I can't tell which emotion burns hotter. The cloth slips against my wet skin and I clutch it tighter, acutely aware of how little it conceals. Of how his gaze lingers on the swell of my belly where it presses against the thin linen.
His tusks catch the brazier light as he draws in a sharp breath. Something flickers across his features—longing so naked it makes my chest tighten. For a heartbeat, I see past the warrior's mask to the man beneath. The one who held me with reverent hands and whispered my name like a prayer.
Then his shoulders straighten. His expression shutters closed like gates slamming shut against an army.
Finally—slowly, as if moving through thick honey—he turns toward the door. Each step echoes off the stone walls with deliberate precision, the sound of a man forcing himself to retreat when every instinct screams at him to advance.
Just before he slips through the doorway, he pauses. His profile cuts a harsh silhouette against the corridor's flickering torchlight, all sharp angles and barely leashed power.
"The gods may damn me for what I'm thinking right now."
The words are rough with an honesty that strips away pretense. Then he's gone, his footsteps fading into the temple's ancient silence.
I sink beneath the surface until only my eyes and nose remain above water, my heart thundering against my ribs like a caged bird. Steam swirls around me, but it does nothing to cool the fire that his presence ignited beneath my skin.
I should be furious. Should be plotting ways to bar my door against future intrusions.
Instead, I'm terrified by how my body reacted to seeing him standing there—by the way heat pooled low in my belly despitemy embarrassment, by how desperately I wanted him to stay even as I ordered him to leave.
12
VARGATH
The war council chamber reeks of old leather and fresh blood—maps spread across tables that have seen more strategy sessions than victories. I shoulder through the heavy oak doors, grateful for the familiar bite of steel and ambition that fills the air. Here, at least, the talk centers on proper concerns: enemy movements, supply lines, the spring thaw that will bring fresh opportunities for raiding.
Elder Thokmar hunches over a detailed sketch of the eastern passes, his gnarled finger tracing potential routes through the mountains. "The dark elves will push hard once the snow clears. They've been quiet all winter, which means they're planning something ugly."
"Let them come," Gargan growls from his position near the brazier. "We've bloodied their noses before."
I settle into my usual spot at the head of the table, relieved that no one looks up from their work with knowing glances or whispered questions. The chamber buzzes with the productive energy of warriors preparing for war—exactly what I need after the chaos of the past few days.
Korrath, our chief scout, unfurls a fresh map marked with recent patrol routes. "Three of our forward posts went silent last week. Could be weather, could be raiders testing our defenses."
"Weather doesn't leave carved warnings on trees," Thokmar mutters, producing a charcoal rubbing from his pack. The symbols are unmistakably dark elf—threats written in their flowing script.
I lean forward, studying the markings. "They're probing for weakness. Testing how quickly we respond to threats against our outer settlements."
"Which means they're planning something bigger," Gargan adds. "Question is where and when."
The familiar rhythm of tactical discussion settles over me like well-worn armor. This is what I understand—enemy movements, defensive positions, the cold mathematics of warfare. Not pregnant women with haunted eyes, not the way steam curled around bare shoulders, not the terrible certainty that seeing her in that bath changed something fundamental in my chest.
Korrath spreads out additional sketches. "The mountain passes here and here will be clear within a fortnight. If they're moving a large force, those are the most likely routes."
"We'll need patrols doubled," I decide. "Rotating shifts to keep our warriors fresh. And I want signal fires prepared at every outpost."
Thokmar nods approvingly. "Sound strategy. What about reinforcements from the southern clans?"
"Already sent word," Gargan replies. "Though whether they'll answer depends on how much they trust our leadership."
The comment hangs in the air with weight I choose to ignore. Trust. Leadership. Two things that become complicated when you're harboring a pregnant human in the temple district while your betrothed sharpens knives in the shadows.
