Vlorn’s presence beside me is overwhelming—his size dwarfs my chair, his heat radiates even across the space between us. The weight of his attention presses down on my shoulders.
The hall watches. Waiting to see what happens next.
Servants bring food—massive platters of spiced boar, thick dark bread still steaming, roasted root vegetables glistening with fat. They set a plate in front of me and one in front of Vlorn.
The smell hits me so hard, my vision blurs slightly. Rich meat, sharp spices, yeast from the bread. My body screams for food. My hands shake with the effort of not reaching for it.
But I cross my arms over my chest and refuse to touch the plate.
Refuse to even look at it.
Instead, I stare straight ahead, teeth clenched, ignoring everything.
Laughter ripples through the hall. Some warriors mock my stubbornness. Others watch with interest to see how their warlord handles this public insult.
Vlorn says nothing.
He just eats his own meal slowly, deliberately. Tearing meat from bone with his hands. Chewing. Watching me with those unblinking golden eyes the entire time.
Letting the silence stretch.
Letting the tension build.
My heart hammers against my ribs. Sweat beads at my temples despite my determination.
Don’t give in. Don’t let him win.
Minutes pass. Or maybe just seconds. Time warps under that stare.
Around us, other orcs eat and drink. Conversations resume at a lower volume. But all eyes keep flicking back to the high table. To me.
Then he moves.
He tears a strip of meat from his plate—boar, still dripping with juice and spices—and holds it out to me.
One word. “Eat.”
His voice is low. Commanding. A rumble that travels through the floor and up into my bones.
I shake my head, refusing to even look at the offered food.
He leans closer.
So close his scent surrounds me completely. Leather and smoke and wolf musk and something underneath that’s purely him. Something primal that makes my breath catch despite every instinct screaming at me to pull away.
He presses the meat to my lips. Holding it there. Waiting.
His thumb grazes my lower lip in a deliberate brush. Rough callus against soft skin.
Heat floods through my stomach and lower. Traitorous body responding to the touch, to the proximity, to the dominance radiating off him.
I hate it.
Hate that my skin flushes. Hate that my pulse jumps. Hate that some part of me wants to lean into that touch instead of away from it.
I slap his hand away hard.
The meat falls to the floor with a wet thud.
