"I've never touched an orc before." Her voice comes out soft. "Can I?"
I should say no. Every rational thought in my head screams to step back, keep the distance, don't let her touch me like she's not afraid of what I am
"Yes."
Her fingers reach up. Brush my jaw first—light, tentative. Then trace higher. Finding the edge of my tusk where it curves up from my lip. She touches the iron cap, cool metal under her fingertips, then moves to the tusk itself. Runs her thumb along the smooth surface.
I stop breathing.
No one touches an orc's tusks. Not like this. Not with wonder instead of fear.
She's so close. Her scent floods the room until I can't smell anything else—not rain, not wood smoke, not my own skin.
Mate.
The word detonates in my skull. My father's tongue. The old language I've spent twenty years burying.
Mine.
My hand shoots up, catches her wrist. Not hard but firm. Stopping her.
Her breath catches. Her pupils blow wide. She feels something too. I see it in her face, the flush spreading across her cheeks.
For one heartbeat I consider pulling her closer. Burying my face in her neck. Finding out if she tastes the way she smells.
Instead, I release her wrist and step back. Put distance between us before I do something I can't take back.
"There's a lock on the door. My brothers won't bother you, but if it helps you feel safe—use it."
I don't wait for an answer. I'm out the door and pulling it shut behind me before I can change my mind, bracing my hands against the corridor wall while my chest heaves like I've sprinted a mile.
A sound builds in my throat that I swallow before it escapes.
I ignore it and walk to my quarters, shedding my wet jacket along the way. Brothers pass me in the hall. They have the sense not to speak. I close my door, sink onto the edge of my bed, and stare at the ceiling.
The old bastard would laugh himself sick if he could see me now. His wayward son. The prince who walked away from a throne. Getting twisted up over a human woman half his age.
She's young. Too young for me—I'd guess late twenties, maybe less. Hasn't figured out who she is yet. And I'm sitting here with her scent filling my lungs and her eyes burned into my memory and every instinct I have demanding I go back to that room.
Tomorrow I'll put brothers on the roads into town. Watching for strangers. She hasn't asked me to. Won't know I did.
Like she belongs to me.
She doesn't. She's running from something and deserves better than a monster who still feels the pull of his father's wars.
But the thought won't leave.
What is she running from?
And who do I have to kill to keep her safe?
