Chapter 8
The rabbit was the best thing Delia had ever tasted.
She knew that wasn't technically true. She'd had fine meals before.
Festival days when her mother splurged on proper cuts of meat, the one time a visiting merchant had given her a honeycake for helping him find directions.
But sitting in this ruined watchtower, wrapped in an orc warrior's tunic, tearing into hot meat with her bare hands while fire-warmth seeped into her bones—
Nothing had ever tasted like this.
"You're making sounds," Ralvar observed. He was watching her, head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring in a way she was beginning to recognize.
Delia froze mid-chew. "What?"
"When you eat. Small sounds." He gestured vaguely toward his own throat. "Here."
Heat flooded her cheeks. She'd been so focused on the food that she hadn't noticed herself making noise. In her mother's house, at the village table, she'd learned to eat silently. Invisibly. To take small bites and chew with her mouth closed and never, ever draw attention to the act of consuming.
"Sorry," she said automatically. "I didn't mean to—"
A low rumble of displeasure interrupted her. "Why are you apologizing?"
"Because it's—" She stopped. Tried to find the words. "It's not polite. To make noise while eating. It's... crude."
Ralvar's brow furrowed. He looked genuinely confused. It was the same expression he'd worn when she'd tried to explain why she couldn't be carried.
"Among my people," he said slowly, "silence while eating is an insult to the cook. It suggests the food is not worth commenting on."
Delia stared at him. "You're saying orcs... want you to make noise?"
"We want honesty. If food is good, we say so. With words or—" He made a low sound in his throat. "With this."
"That's..."
"Crude?" The corner of his mouth twitched.
"Different." She looked down at the rabbit in her hands. The meat was still steaming slightly, juices glistening in the firelight. Her stomach growled, demanding she continue, and for once she didn't feel embarrassed by it.
"Different is not wrong," Ralvar said. "Just different."
She took another bite. Chewed. Let herself taste it properly this time—the char from the fire, the gamey richness of wild meat, the salt he'd rubbed into the skin before cooking. It was good. It was really, genuinely good.
A small sound escaped her throat, something between a hum and a sigh.
Ralvar's eyes crinkled slightly. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Better," he said.
They ate in an almost comfortable silence after that. The fire crackled between them. Outside, the daylight had shifted toward afternoon, pale sun breaking through the clouds for the first time since the storm. Delia could see the shafts of weak gold through the gaps in the watchtower walls.
She'd finished her portion and was licking the grease from her fingers when she caught Ralvar watching her.
Not staring. Not leering. Just... watching. The way you might watch a bird at the window, or flames dancing in a hearth.
"What?" She pulled her fingers from her mouth, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing." He looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the slight tension in his jaw. "Do you want more?"
"There's more?"
He gestured toward the fire, where a second rabbit was spitted over the coals. "I wasn't sure how much you'd need."
"I..." She hesitated. The old training was strong—the voice in her head that said she'd already eaten enough, that wanting more was greedy, that her body didn't deserve to be satisfied. "Maybe a little more."
Ralvar carved off a generous portion and handed it to her. His fingers brushed hers in the transfer, and Delia felt a flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.
"Thank you," she said.
"You keep thanking me."
"You keep giving me things." She bit into the meat and let herself make that small sound again. "Food. Shelter. Dry clothes. Medical care. It's a lot to be grateful for."
"It's basic survival. Anyone would—" He stopped. His jaw tightened again. "Any decent person would."
Delia thought about the guards. About the wagon. About the other workers who'd been too broken to even look at her, too hollowed out to recognize opportunity.
"Not anyone," she said quietly. "Not any human."
Ralvar was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral. "Tell me about human meals."
The subject change was so abrupt that Delia blinked. "What?"
"Meals. How do humans eat? What are your customs?"
It took her a moment to shift gears. "I... we eat at tables, usually. Sitting down. With utensils—forks and knives and spoons."
"Not your hands?"
"Only for bread. Sometimes fruit." She looked at the rabbit meat in her grip, the grease shining on her fingers. "This would be considered uncivilized."
"Why?"
"Because..." She tried to think of a real reason. "I don't know. It's just how it's done."
"What else?"
"Women eat less than men. Usually." The words came out carefully, each one measured. "We're served smaller portions. We're supposed to leave food on our plates to show we're... restrained."
"That is foolish."
"That's custom."
Ralvar shook his head. "Among orcs, everyone eats according to their hunger.
A warrior preparing for battle eats more than one who's resting.
A mother nursing a child eats more than a maiden.
A body doing hard work—" He gestured at her.
"A body recovering from injury and cold needs fuel. It would be foolish to restrict it."
"Human women aren't supposed to be hungry." The bitterness crept into her voice before she could stop it. "We're supposed to be... contained. Small appetites. Small voices. Small—" She stopped. Set down the meat. "Sorry. I don't know why I'm—"
"Don't apologize." His voice was quiet but firm. "You're explaining your world to me. I asked."
She tried to read his expression in the firelight. He didn't seem disgusted or bored or pitying. He seemed... angry. But not at her. At the world that had taught her these things. At cruelty no blade could cut down.
"It must seem strange," she said. "From the outside."
"It seems like cruelty." He bit the words off, each one sharp-edged. "And I have seen much cruelty. This ranks among the worst."
The fire popped. A log shifted, sending sparks spiraling toward the ruined ceiling. Delia watched them rise and fade, orange stars winking out one by one.
"Can I ask you something?" she said.
"Ask."
"The pull. The thing you mentioned last night that made you help me." She hesitated. "Does it... mean something? To orcs? When you feel it toward someone?"
The question hung in the air between them, heavier than Delia had intended. She'd meant it to be academic. Curious. Instead it had come out sounding... hopeful.
"It means many things," Ralvar said finally. "Depending on context. Between warriors, it can mark future shield-brothers. Between kin, it deepens blood-bonds." He paused. "Between a male and female of mating age..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't have to.
Delia's mouth went dry. "Oh."
"I told you before," he said carefully, "that I would not act on instinct alone. That my choices remain my own, whatever my blood demands."
"I remember."
"That has not changed." His hands flexed against his thighs. "The pull does not create obligation. It is not a claim or a contract. It simply... exists. What we do about it is a matter of choice."
Choice. That word again. The one he kept offering her like a gift she didn't know how to unwrap.
"You're very strange," she said.
His mouth twitched. "Am I?"
"I mean—" She gestured helplessly. "You're nothing like the stories. Any of the stories. You're supposed to be a monster, and instead you're... you're..."
She couldn't finish. Couldn't find words for what he was, this massive, terrifying, impossibly gentle creature who had appeared in her darkest hour and refused to behave the way he was supposed to.
Ralvar set down the bone he'd been gnawing. Wiped his hands on his thighs. His movements were slow, the same way he'd approached her in the hollow, telegraphing every motion.
"Can I show you something?"
Her heart stuttered. "Show me what?"
He raised one hand and held it in the air between them. Palm up. Open. She could see the calluses there, the old scars, the sheer size of it. Every instinct she'd been taught screamed at her to refuse. Don't trust him. Don't let him closer. Don't forget what he is.
But those instincts had been wrong about everything else. Wrong about her worth, wrong about her size, wrong about what she deserved.
Maybe they were wrong about this, too.
Delia reached out and placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers. His hand dwarfed hers completely; her fingers disappeared within his grip like a child's. She should have felt trapped. Should have felt small, swallowed, overpowered.
Instead she felt held.
Ralvar tugged gently. Delia let herself be guided around the remains of the fire until she was beside him instead of across from him.
Until she could feel the heat of his body like a furnace at her side.
Until his shoulder loomed beside hers and his thigh was a solid wall of muscle at the edge of her vision.
"This," he said quietly, "is what it feels like."
He turned her hand over in his grip. Pressed his thumb firmly into her palm.
And then he didn't do anything else.
He just... held her hand. Let her feel the weight of him, the warmth of him, the impossible gentleness of those warrior's fingers curved around hers.
Delia's breath caught.
"This is the pull?" she whispered.
"This is the choice." He was close now, his voice low and rough. "To touch. To be near. To let instinct guide us toward each other instead of away."
Delia looked up at him and found his amber eyes waiting for her. Patient. Steady. Burning with desire he was holding very carefully in check.
"You're not pushing," she said.
"I won't."
"You could." Her voice came out strange. Breathless. "You could push, and I couldn't stop you, and we both know that."
"Yes." His thumb traced a slow circle on her palm. "That is exactly why I will not."
She didn't understand him. Her whole life had taught her that men took what they wanted, that women were commodities to be weighed and measured, that bodies like hers were worth less and deserved less and should expect nothing.
But Ralvar was still just holding her hand.
"What if—" She stopped. Swallowed. "What if I wanted you to push?"
The words left her mouth before she could think better of them. Hanging in the air like a challenge, or a confession, or a prayer.
Ralvar went completely still.
"Delia."
His voice had dropped. Rougher now, the growl underneath closer to the surface. His fingers tightened around hers.
"You should be very sure about what you're asking."
"I'm not sure about anything." The honesty came out raw and unfiltered.
"I've never been sure about anything. But I know that—" She looked at their joined hands, at the size difference, at the way his thumb was still tracing that slow circle on her palm.
"I know I don't want you to stop touching me. "
A sound escaped his throat. His free hand came up to cup her face, and she felt herself lean into it without meaning to. His palm was warm against her cheek. His thumb brushed beneath her eye, tracing the dark circles she knew must be there.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he said. "Unless you tell me not to."
She didn't tell him not to.
He leaned down.
Their mouths met.
It was softer than she'd expected. Gentler. His lips brushed against hers like a question, testing, tasting, not demanding anything. She felt the press of his tusks at the corners of her mouth—strange and foreign and thrilling—and her breath hitched against his lips.
He pulled back slightly. Just enough to look at her.
"Okay?"
She answered by fisting her free hand in the front of his tunic and pulling him back down.
His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, tilting her face to a better angle. His mouth opened against hers and she tasted woodsmoke and rabbit and the salt-musk taste of his skin, rich and foreign and intoxicating.
He made that sound again, the growl-groan that vibrated through his chest and into hers.
"Delia," he breathed against her mouth. "We should—"
"Don't stop."
"I don't want to—"
"Then don't." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. "Don't stop."
The last threads of his restraint frayed and snapped.
He kissed her again. Harder this time. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt herself lifted, moved, resettled until she was somehow in his lap, her thighs bracketing his hips, her hands braced against the massive wall of his chest.
She should have felt ridiculous. Should have felt heavy, too much, too big to be held like this.
She didn't.
She felt devoured. Claimed. Wanted in a way no one had ever wanted her before.
And for the first time in twenty-three years, Delia let herself want back.