"Softness is not weakness." He was watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "A body like yours speaks of plenty. Of warmth. Of—" He stopped, and she saw his jaw tighten, a visible exercise of restraint. "You are considered beautiful. By our standards. Profoundly so."
She sat back, surprised.
No one had ever called her beautiful. Pretty, perhaps, in the way that plain girls were sometimes called pretty by relatives who felt obligated. Handsome, once, by a fellow scholar who had meant it as a compliment to her mind rather than her face. But beautiful—
"You seem unconvinced," Targesh said.
"I am—" Verity pressed her palms flat against her thighs. "In Valdara, I am not considered beautiful. I am considered... substantial. Which is not the same thing."
The fire crackled. Outside, the wind had risen, pressing against the shuttered windows with low moans. The fortress sounds seemed very far away.
"When Durgan spoke to you this morning," Targesh said, "I wanted to remove him from the hall."
Verity blinked. "Why?"
He held her gaze. "Because I have been thinking of your body since the moment you arrived." Simple. Flat. Absolute. "And I do not share."
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. Her fingers curled against her thighs.
"Oh," she said.
Brilliant. Truly.
"I did not intend to say that tonight." He set his cup down carefully. "The report. The meal. I meant for this to be—"
"Professional?" she offered.
His jaw shifted. "Controlled."
He leaned forward, and the motion brought him close enough that she could see the individual scars mapping his face, the texture of his skin, the way firelight caught the curve of his tusks.
"I would like to touch you," he said.
Verity's breath caught. Her hands were still pressed flat against her thighs, anchoring her to the chair.
She nodded.
He reached across the table. His hand moved slowly, giving her time to flinch, to pull back, to remember that she was a Valdaran scholar and he was an orc warchief and this was madness.
She didn't move.
His palm settled against her cheek.
She had known, abstractly, that his hands were large, but knowing was different from feeling. His hand curved around the side of her face, fingers extending past her temple, thumbresting near the corner of her mouth. He could have cupped her entire skull in one palm.
He held still. Watching her. The rough texture of his skin caught against hers, calluses mapping years of warfare across her cheekbone.
Verity turned her head, just slightly, and pressed into his palm.
"Your skin." His voice had dropped to a rasp. "In the firelight. Do you know what you look like?"
"No," she whispered.
"Warm," he said. "Warm and gold and—" His thumb traced her lower lip, and her breath stuttered, her fingers tightening on the chair's edge. "I should stop."
"Yes," she agreed, though she made no move away.
"I am going to kiss you instead."
