"You already are worthy," he tells me, drawing me closer. "Tomorrow is just making it official."
After a moment, he gestures to the window. "Come. There is one more thing I want to see." He leads me toward another part of the stronghold I haven't seen—the defensive positions that overlook the surrounding territory.
"The eastern approaches," he explains as we climb stone steps to a high battlement. "See that ridge there, where the watchtower stands?"
I follow his gaze to a distant stone structure perched on red clay cliffs. "It's quite far."
"A hard two-hour ride on horseback," he confirms. "A perfect view of our stronghold, but isolated."
The view is breathtaking, sweeping across mountains and valleys that stretch to the horizon.
"It's beautiful."
"I thought you'd appreciate it," he says, his arm settling around my waist. "Remote and romantic, but practical too. An important defensive position."
We stand together in comfortable silence, and I’m genuinely looking forward to tomorrow's ceremony. Not just as an ending to uncertainty, but as a beginning to something I'm finally ready to embrace.
GHAZREK
The tour of the Hall of Memory and the defensive positions have left her quiet, contemplative. I see the weight of what she is accepting settling onto her shoulders, and I see her standing taller beneath it.
"Enough of war and politics for a moment," I say, taking her hand. "The evening sun is still pleasant. Come with me."
I lead her to a secluded corner of the battlements, where I had a servant lay out a thick fur. A simple meal of bread, cheese, and smoked meat is spread on a clean cloth.
Her eyes widen in surprise. "You planned this?"
"Orcs value practicality," I tell her, a smile touching my lips. "The sun is warm, the view is good. Why eat inside?"
She laughs, a soft, genuine sound that makes my chest tighten. We sit on the fur, our legs dangling over the vast courtyard below, and for a while, we are not a Warlord and his queen. We are just a male and his mate, sharing a meal.
I watch as she struggles to tear a piece from the hard crust of the bread. Without a word, I take the loaf from her. She watches, a curious expression on her face, as my large, callused hands, hands that have wielded axes and ended lives, gently break the bread into small, manageable pieces for her. A faint smiletouches her lips, and she looks away, a soft flush on her cheeks. I have pleased her with this small gesture.
I pick up a slice of sharp, crumbly cheese. She reaches for it, but I move my hand, lifting the morsel to her lips instead. She freezes for a heartbeat, her dark eyes wide with surprise. Then, slowly, she parts her lips and accepts the offering. The gesture is shockingly intimate, more so than any of the desperate acts our bodies performed in the haze of her heat.
"I never did this at home," she says, her voice soft after she swallows. "Ate outside, I mean. Everything was always so formal. So cold." She shivers slightly, despite the warm stones. "My first heat... I was locked in my room for three days. My mother told the servants I had a fever. The shame of it was worse than the discomfort."
The casual cruelty of it makes my hand clench. "Here, your heat is an honor. A sign that the clan is strong and will continue." I fall silent for a long moment, my gaze distant, fixed on the mountains that have been my family's home for generations. My own memories feel sharp, unwelcome. "My father... he was a great Warlord. Carved in the Hall of Memory. But he was a hard male. He saw strength as the only virtue. When my younger brother was born sickly, my father saw only weakness. He ignored him. Left his upbringing to the nursemaids."
Her hand finds mine, her touch a small point of warmth against my skin. The unspoken question in her eyes gives me leave to continue.
"He died before his fifth winter," I say, my voice flat, forcing the emotion from it. "A fever, the healers said. But I know the truth. He died of neglect. Of a father who could not see the strength in a gentle heart." I remember sneaking into his rooms, myself only a boy of ten, bringing him carved toys and telling him stories of the warriors in the yard. I remember the sound of his laugh, thin and reedy, like small bells. I haven't heard asound like it since. I look down at my own massive hands. "I was not strong enough to protect him then. I will not make that mistake again."
The memory hangs in the air between us, a shared confidence. I feel the shift in her scent, the amber notes deepening with an empathy that soothes the old wound.
"I will not be that kind of leader," I say, my voice rough with conviction. "Or that kind of father. Strength is not just about the axe. It is about protecting those who are not built for war."
She leans her head against my shoulder, and we fall into a comfortable silence, watching the life of the stronghold unfold below us. Warriors train, children chase each other through the market stalls, and the scent of baking bread drifts up from the kitchens.
"You think of things," she whispers after a long while. "Things I wouldn't expect a Warlord to notice."
"I notice everything about you," I tell her, turning to face her. "I see you, Vesha. Not just the omega, or the queen. You."
I lean in, intending to kiss her, but then I change my mind. A simple kiss is not enough to convey the depth of what I feel, the reverence I hold for the woman who has chosen to be my mate.
I shift, moving down until I am kneeling before her on the fur. Her eyes widen in confusion, then in dawning shock as my hands settle on her ankles, pushing the fabric of her skirts higher until I reach her thighs, gently parting them.
"Ghazrek, what are you doing?" she whispers, her voice trembling. "We're... outside."
