Ralvar wrapped his arms around her. Held her close. She wasn't crying, but he could feel the tremors running through her, the way her hands fisted in his vest, the raggedness of her breathing.
He said nothing. Sometimes there were no words for the things that needed releasing. He simply held her, one hand stroking slowly down her spine, and let her shake apart in his arms.
The afternoon faded into evening.
At some point, Delia had climbed off his lap and returned to her place against the wall. Ralvar had let her go, though every instinct screamed at him to pull her back. To keep her close. To never let her out of arm's reach again.
But she needed space. He could see it in the way she held herself, the slight distance she put between them. She was processing. Thinking. And he would not crowd her while she did.
So he busied himself with tasks. Fed the fire. Prepared the remaining rabbit for later. Checked the door, the windows, the gaps in the walls where an enemy might slip through. The watchtower was as secure as it could be, but the routine of checking helped him focus on anything but the woman across the room.
It didn't work particularly well.
He remained hyperaware of her. Her breathing. The small sounds she made as she shifted position. The way the firelight caught the brown of her hair, turned it almost gold in places. She'd finished repairing his vest at some point, and now she was simply sitting, staring into the flames, lost in thoughts he couldn't read.
The scent of her desire had faded, but not disappeared. It lingered in the air like smoke, and every time he breathed, he tasted it.
Control.
Night fell slowly. The light through the ruined walls shifted from gray to purple to black, and the fire became the only illumination. Ralvar ate sparingly and watched Delia pick at the food he'd set aside for her.
"You should sleep," he said eventually. His voice sounded too loud in the quiet. "Your body needs rest to heal."
"I know." She didn't move. "I don't think I can."
"The furs are—"
"It's not the furs." She was staring at the fire, holding herself with that careful stillness. "It's everything else. Every time I close my eyes, I see the wagon. The guards. I feel the ropes on my wrists and hear them talking about the worksite and—" She stopped and drew a breath. "I know I'm safe here. I know that, I believe it. But my body doesn't seem to understand."
Ralvar was quiet for a moment. Then he said: "Would you like me to keep watch? I can stay awake while you try to rest. Nothing will reach you without going through me first."
"You did that last night."
"Yes."
"You can't stay awake forever."
"I can stay awake tonight." He met her eyes across the fire. "And tomorrow. And as many nights as you need, until your body learns that safety is not a lie."
She stared at him for a long moment. Then she turned her face away, and he saw her throat move as she swallowed.
"Okay," she said quietly. "I'll try to sleep."
She arranged herself on the furs, pulling them up around her shoulders. Her back was to him, giving herself privacy. He watched her settle, then turned his attention to the fire, to the darkness beyond the walls, to anything except the woman he wanted to touch.
The night stretched on.
Ralvar did not sleep.
He sat against the wall opposite her, his back to the stone, his weapons within easy reach. The fire burned low, and the shadows in the watchtower grew long and strange.
Outside, the forest was quiet. No sound of pursuit. No crack of branches or muffled voices that might signal the guards' approach.
He should have been thinking about tactics. About routes and defenses and contingency plans. About how to get her to the outpost when she couldn't walk, how to explain her presence to his warriors, how to navigate the political complications of an orc captain protecting a human woman fleeing human law.
Instead, he thought about the taste of her mouth.
The soft weight of her in his lap.
