She was wearing his clothes.
The thought made herhead spin.
When Ralvar returned, she was huddled on the furs in his oversized tunic, her wet dress spread near the fire to dry, her ruined ankle throbbing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
He didn't comment on the tunic. Didn't even seem to look at her body in it. He simply crossed to his pack, pulled out a packet wrapped in leather, and offered it to her without ceremony.
"Eat."
It was dried meat and dense bread. Simple. Travel food.
It was also the first food she'd had in nearly two days.
Delia ate like an animal.
She couldn't help it. The hunger that had been buried under fear and cold and exhaustion erupted the moment the food touched her tongue, and she was tearing into the dried meat, shoving bread into her mouth, barely chewing before she swallowed. Some distant part of her brain was mortified—look at you, eating like a pig.
But Ralvar wasn't looking at her with disgust. He wasn't looking at her at all. He'd settled on the opposite side of the fire, as far from her as the small room allowed, and he was methodically cleaning his weapons. Giving her space. Giving her privacy.
When the food was gone, Delia finally let herself stop. Breathe. Feel the warmth of the fire and the solid ground beneath her and the unfamiliar sensation of being... fed.
"Thank you."
The words came out rough and unpracticed. She didn't know why she said them. He was still a monster, still terrifying,still everything she should fear. But he'd given her food and clothes and fire and safety, and some bone-deep part of her responded to that.
Ralvar looked up.
For a moment, their eyes met across the flames.
"Rest," he said quietly. "The men who had you won't find this place in the dark. You're safe until morning."
Safe.
The word felt impossible. Absurd. She was alone in a watchtower with an orc warrior who had blood on his hands and tusks that could gore her through, and he was telling her she wassafe.
"How do I know—" She stopped. Started again. "How do I know you won't—while I'm sleeping—"
The question was unfair. She knew it was unfair. He'd done nothing but help her. But she was still human, still raised on stories of what orcs did to captured women, and the fear was too old and too deep to simply vanish.
"You don't," he said. "You only have my word. And I know human experience has given you no reason to trust that."
He turned back to his weapons. The firelight caught the war-marks on his shoulders and the scars on his hands.
"Sleep or don't. But I will not touch you. I will not approach you. I will stay on this side of the fire until morning, and when the sun rises, you can decide what you want to do next."
Delia pulled the furs closer around her shoulders.
She didn't trust him. Couldn't trust him. Twenty-three years of fear and propaganda and stories whispered in the dark didn't disappear because one orc had shown her kindness.
But…
He wasn't acting like the monsters in the stories. He wasn't snarling or threatening or looking at her hungrily. He was sitting quietly on the far side of a fire, maintaining his weapons, giving her every bit of space the small room allowed.
His actions didn't match what she'd been taught to expect.
That doesn't mean anything.He's just—he's waiting. He's lulling you into a false sense of security.
But she was tired. So tired. The cold had taken everything out of her, and the fire was warm, and the furs were soft, and his oversized tunic smelled like pine.
