4. Mira
MIRA
T he cave smelled of smoke and metal, but also of him: of musk and rain and something wilder that clung to his skin like it belonged there.
It made me restless, irritated in ways I didn’t want to examine, that I couldn’t explain.
Once the disbelief and the shock cleared, I realized I needed to do something with my hands, something that wasn’t just sitting there pretending not to care.
Otherwise, I’d go mad.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since before the wolves.
I glanced at the pile of supplies tucked into a corner: dried meats, roots, a pouch of ground herbs, a few iron pots blackened with age and use.
It wasn’t much, but I’d worked in the kitchens of the keep for long enough to know how to make a meal out of nothing.
If I was going to be stuck here, I wasn’t going to starve.
I chose a medium-sized pot and sorted through the supplies with quick, decisive movements.
Then, I found a pitcher of water and filled the pot, before hanging it in the hearth.
There were cooking utensils, too: a knife, a mortar and pestle, a chopping board, and a wooden spoon.
My fingers worked on instinct, chopping and grinding, mixing water with the simple ingredients until the scent of something warm and edible filled the air.
Behind me, I could feel his eyes.
When I finally risked a glance over my shoulder, Gorran was seated near the fire, broad shoulders relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was sharpening his blade again, in slow, methodical strokes, but his gaze wasn’t on the weapon. It was on me.
I refused to let that get to me.
“You’ve got nothing but jerky, roots, and this pouch of ancient herbs,” I muttered, stirring the pot. “Do you orcs not believe in seasoning? Or is flavor a human luxury?”
No answer. Just the steady rasp of stone against steel.
I set the pot closer to the flames, crossing my arms. “I guess I’ll take that as a no.”
Minutes later, I dished up the stew—if you could call it that—and handed him a bowl. He took it without a word, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. Heat flared through me like a live wire, and I cursed my body for noticing.
He ate in silence.
He didn’t offer anything: not a grunt of approval, not even a glance.
Fine.
Two could play at that game.
I sat opposite him, my back against the wall, and spooned the stew into my mouth with deliberate enjoyment. It wasn’t good, not really, but I made a show of savoring it anyway, letting my lips linger on the spoon.
When I looked up, his gaze was fixed on me. Not my face. My mouth.
A slow, infuriating heat coiled low in my belly.
“Careful,” I said lightly, tilting my head. “Staring like that might give me ideas.”
Why did I even say that just now?
Do you want to provoke the damn orc?
The low sound that came from deep inside his chest wasn’t laughter. It was a growl—rumbling and quiet, vibrating through the air like distant thunder.
I froze, the spoon halfway to my lips.
Then I smirked, hiding this strange, disquieting heat. “Oh, that’s charming. Is that your version of ‘thank you for dinner’?”
His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer. He just went back to eating, his movements precise and unhurried, as if my words meant nothing.
But I’d seen the way his eyes had darkened.
The silence stretched between us, taut and strangely alive. It wasn’t hostile, not anymore, but it was charged, like the moment before a summer storm when the air tastes of rain and lightning.
I finished eating and set the bowl aside, wrapping my arms around my knees.
He sat across the fire, watching the flames.
The muscles in his forearms rippled as he rested his elbows on his knees, the firelight turning his skin to burnished metal.
I wanted to hate him for being so solid, so unshaken, but some traitorous part of me admired it.
The hours slipped by in silence. The rain outside softened to a whisper, tapping against the rocks. Eventually, exhaustion won, dragging me down into sleep.