19. Mira
MIRA
T he morning came golden and too bright.
Sunlight poured through the mouth of the cave, gilding the stone walls and catching in the smoldering remains of the fire. I lay still beneath the furs, the warmth of Gorran’s body long gone, replaced by the chill of clarity.
Everything that had almost happened last night echoed through my limbs like a fever. His mouth, his hands, the heat of him between my thighs—and then that voice, low and certain in the dark: Not until you say the words.
I should have felt relieved. Grateful, even. He hadn’t taken what I couldn’t give. But instead, I felt cracked open.
Shaken.
And gods help me, I was angry.
Not at him. Not really. At myself. At this longing that wouldn’t let go. At the way I was folding—slowly, surely—toward him.
At my stupid indecision, fear, and hesitation.
Orc.
Human.
No.
Man.
Woman.
That was what it should be. He wouldn’t hurt me—not intentionally, anyway.
I pushed the furs back and stepped outside into the light.
The forest greeted me in full bloom. The storm had passed, leaving everything drenched and gleaming, the air thick with petrichor and pine. Drops clung to the leaves like diamonds. Birds sang from somewhere high up in the canopy.
I walked forward until the cave was at my back, the sun warming my shoulders. I needed to move. To breathe.
Gorran was there, crouched by the stream, sharpening one of his knives again. He didn’t speak, didn’t rise. Just looked at me with that unreadable expression, as if he already knew.
“I need time,” I said, folding my arms. “Just... space. To think.”
A pause. A long one.
Then, to my surprise, he nodded.
“Take what you need.”
No argument. No challenge. Just calm acceptance.
It threw me off more than if he’d tried to stop me.
So I turned and walked into the woods.
The forest was thick and vibrant, alive with birdsong and the soft creak of branches above.
I followed a narrow animal path, brushing ferns aside, stepping carefully over mossy roots.
There was a strange, gentle beauty here: wildflowers blooming in sun-dappled pockets of light, butterflies flitting through the underbrush.
And strawberries.
I found them in a patch near a fallen tree: small, red, and glistening with dew. I crouched, gathering a few, the sweet scent rising as I crushed one between my fingers.
I ate slowly, letting the juice stain my fingertips.
The woods felt safe.
And not just because they were beautiful.
Because I knew he was there. Somewhere in the trees, silent as ever, watching. Protecting.
It didn’t feel like a cage.
It didn’t feel like control.
It felt like... presence. Steady. Quiet. Unshakable.
And I liked it.
By the time I returned to the cave, the sun was starting to dip, casting the rocks in long, soft shadows. I avoided his eyes as I stepped inside. He was sitting by the fire again, carving something in his lap.
I paced the far end of the space, restless, unsettled, until I finally turned to him.
“You hold back,” I said, crossing my arms. “How are you so patient?”
He looked up at me slowly. The firelight cast his face in gold and shadow, catching the quiet stillness of him, the weight behind his gaze.
“Because it’s you,” he said simply. “You are a good thing. And for good things… I wait.”
The words hit somewhere deep.
Nobody had ever spoken to me like that. No one had ever looked at me like he did, with that steady, restrained hunger, like I was something precious and wild, not something to be tamed or broken.
His eyes held mine, dark and molten, filled with heat and held-back power.
My breath caught.
And there it was again: that low, rising hum inside me. That wanting.
I turned back to the fire, pulse quickening, cheeks hot. But I could feel his gaze lingering.
And I thought, Tonight.