Chapter 5
Ralvar had not slept.
He could have. His body was trained for the quick, efficient rest of a border warrior, the ability to drop into unconsciousness for an hour or two and wake at the faintest sound. Fifteen years of patrol had honed that skill until it was as natural as breathing.
But every time he closed his eyes, his awareness drifted back to her.
To the soft rhythm of her breathing. To the way the firelight caught the curves of her body beneath his tunic. To the scent of her—human, yes, but something else underneath. Something that called to parts of him he'd thought long dormant.
So he'd stayed awake. Tended the fire. Watched.
Watched her.
The thought should have shamed him. Would have, perhaps, if she'd been an orc. A warrior of his rank staring at a sleeping female like some untested youth would have been unseemly. Embarrassing.
But she wasn't an orc. She was human. And whatever rules governed his behavior with his own kind seemed to dissolve when he looked at her.
Delia.
Even her name felt different in his mind than other names. Softer. Worth remembering.
She'd rolled in her sleep sometime in the last hour, turning toward the fire, and the movement had shifted his tunic higher on her thighs. He could see the curve of her calves now. The generous swell of her hips where the fabric pulled tight. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathed.
Abundant.
That was the word. The word his people used for bodies like hers. Bodies that human culture seemed to despise for reasons Ralvar had never understood.
Among orcs, a female built like this would have suitors fighting for her attention. Would be pursued and flattered and offered gifts until she chose the warrior worthy of her.
She would be considered blessed.
And here she was, half-frozen in his mountains, running from her own kind because they'd decided she was worthless enough to sell.
Something dark and savage stirred in Ralvar's chest.
He wanted to find the men who'd caged her. Wanted to make them understand, in the language of blood and broken bones, exactly how wrong they'd been. Wanted to—
Careful.
He forced the thought down. Controlled it. He was captain of the Northwatch, not some beast driven by rage. His discipline was what separated him from the raiders he killed. From the humans who saw orcs and thought monster.
Though looking at this woman—at Delia—he was beginning to wonder if discipline was enough.
The fire popped, sending sparks spiraling toward the watchtower's ruined roof.
Ralvar added another piece of wood from the pile he'd gathered, moving silently despite his size.
He'd learned that skill young. The Mountain Clan trained their warriors to be ghosts when needed—present and lethal and utterly invisible until the moment they chose to be seen.
He'd never expected to use that training to avoid disturbing a sleeping human.
What are you doing?
The question had been circling since he'd found her.
Since he'd knelt in the mud and shown her his empty hands and felt something fundamental shift in his chest. He knew what the pull was.
Every orc knew, grew up hearing stories of it.
The instinctive recognition. The bone-deep certainty that this one mattered in ways that defied logic or reason.
He'd just never expected to feel it.
Certainly not with a human.
Humans betray.
The old wound throbbed. Keth, Marrus, Thren, Vella—their names carved into stone, their blood on his conscience because he'd believed a human when he should have known better.
That lesson had cost four warriors their lives. Had taught him, in the most painful way possible, that human words were worth nothing.
And yet—
And yet here he was. Watching this particular human sleep.
Thinking about the way she'd felt in his arms when he carried her, the weight of her settling against his chest like she belonged there.
Thinking about those brown eyes looking up at him with fear and confusion and something fragile he wanted to protect even though he barely understood what it was.
She's human, he reminded himself. She'll leave when she's able. Return to her own kind. And you'll be what you've always been—alone.
The thought should have been comforting. He'd been alone for a long time. Had made peace with it, or thought he had. The pull was a myth for other orcs, a destiny he'd assumed wasn't meant for him.
Except she was here.
And his blood knew what his mind refused to accept.
The hours crept past.
Ralvar marked time by the fire's consumption of wood, by the subtle changes in the darkness beyond the watchtower's walls.
His eyes were made for night—another gift of Mountain Clan blood—and he could see the forest clearly through the doorway.
Could see the rain that had started again, lighter now, a steady pattering against stone and leaf.
She slept through all of it. Exhaustion pulling her under, keeping her there despite the hard ground and the strange surroundings and the presence of a creature she'd been taught to fear.
Because she's too tired to be afraid, he told himself. That's all.
But part of him wondered if it was something else. If some instinct in her—quieter than his, perhaps, buried deeper—recognized what his own body already knew.
It was a foolish thought. The delusion of a warrior who'd gone too long without connection.
He reached for his weapons. He’d already cleaned them twice, but the familiar motions gave his hands something to do besides ache to touch her.
The blade whispered against the oiled cloth.
Steel that had ended six raiders tonight.
Six men who'd thought to cross into orc territory and take what they wanted.
They hadn't expected to meet him.
The captain who held the northern border. The orc human traders whispered about in fearful tones. The warrior whose name alone was sometimes enough to turn raiders back.
Now, looking at Delia's sleeping face, he wondered how many years she'd heard similar stories. How deep the fear went. How much he'd have to undo before she could look at him without that careful wariness on her face.
If she ever does.
The thought ached more than it should have.
Near dawn, she began to dream.
Ralvar noticed the change before it became obvious—a subtle shift in her breathing, a tension entering her limbs. His body went alert without conscious decision, every sense focusing on her even as his hands continued their mechanical work on the blade.
She made a sound. Small. Wounded. Like an animal caught in a trap.
His jaw tightened.
Her head turned against the furs, restless and sharp, and her fingers curled into fists. The sounds grew louder. Distressed syllables that weren't quite words, whimpered protests.
Nightmare.
He knew them. Had them himself, sometimes, in the worst hours before dawn.
Dreams where his dead warriors looked at him with accusation in their eyes.
Dreams where the human envoy smiled as the trap closed.
Dreams where he arrived too late, always too late, and the people he should have protected paid for his failure.
Delia's nightmare seemed worse.
She cried out in a genuine cry this time, high and frightened, and her body jerked like she'd been struck. "No—" The word was clear despite her sleep. "Please, no, I can't—don't make me—"
Ralvar was on his feet before he knew he'd moved.
The blade clattered to the stone floor. His body surged toward her, every nerve screaming to reach her, to hold her, to shelter her from whatever horror was pursuing her through unconsciousness—
He stopped.
Three feet away. Close enough to touch if he extended his arm. Close enough to see the tears leaking from beneath her closed eyelids, the desperate twist of her features, the way her fingers clutched at the furs like she was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping away.
But he stopped.
Because she was afraid. Because she'd fallen asleep trusting, however tentatively, that he would stay on his side of the fire. Because if she woke to find him looming over her in the darkness, every bit of progress they'd made would shatter.
Stay back, he commanded himself. She needs to wake on her own. She needs to—
Her eyes flew open.
For one heartbeat, she stared at him without comprehension, pupils blown wide, breath coming in ragged gasps, body still caught between nightmare and waking. Then recognition flooded her face, and with it, fear.
But not just fear.
Something else.
She looked at him—at the massive orc warrior frozen mid-motion, at the arms that had reached for her and then stopped, at the careful distance he was maintaining despite everything in him screaming to close it—and her expression shifted.
"You stopped."
Her voice was hoarse. Raw from sleep and crying and whatever terrors had been chasing her. But the words were clear.
Ralvar swallowed.
"You were afraid."
"...Yes."
The admission hung between them. Honest. Simple. A truth that cost her something to speak.
Ralvar felt his chest expand.
"I will not come closer unless you wish it."
The firelight painted her face in orange and gold, catching the tear-tracks on her cheeks, the confusion in her dark eyes, the way her lips parted slightly like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
He waited.
This was what he'd told her—that she could only trust his actions, not his words. That he couldn't prove his intentions with promises. That she would have to watch him, over time, and draw her own conclusions.
This was part of that watching. This moment, right now, where he stood frozen in her fear and showed her that her comfort mattered more than what he wanted.
"I wasn't—" She stopped. Swallowed. "In the dream, I wasn't here. I was back in the wagon. They were telling me what happens to the workers at the site, and I couldn't—I couldn't get out, I couldn't run, they'd tied my hands tighter and—"
Her voice cracked.