Now she stood in the doorway with Varek's hand on the small of her back and watched thirty orcs eat breakfast.
They weren't quiet about it.
The sounds hit her first. Grunts of appreciation. The wet tear of meat from bone. Laughter, rough and loud, punctuated by fists slamming on tables in what seemed to be approval. Someone at the far end of the hall belched enormously and received a cheer for it.
The smell hit her next. Roasted meat, wood smoke, something herbed and rich that made her stomach clench with sudden hunger. She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Hadn't thought about eating, with everything else.
"They cooked this themselves?" Mab asked.
Varek glanced down at her. "Who else would cook it?"
"I just—" She stopped. Reorganized. "At the holding, warriors didn't cook. That was kitchen work. Beneath them."
"Nothing is beneath a man who wants to eat." Varek's hand pressed lightly against her back, guiding her forward. "Sit with me."
The hall quieted as they walked between the tables. Not silent, but the laughter dimmed. Eyes tracked them. Tracked her, specifically, in her ridiculous nightgown with its cinched belt and trailing hem. Mab kept her gaze forward. She'd spent her whole life being looked through. Being looked at was worse.
Varek led them to the head table. The lord's chair was empty, but the benches on either side were occupied. Orcs with braided hair and scarred knuckles, eating with the same loud appreciation as the rest of the hall.
One of them looked up as they approached. Younger than Varek, broader through the shoulders, with a grin that split his face wide enough to show both tusks.
"Brother." The word came out warm, teasing. "You brought your humans to breakfast."
"Drogga." Varek's voice carried a warning that his brother ignored completely.
"Sit, sit." Drogga slid over on the bench, making room that wasn't strictly necessary. His eyes moved over Mab and the children with open curiosity. "The little ones look hungry."
Varek sat on the bench with his back to the wall. Before Mab could figure out where she was supposed to go, his hands closed around her waist and lifted her onto his lap.
She made a sound. Not quite a yelp. More like the noise a cat makes when you pick it up without warning.
"I can sit on the bench," she said, her voice coming out higher than she intended.
"You can." Varek's arm settled around her waist, anchoring her against his chest. "You're not going to."
Mab's face was burning. Thirty orcs in this hall, and she was sitting in their leader's lap like a child at a feast day. But his arm was warm around her waist, and his chest was solid against her back, and she hadn't been held like this since—
Never.
She let herself settle against him and felt his arm tighten in response.
"Better," he said, low enough that only she could hear.
Tibbs and Annie stood frozen at the end of the table, watching with wide eyes. Drogga patted the bench beside him.
"You two. Here. Before the food gets cold."
Annie looked at Mab. Mab nodded, and Annie scrambled onto the bench with Tibbs close behind. They sat pressed together,shoulders touching, a united front against the strangeness of everything.
Drogga pushed a platter toward them. Roasted meat, sliced thick, still steaming. Bread torn into chunks rather than cut. A bowl of porridge that smelled like herbs and honey.
"Eat," he said. "You look like you haven't had a proper meal in a year."
Annie reached for the bread, then stopped, her hand hovering. She looked at Mab again.
"It's all right," Mab said. "Eat."
Annie grabbed a chunk of bread and bit into it like she expected someone to snatch it away. Tibbs was slower, but his hand found the meat platter and didn't leave it.
