"You're not small now," he murmurs, voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "Not to me."
When he leans down, I rise to meet him halfway. Our lips touch with the slow deliberation of people savoring something precious and finite. This isn't the desperate hunger of our previous encounters—this is deeper, more dangerous. A claiming that goes beyond flesh into something that might actually be my soul.
His mouth moves against mine with practiced skill, but there's reverence in the way he kisses me, as if he's trying to pour years of unspoken apologies into this single moment of connection. I taste wine on his tongue, feel the careful pressure of tusks against my lips, and wonder how something so wrong can feel like the first right thing in my entire existence.
His hands shift to my waist, fingers splaying wide as he draws me down with him. The grass cushions our descent, damp with evening dew that seeps through my thin dress. He settlesagainst the base of an old oak, pulling me onto his lap with the same careful reverence he's shown all night. My knees bracket his hips, and I find myself looking down at him for once—this massive warrior who could snap my spine with a careless gesture, cradling me like something precious.
"Tell me something," I whisper, fingers finding the leather ties of his vest. Not to undress him, just to touch, to ground myself in this impossible moment. "Tell me who you are when no one's watching."
His laugh comes out harsh, bitter around the edges. "You wouldn't want to know that man."
"Try me."
He's quiet for so long I think he won't answer. His hands rest on my thighs, thumbs tracing absent patterns through the fabric of my dress. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of years.
"I was bred for war, not for… this." He gestures between us, encompassing whatever fragile thing we've built in stolen moments. "My first kill came at twelve. A human raider who thought he could take Thorran grain stores. My father handed me a blade and said, 'Show me you're worth the food we feed you.'"
The casual way he says it makes my chest ache. I shift closer, letting my forehead rest against his. "What happened?"
"I cut the man's throat. Felt his blood on my hands, watched the life leave his eyes. And you know what my father said?" His grip tightens slightly on my legs. "He said 'good' and walked away. That was it. No celebration, no comfort. Just acknowledgment that I'd finally become useful."
I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart beneath scarred skin. "How many since then?"
"Too many to count. Too few to matter." He tilts his head back against the tree bark, eyes finding the stars scattered across the night sky. "I've spent years learning how to kill efficiently, how to lead warriors into battle, how to turn rage into strategy. But this—sitting here with you—I have no training for this."
The vulnerability in his voice undoes something inside me. I lean forward, resting my head against the curve of his shoulder where neck meets collarbone. His scent surrounds me—leather and steel and something earthier, wilder. When I speak, my words are muffled against his skin.
"I think maybe we were both built wrong for the world we live in."
He smirks, wrapping his finger in a strand of my hair. "I think the only thing I might be right for is you."
28
GALTHAN
Carved bone goblets catch torchlight, casting dancing shadows across platters of roasted meat and fermented grain. The air thrums with ceremonial drums and the low chanting of elders recounting bloodlines that stretch back through generations of conquest. I should be listening. Should be nodding at appropriate moments, playing the part of the dutiful heir ready to add his own legacy to Thorran's chronicles.
Instead, I'm thinking about the way Thalia's breath hitched when I traced the curve of her spine. How her fingers trembled against my chest when she whispered confessions I had no right to hear.
"The spirits of our fathers watch tonight," Rytha declares, raising her goblet high. Her ceremonial tattoos gleam with fresh ink, spiraling patterns that mark her as worthy of ancestral blessing. "They see the strength of our union, the power we'll forge together."
The gathered orcs roar approval, tusks gleaming in the firelight. I lift my own cup and drink, tasting nothing but ash. Rytha's hand finds my thigh beneath the table, her grippossessive and warm. She leans close enough that her breath tickles my ear.
"You seem distant tonight, beloved."
I force my attention back to her amber eyes, noting the way they narrow slightly as she studies my face. "Just thinking about the responsibilities ahead."
"Good." Her smile doesn't quite reach those calculating eyes. "A leader must always be thinking three moves ahead."
Around us, the feast continues its prescribed rhythm. Warriors boast of battles won and enemies conquered while elders nod sagely from their positions of honor. Serving humans move like ghosts between the tables, refilling cups and clearing plates with practiced invisibility. I find myself scanning their faces, searching for one that isn't there.
Where is she?
The question gnaws at me with increasing urgency. Thalia should be here, moving between the tables with that careful grace she's perfected over years of service. Her absence feels like a missing tooth—something small that becomes impossible to ignore once noticed.
"Tell me, Galthan," calls out Korvak, one of Rytha's uncles, his voice carrying across the pavilion. "What wisdom do your ancestors whisper about leading mixed tribes?"
The question hangs in the air, weighted with expectation. Every eye turns toward me, waiting for some profound insight that will cement my worthiness to stand beside their precious daughter. I drain my goblet, buying time while my mind races.
