Chapter 4
The orc was still kneeling.
This massive creature who could probably tear her apart with his bare hands, who had blood on his knuckles and tusks that gleamed like polished bone in the darkness.
He'd lowered himself to the ground like a man trying not to spook a frightened animal, and he was watching her with those strange bright eyes, waiting.
For her.
For her to decide.
The absurdity of it nearly made her laugh. Or sob. She couldn't tell which urge was winning.
"You're shaking."
His voice rumbled through the hollow, low and rough-edged but strangely gentle. Like he was trying to make himself smaller with his words in the same way he'd made himself smaller with his body.
"I know," she managed through chattering teeth. "I c-can't stop."
"You won't stop until you're warm. And you won't get warm here." He kept his hands exactly where they were. "The watchtower is not far. Perhaps a quarter mile. Can you walk?"
Could she walk?
Her ankle had gone from screaming to a dull, ominous throb somewhere in the last few hours, which probably meant it was worse than she'd thought.
She'd felt it swell inside her shoe, felt the terrible pressure of flesh meeting leather with no room to give.
She'd been trying very hard not to think about what that meant.
"I don't—" She stopped. Swallowed. "My ankle. I hurt it. When I ran. I don't think I can—"
She gestured vaguely, hating herself for the admission. Hating the weakness in her voice, the way her body had failed her again, the way she was sitting here telling a monster that she couldn't run from him even if she wanted to.
As if he couldn't already tell.
His expression shifted. She'd expected pleasure, expected the predatory satisfaction of knowing his prey was trapped. But that wasn't what she saw. What she saw looked almost like... concern.
"May I look at it?"
The question was so unexpected that she didn't answer for a moment. He wanted to look at her ankle? The orc with blood still drying on his hands wanted to examine her injury?
"Why?"
"To know how serious it is." He tilted his head slightly, and the movement made the war-marks on his shoulders catch what little light there was. "If it's broken, carrying you will require more care."
Carrying her.
"You can't—" The protest came out before she could stop it, automatic and instinctive. "I'm too—you can't carry me."
He looked at her, those strange amber eyes moving over her face like he was trying to read something written there.
"Why?" The question was simple. Almost curious. Like he genuinely didn't understand.
Delia wanted to scream.
Because I'm too heavy, she wanted to say. Because I'm too much. Because my whole life people have told me I take up too much space, need too much, weigh too much, and you can't possibly—no one could possibly—
But the words stuck in her throat.
She was too tired for shame. That was the truth of it. The cold had leeched everything out of her—the fear, the anger, the energy required to hate herself properly. All that was left was the raw animal need to survive.
And he was offering survival.
"Fine," she heard herself say. The word came out thin and defeated. "Fine. Just—don't drop me."
Amusement flickered across his face. "I won't."
He moved then, slowly, giving her time to track every motion. He rose from his knees in a fluid surge of muscle, and gods, he was tall. He blocked out the darkness behind him. Blocked out everything.
Then he was beside her, crouching again, and his presence was overwhelming in a different way, not just size, but heat. She could feel it radiating off him, impossible warmth in the cold, wet night. Like he was a furnace wrapped in green skin.
"I'm going to lift you now."
His hands hovered near her—one at her back, one beneath her knees—waiting. Not touching. Not until she gave permission.
She didn't know what to do with that. With any of this. With the fact that a creature she'd been taught to fear since childhood was asking her consent before he touched her.
"Okay," she whispered.
His hands slid beneath her.
And then she was rising, the world tilting, her stomach dropping, and she was pressed against a chest that felt like warm stone, cradled in arms that didn't shake, didn't strain, didn't do any of the things she'd expected.
He carried her like she weighed nothing.
Delia's mind went briefly, completely blank.
This wasn't—he couldn't—she was too heavy for this—
But he was already walking. Moving through the forest with long strides that barely jostled her, navigating roots and rocks and fallen branches like they weren't even obstacles.
And his arms didn't tremble. His breath didn't catch.
His expression, when she dared to glance up at his face, showed no strain at all.
Something cracked open in Delia's chest.
She didn't know what it was. Couldn't name it.
It felt raw and painful and dangerous, like a wound she hadn't known she had suddenly exposed to air.
All those years of being told she was too much, all those comments about her size, all those looks of pity and disgust from human men who saw her curves and her softness and decided she was worth less for them—
And this orc was carrying her through a forest like the weight of her didn't matter at all.
It doesn't mean anything, she told herself frantically. He's an orc. He's probably stronger than any human man. This isn't—it doesn't—
But her body wasn't listening to logic. Her body was responding to sensation. To the solid wall of muscle beneath her cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her palm, the arms wrapped around her holding her safe. She hadn't been held like this since—
Since ever.
No one had ever held her like this.
Not her mother, who had always kept a careful distance. Not her father, whose affection had come in words and gestures, never embrace. Not any of the boys she'd watched dance with other girls at village festivals, never once asking her.
Twenty-three years of not being held, and now—
Now an orc was cradling her against his chest like her weight and her curves and all the things humans had taught her to hate about herself were simply irrelevant.
Stop. Stop thinking like this. He's a monster. He's probably just—
Just what?
She couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't come up with a sinister motive that fit what was happening. He hadn't hurt her. Hadn't even touched her without asking. Was carrying her to shelter with the kind of care she'd never experienced from anyone in her life.
"What's your name?"
The question startled her. She looked up and found him looking straight ahead, navigating the darkness with apparent ease.
"Delia," she heard herself say. "Delia Harrowmere."
"Delia."
The way he said it made her stomach flip. The orcish accent turned the syllables rougher, giving them a weight they didn't have when humans said them. Like her name meant something in his mouth.
"I'm Ralvar." He glanced down at her briefly before returning his attention to the forest. "Ralvar Stonefang. Captain of the Northwatch Patrol."
Captain.
So he wasn't just some random monster. He had a rank. A position. He was someone.
It shouldn't have mattered. Didn't matter. He was still an orc. Still terrifying. Still covered in blood that probably wasn't his, still tusked and massive and everything she'd been taught to fear.
But he'd given her his name.
The crack in her chest widened.
Delia pressed her face against his shoulder and focused on breathing.
The watchtower emerged from the darkness like a broken tooth.
It was old, the stones dark with age and moss, the upper portions crumbled away by time or violence. But the base was intact, and the doorway that Ralvar ducked through was solid enough, leading into a chamber that was small and cold but dry.
Dry. After so much time in the cold and the rain, after the soaking and the mud and the slow leeching cold that had been pulling her toward death, the simple absence of water felt like a miracle.
Ralvar set her down carefully, lowering her onto what looked like a sleeping pallet in the corner—furs spread over pine boughs, clearly assembled by someone who used this place regularly. When her weight left his arms, Delia wanted to protest.
No. Stay. Warm.
She crushed the thought violently.
"I need to build a fire." He was already moving toward the center of the room, where she could see the blackened stones of a fire pit. "Don't try to stand on that ankle."
As if she was going to try to stand. As if she was going to do anything except sit here on this pile of furs and try not to shatter into pieces.
Delia watched him work. Steady hands placing kindling. Patient adjustments to the draft. A striker that sparked once, twice, and caught on the third attempt.
The flames licked to life.
Orange light filled the watchtower, and suddenly she could see him. Really see him, not just the dark silhouette he'd been in the forest.
He was terrifying.
She'd known that already, had felt it in her bones from the moment he appeared. But seeing the massive shoulders and scarred green skin, the war-marks that covered his arms and chest, the tusks that curved from his lower jaw, the sheer inhuman size of him—
She should have been screaming again.
But she wasn’t.
Because the firelight also showed her other things.
The care with which he tended the flames.
The way he glanced at her periodically, like he was checking that she was still there, still alive, still within his ability to protect.
The blood on his knuckles that was old, dried, from a fight that happened before he found her.
He'd been fighting humans. Killing them, probably. And then he'd found her, and he'd...
He'd knelt down. Shown her his empty hands. Spoken to her like she was a frightened animal that needed gentling.
None of this made sense.
"Here."
She flinched. He was holding out something. A bundle of cloth. When she didn't immediately take it, he set it on the furs beside her.
"Dry clothes."
Delia looked at the bundle. Then at Ralvar. Then at the fire.
"I'm going to check the perimeter," he said, already turning away. "You can change. I won't look."
And then he was gone, ducking through the doorway, disappearing into the darkness outside, and she was alone.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
The fire crackled. The warmth of it was starting to reach her now, sinking through her frozen skin, and her shivering had intensified in response. That was good, she remembered. Shivering meant her body was still fighting. It was when the shivering stopped that you were in trouble.
She looked at the bundle of cloth.
It was a tunic. Orc-sized, which meant it would hang to her knees on her. But dry. Warm.
Delia changed quickly, peeling the sodden dress away from her skin and pulling the dry tunic over her head. The fabric was some kind of woven linen, worn soft by use. It smelled like pine and woodsmoke and something deep and warm.
It smelled like him.
She was wearing his clothes.
The thought made her head spin.
When Ralvar returned, she was huddled on the furs in his oversized tunic, her wet dress spread near the fire to dry, her ruined ankle throbbing in rhythm with her heartbeat.
He didn't comment on the tunic. Didn't even seem to look at her body in it. He simply crossed to his pack, pulled out a packet wrapped in leather, and offered it to her without ceremony.
"Eat."
It was dried meat and dense bread. Simple. Travel food.
It was also the first food she'd had in nearly two days.
Delia ate like an animal.
She couldn't help it. The hunger that had been buried under fear and cold and exhaustion erupted the moment the food touched her tongue, and she was tearing into the dried meat, shoving bread into her mouth, barely chewing before she swallowed.
Some distant part of her brain was mortified—look at you, eating like a pig.
But Ralvar wasn't looking at her with disgust. He wasn't looking at her at all. He'd settled on the opposite side of the fire, as far from her as the small room allowed, and he was methodically cleaning his weapons. Giving her space. Giving her privacy.
When the food was gone, Delia finally let herself stop. Breathe. Feel the warmth of the fire and the solid ground beneath her and the unfamiliar sensation of being... fed.
"Thank you."
The words came out rough and unpracticed. She didn't know why she said them. He was still a monster, still terrifying, still everything she should fear. But he'd given her food and clothes and fire and safety, and some bone-deep part of her responded to that.
Ralvar looked up.
For a moment, their eyes met across the flames.
"Rest," he said quietly. "The men who had you won't find this place in the dark. You're safe until morning."
Safe.
The word felt impossible. Absurd. She was alone in a watchtower with an orc warrior who had blood on his hands and tusks that could gore her through, and he was telling her she was safe.
"How do I know—" She stopped. Started again. "How do I know you won't—while I'm sleeping—"
The question was unfair. She knew it was unfair. He'd done nothing but help her. But she was still human, still raised on stories of what orcs did to captured women, and the fear was too old and too deep to simply vanish.
"You don't," he said. "You only have my word. And I know human experience has given you no reason to trust that."
He turned back to his weapons. The firelight caught the war-marks on his shoulders and the scars on his hands.
"Sleep or don't. But I will not touch you. I will not approach you. I will stay on this side of the fire until morning, and when the sun rises, you can decide what you want to do next."
Delia pulled the furs closer around her shoulders.
She didn't trust him. Couldn't trust him. Twenty-three years of fear and propaganda and stories whispered in the dark didn't disappear because one orc had shown her kindness.
But…
He wasn't acting like the monsters in the stories. He wasn't snarling or threatening or looking at her hungrily. He was sitting quietly on the far side of a fire, maintaining his weapons, giving her every bit of space the small room allowed.
His actions didn't match what she'd been taught to expect.
That doesn't mean anything. He's just—he's waiting. He's lulling you into a false sense of security.
But she was tired. So tired. The cold had taken everything out of her, and the fire was warm, and the furs were soft, and his oversized tunic smelled like pine.
Her eyes drifted closed.
She didn't trust him.
But for the first time since the guards had come for her, for the first time since her family had sold her like livestock, for the first time in longer than she wanted to admit—
She didn't feel like prey.