"Ralvar?" Delia's voice was barely a whisper.
He turned back to her, already calculating routes and timelines. "Someone was close."
Her face went pale, but she didn't panic. He watched her gather herself. That stubborn fire rose in her eyes, stronger than any fear.
"Then we need to go."
"Can you walk?"
"I can try."
She couldn't. He knew it even before she attempted to rise, saw the way her ankle buckled under her weight. But he also knew she would push through it if he asked. Would crawl across the Iron Wilds if it meant freedom.
But he wasn't going to make her.
"I'll carry you."
"Ralvar, you can't carry me for miles—"
"I can." He was already gathering their supplies, sparse as they were. "I have. This is what I am for, Delia. Let me protect you."
She watched him move through the watchtower, dousing the fire, retrieving her torn dress from where it hung drying, checking his weapons. He could feel her eyes on him, feel the weight of whatever she was thinking.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Northwatch. My post. It's two days' travel through rough terrain, but—"
"But what?"
He paused, meeting her eyes.
"Once we're there, you'll be in the heart of orc territory. You'll see my warriors, my people. The way we live." He held her gaze steadily. "You may find us frightening. Many humans do."
A ghost of a smile touched her mouth. "I'm looking at the most frightening orc in the mountains, and I just promised to follow him anywhere. I think I'll manage."
Pride bloomed warm in his chest.
"Then we go." He crouched before her, offering his back. "Climb on. Hold tight."
She hesitated for only a moment before wrapping her arms around his neck.
Her weight settled against him, and Ralvar rose smoothly to his feet. He felt her arms tighten, felt her thighs grip his waist, felt the press of her curves against his back.
Mine.
He stepped out of the watchtower and into the forest.
The trees closed around them like old friends, and he began to run. Toward home. Toward whatever came next.
Behind them, the watchtower sat empty.
And somewhere in the distance, hunters were gathering.
Chapter 12
Ralvar's stride was steady, a ground-eating lope that covered distance without apparent effort. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, her thighs gripping his waist, and with each step she felt the shift and bunch of muscle beneath his skin. The power there was staggering. He could have crushed her without thinking. Could have snapped her spine with one careless flex.
Instead, his hands cupped the backs of her thighs with impossible gentleness, adjusting her position whenever she started to slip.
