Chapter 17
When I reached the hut, I called out for him and waited outside. The response came almost immediately; he allowed me to enter. I pushed through the beads and, as soon as I found him, I froze.
Malek was naked, the firelight contouring his powerful body as if it had been carved from marble. He raised his gaze to me, unhurried, as if my seeing him naked was the most natural thing in the world.
I should have apologized and looked away, or anything other than allowing my eyes to roam over every inch of his body.
His broad shoulders seemed even larger under the sparse light.
His skin, a shade darker from his days in the forest, reflected the glow of the hearth fire.
His arms, thick and corded with veins, hung relaxed at his sides, but there was nothing careless about his posture.
Everything about Malek seemed deliberate.
It was a body made for war, yet there was something dangerously intimate about such unashamed nudity. Nothing about him asked for permission—Malek simply was. That confidence made my stomach tighten, a sudden warmth pooling low in my belly, betraying thoughts I shouldn’t have.
The air seemed thinner inside the hut, too heavy for my lungs.
Every second before him made me more aware of the way his presence filled the space.
When he turned and stood fully facing me, I felt my soul abandon my body.
It took every ounce of my self-control to keep my gaze on his face, and not on the member hanging between his legs like a snake poised to strike.
I took a step back, swallowing hard. Heat rose like a wildfire through my body, igniting my skin and consuming every nerve ending. Before me, Malek closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring as he inhaled my scent.
When he opened his eyes again, his pupils were so dilated that the brown of his iris had almost vanished.
The shift in his aura was subtle but clear to me.
The Ruk’hai adjusted his shoulders, his entire body assuming a predatory stance.
There was no rush in his movements, only a dangerous restraint, as if he were deciding exactly how far to let us both go.
"I-I’m sorry," I stammered, trying to look away, but my treacherous eyes refused to obey. In my peripheral vision, I could almost catch a glimpse of everything. "I didn’t know you were…" The words died on my mouth as I gestured to his naked body.
Malek raised an eyebrow, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Washing myself?" he finished for me. "You called."
Before I could muster a response, he turned and stepped into the wooden tub, already filled with steaming water.
The liquid displaced around his massive frame, small waves lapping against the basin's sides as he settled in.
He leaned back, resting one thick, scarred arm along the rim, looking entirely at ease, making it obvious that my presence was absolutely no reason to embarrass him.
Finally, I forced my gaze to his. He watched me through lowered lashes, eyes heavy. I had the distinct feeling he was waiting for my next move to decide his own.
"I wanted to ask you about the cage," I said, straining to keep my voice steady.
"Why are you so interested?"
Because it was protected by Fae magic, and because the Autumn Court was marching toward Ceilte. The truth burned in my throat, but I didn’t speak it.
"I’m curious," I replied instead. "I’ve never seen a cage protected by magic."
It was the only truth I allowed myself to offer. I tried to ignore the racing of my heart and the way his gaze remained fixed on me. He seemed to read not just my words, but everything I chose to hide.
Malek didn’t respond immediately. He remained motionless, his dark eyes locked onto mine, calculating.
"It’s not your problem, akra’yn," he said.
"Yes, it is," I countered, unable to contain the urgency in my voice. "This could mean war. If that’s the case, we’ll be right in the middle of it."
His gaze sharpened, like an invisible blade being drawn, and swept slowly over my face, examining, searching for cracks—something I couldn’t allow him to find.
"Do you fear war?" he questioned, a trace of subtle mockery in his tone.
I straightened my shoulders. Was he testing me?
"Not of fighting, Ruk’hai. I fear what it’ll do to your clan."
His expression closed off, hardening until it assumed something almost threatening.
"No one attacks Oksha without paying the price," he stated coldly. "Don’t worry."
"Take me to the cage," I insisted.
"No. It isn’t safe."
"You taught me to fight so I could protect myself. I won't stand here still while my home’s in danger."
"Is this your home now?" The question, unexpected, disarmed me.
I wasn’t the orc from Oguk that he believed me to be. My true home was Ceilte, with my family. I simply had to remember that more often.
"It’s the only one I have." The words burned as they left my throat, acidic and weighted with the lies I had to keep to stay alive.
I saw the tension settle into his shoulders, the decision already made. He was going to deny me again. So, before he could, and before my courage failed me, I let the first thing that came to mind slip out:
"Please… I’ll do anything."
The words hung between us, their implicit meaning heavy in the air.
The effect was immediate. Malek didn't answer, but his eyes darkened even further, and his jaw tightened until the bone seemed ready to snap.
He took a deep, slow breath, clearly fighting to keep control.
He shifted slightly in the tub and, without looking at me, turned his back on me.
"Wash my back and redo my braids," he commanded. "That is all I want."
I hesitated. I had never had to wash anyone, not even the lovers I once had. The last time I had braided someone’s hair, I was a girl playing with Kristan. In Ceilte, it would have been an absurdity even to suggest such a thing to a Lord's daughter.
Malek’s brown eyes stared at me over his broad shoulder, challenging, fully aware of my inner conflict.
My proud princess side bristled, but reality weighted heavier.
I took a step forward and lifted my chin, refusing to lower my gaze.
If I was going to do this, it wouldn’t be as a cowering little mouse.
"Don't get used to it," I murmured, more to myself than to him.
The corner of Malek’s mouth curved into a satisfied smile as he shifted his body further, offering me his broad, scar-mapped back and his wet, disheveled hair.
I found the bundle of ingyl leaves beside the tub, along with a small jar of sweet-smelling oil. I soaked the leaves, squeezing the thick, fresh sap into my hands, all the while trying to ignore the nervousness of being so close to the orc.
I felt the heat of his body before I even touched him. For a fraction of a second, I hesitated again. This felt like a path with no return—once I touched him, something fundamental between us would change.
I rested my hands on his shoulders.
Malek reacted immediately. He didn't pull away, but the muscles beneath his skin contracted and then yielded, adjusting to my touch.
His skin was warm and smooth, though the flesh underneath was as hard as stone.
My fingers slid over his broad shoulders, recognizing the tension left behind by battle, and across his muscular back.
The scars became more evident now, raised lines that I delicately traced with my fingertips.
I began to rub the ingyl into his shoulders, my hands moving in slow, circular strokes. As the rhythm settled, my attention shifted to him, tracing every line of his body.
It was strange how this orc—capable of silencing an army with a single look—allowed his guard to lower in my presence, even though I was still little more than a stranger.
Forbidden thoughts crept in—whether his skin would feel as warm beneath my tongue, whether his taste would match the scent that clung to him—earthy and clean, like rain-soaked earth. The spark between us deepened into something fiercer, a steady flame that refused to fade.
My touch drew subtle reactions from him; his breath deepened, his shoulders loosened, and quiet sighs slipped free despite his effort to hold them back. A faint tremor ran down his spine when my fingers lingered a moment too long.
I couldn’t stop the involuntary smile that curved my lips.
Leaving his shoulders, I slid my lathered hands forward, tracing his throat until my palms settled against the heat of his chest. His pulse hammered, a frantic echo of my own.
He remained motionless, eyes closed, granting me the courage to trace the planes of his body and study the markings I had never seen up close.
They were intricate tribal patterns that snaked over his shoulder and spiraled down his shoulder blade.
I felt the faint ridge of ink beneath his skin, a striking contrast to the hard muscle shifting under my touch.
"What do the tattoos mean?" I asked.
He didn't open his eyes. "The song of life," he answered, his voice a low rasp. "Sha’mek hirokan. Every time an orc reaches an important milestone in his life, there’s a tattoo to celebrate it."
That was a beautiful concept. I traced the line of one tattoo in particular, long and sinuous, where it arched across his shoulder.
"And this one?" I murmured, pressing my fingertip against the ink. "What is it?"
Malek opened his eyes and turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the searing intensity in his gaze.
"That’s my first victory. Karurhk menekor. The day I ceased to be ashkem and became Rharh."
Warrior.
The word carried no pride, only a quiet certainty, something etched not just into his skin, but into his very marrow.
It was beautiful, far more intricate than it had seemed from a distance. In the flickering firelight, the lines almost pulsed with a life of their own. Without thinking, I let my fingers drift toward the tattoo on the right side of his neck.
“And this one?”