25. Mira
MIRA
T he first thing I noticed was the quiet.
Not the brittle, stifling quiet of a stone keep at dawn, but the soft hush of birdsong, of wind through pine needles, of the earth stirring gently awake. The cave was bathed in gold, the light pooling near the entrance, brushing over stone and fur and the bare length of my thigh.
And beside me, still as stone and just as solid, Gorran slept.
He looked different like this.
The deep lines of his brow had eased. His mouth—usually a flat, unsmiling thing—was relaxed, almost soft. One massive arm lay above his head, the other curled loosely at my waist, fingers splayed like he’d fallen asleep still reaching for me.
I studied him in silence.
So much of him was savage and terrifying. That first day, when he emerged from the trees, blood on his tusks, the wolves crumpled beneath him, I’d thought he was death itself.
Now, here he was. Peaceful, almost dreamy. As if the world outside didn’t matter.
And maybe, for the moment, it didn’t.
I slid from the furs slowly, careful not to wake him. My legs were sore in a way that made me smile to myself. Feeling warm and languid, I padded over to where my things were gathered, rummaging through the pile until I found it.
The pendant.
I’d hidden it days ago, stuffed deep into the furs in a moment of rebellion. A carved fang, polished bone threaded with dark cord. It was crude and a little wild, but beautiful.
Orc courting , I’d thought with exasperation when he gave it to me.
Now, I slipped it over my head without hesitation.
It settled between my collarbones, cool and familiar, as though it had always belonged there.
“You kept it,” came a low voice behind me.
I turned.
Gorran was awake.
He was propped on one elbow, tousled and rumpled and sinfully naked beneath the furs. His dark eyes drank me in, lingering on the pendant before sliding down, over the curve of my simple slip, the bare line of my leg.
“How long have you been watching me?” I asked, heat creeping up my neck.
His grin was slow and dangerous and irresistible. “Long enough.”
I crossed my arms—mostly for something to do with them. “You could’ve said something.”
“I was enjoying the view.”
My heart did an inconvenient little flip. He sat up, the blanket falling to his waist, and held out a hand.
“Come here.”
I did.
Because gods help me, I always did.
He pulled me gently into his lap, pressing a kiss to my bare shoulder, then lower, to the swell of my chest. His palm curved around my waist, his thumb grazing the pendant. “It looks good on you,” he murmured, mouth brushing my skin. “Looks right.”
I leaned against him, my forehead to his. “What now?”
“Now?” He pulled back enough to look at me. “We go to Ardarell.”
I blinked. “The village?”
He nodded. “To the south. Through the woods. There’s a market. You can get whatever you want.”
I tilted my head. “And how, exactly, do you plan to pay for that?”
He shrugged one muscled shoulder. “I have gold. From many battles.”
Of course he did.
“I’ll buy you a gift,” he added, almost shyly. “Anything you choose. And if you want…” He hesitated. “I could build you a house. A real one. With big rooms, a kitchen, solid doors, and a grand staircase.”
I blinked. The idea was… sweet. Thoughtful. A little overwhelming.
But then I looked around, taking in the stone walls, the fading embers in the firepit, and the scent of pine smoke and warm fur. And him. Always him.
It was enough.
“I don’t want a house,” I said softly. “I want this.”
He frowned slightly, unsure. “This?”
“This cave. This quiet. This warmth.” I brushed his jaw with my thumb. “This life. It’s simple. It’s peaceful. And it’s ours. I like it very much.”
He was quiet for a moment, then nodded once, fiercely satisfied. “Then the cave it is.”
His hand slid up to cradle my jaw. He kissed me then, unhurried and sweet, with the promise of everything still to come. Not just passion. But home. A future. Something lasting.
And as the birds sang outside, and the trees whispered in the breeze, I realized something:
This wasn’t the ending.
Not really.
This was just the beginning.