Hours crawl by before exhaustion finally drags me under, despite my body's protests and the persistent feeling of invisible eyes tracking my every breath.
The dream blooms around me like smoke given form.
Vargath materializes from shadows, his dark eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter. He moves closer, each step deliberate. His calloused hand settles against the curve of my stomach with reverent care, fingers splaying wide as if trying to encompass our child entirely. The touchsends warmth radiating through my skin, chasing away weeks of cold and uncertainty.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough with something that sounds like wonder.
He leans closer, his breath ghosting across my lips, and I can feel the heat of his body against mine. His free hand cups my face with surprising gentleness, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone as his mouth hovers just above mine?—
My eyes fly open, heart skipping erratically. Sweat dampens my skin despite the cool air, and I'm panting like I've been running. The dream clings to me, vivid and achingly real, making the empty room feel impossibly hollow by comparison.
14
VARGATH
Itell myself it's tactical. Security measures. The human carries valuable intelligence about orc bloodlines—my bloodline—and leaving her unguarded would be strategically unsound.
The lie tastes bitter as week-old ale, but it gets me past Gargan's knowing smirks and through the temple corridors without admitting what actually drives my feet here each evening.
"More security rounds?" Maedra asks when I arrive with a bowl of thick stew and fresh bread wrapped in cloth. Her ancient eyes hold enough amusement to fill a war chest.
"The temple's isolation makes it vulnerable." I set the food on the small table, avoiding her gaze. "Regular patrols ensure no threats breach the perimeter."
"Ah yes. Very thorough patrols. Especially the ones that bring dinner."
Heat crawls up my neck. "She needs proper nutrition."
Seris emerges from the bathing chamber, hair damp and skin flushed from the warm water. Her belly has grown noticeably rounder since her arrival, straining against the loose templerobes Maedra found for her. The sight hits me like a mace to the chest.
"Security patrol?" Her eyebrow arches with skeptical humor. "How many armed threats typically require fresh bread as a countermeasure?"
"Hunger weakens defenses." The words sound ridiculous even to my own ears. "Malnourished targets invite predators."
"Predators." She settles into the rickety chair by the brazier with careful movements, one hand supporting her lower back. "Like council members who think pregnant humans should be 'quietly removed'?"
My jaw tightens. Word travels fast in Azhgar, apparently. "Those threats are being managed."
"By bringing me soup?"
"By ensuring you remain strong enough to survive whatever comes next."
She studies my face with those sharp green eyes that see too much. "And what comes next, exactly?"
I don't answer because I don't know. Instead, I unwrap the bread and tear off a piece, testing it for staleness. The crust crackles between my fingers—fresh from the kitchens, still warm.
"Eat," I command, setting the portion beside her bowl.
"Such charming dinner conversation." But she takes the bread anyway, tearing small pieces and eating them slowly. Her movements carry the careful deliberation of someone whose body no longer bends to her will.
Three days later, I arrive with an armload of thick furs and winter blankets. The excuse forms easily on my tongue—temperature regulation prevents illness, illness compromises security, compromised security endangers the stronghold.
Seris watches me spread the additional bedding with obvious amusement. "Expecting a blizzard indoors?"
"Stone walls conduct cold. Prolonged exposure causes fever, delirium." I smooth a particularly soft bearskin across her sleeping furs, remembering how she shivered that first night. "Medical complications create unnecessary risks."
"Unnecessary risks," she repeats thoughtfully. "Like the risk of actually caring about someone?"
My hands still on the fur. "This is practical."
