5. Gorran
GORRAN
T he storm outside had dulled to a wet whisper, but the fire still spat every so often, throwing sparks like tiny suns. I sat with my back against the stone, blade across my knees, and watched her sleep.
Humans were strange creatures. Small. Fragile. Too easily broken. I had carried enough of their corpses through battlefields to know how quickly their lives could be snuffed out, and yet this one—this Mira—burned brighter than any I’d seen.
She shifted in her sleep, a quiet sound escaping her throat, and a lock of hair slipped over her face. Rich-brown strands, messy and damp, catching the firelight like copper threads. It was a wild, stubborn kind of hair. Stubborn like her.
I told myself I was only watching to be sure she didn’t wake screaming. That I needed to gauge how quickly she’d recover. But the truth was less practical.
Her skin was pale against the dark pelt she’d curled into, a soft contrast to the harsh lines of the cave.
Even in sleep, her face held a defiance I’d never seen in a human woman before.
She didn’t simper, she didn’t show fear—not exactly, even though she let slip traces of it from time to time.
It was to be expected. I was orc, she was human.
She was braver than most humans I’d encountered.
She’d glared at me earlier, all spit and fire, and for the first time in a long while, I’d felt something other than bloodlust stir in my chest.
Beautiful.
She simply was. I couldn’t deny it.
I’d seen plenty of beauty—jewels, trophies, women dressed in silks for warlords—but this was different. Hers was not the kind that begged to be admired; it demanded it, whether she wanted me to see it or not.
I found myself studying the curve of her cheek, the stubborn line of her jaw, the way her lips parted slightly as she breathed. Those lips. I remembered how they’d wrapped around the spoon, slow and deliberate, as though she was testing me.
The memory did something strange to my chest.
I ran a hand down my face, muttering a curse under my breath. I had no use for this softness. No space for it.
But still, I watched her.
The firelight caught on the faint bruise at her temple where she’d hit the ground earlier, and something like anger twisted in me. Not at her, but at the wolves, at the storm, at the whole damned world that would chew up a creature like her and spit out nothing but bones.
I could fix that.
I rose quietly, careful not to wake her. My blanket—rough, worn, still smelling faintly of rain and leather—lay folded near my pack. I picked it up and draped it over her shoulders, slow and deliberate, as though she were made of glass.
She stirred, mumbling something, but didn’t wake. The blanket slipped over her curves, pooling at her waist, and I found myself staring again, my jaw clenched tight.
She looked better this way. Not like a warrior, not like someone pretending to be unafraid, but like herself. Small, warm, alive.
I straightened, turning back to the fire.
Maybe I’d keep her— really keep her. Not as a prize, not as some debt-bound possession, but simply because I didn’t like the thought of her being out there, in the dark, where things with teeth waited.
The thought startled me, but I didn’t shake it off.
Instead, I sat back down, blade resting across my knees, and let the fire burn low while I kept watch over the girl who was, for now, mine.