8. Mira
MIRA
B y the time we returned to the cave, I still couldn’t shake the heat of the stream from my skin. I could still see him: water sliding down his chest, the raw strength in every line of him, the way he hadn’t flinched under my gaze.
I was annoyed with myself for remembering it so vividly.
I wrapped the rough blanket around my shoulders, retreating to the far corner as Gorran crouched by the fire, his broad back to me. He was silent, methodical, checking his weapons, as though nothing had happened by the stream. But I couldn’t stop hearing his voice in my head.
You want to look. Look.
Gods.
What was wrong with me? I couldn’t fall for him. He was an orc—a creature born for battle, a monster out of every nightmare told by candlelight in the keep’s kitchens. And yet here I was, rattled to my core, my heartbeat tripping every time I caught sight of him.
You can’t give in. This is madness. You have to get away.
The thought came like a lightning strike. Sharp. Immediate. If I stayed, I would lose something of myself—something I couldn’t afford to give him.
For all my fascination with him, for all my fanciful thoughts of escaping the dull, grey life of a kitchenhand, I realized they were simply that: fancies. Wishful thinking. He was an orc, a killer, a harsh, ruthless creature, and I was a simple human.
My life in the keep had been harsh, but at least it was mine.
It was familiar. Human. I knew the shape of that life, the rules.
Here, in the wild, with him, there were no rules I understood.
Just his strength. His presence. And that terrifying sense that he might never let me go if I didn’t take my chance now.
He could… do bad things to me.
Get a grip, Mira.
I scanned the cave, my eyes darting over his supplies.
There. A knife, resting on the low shelf near the fire.
The one I’d used to cook with. It gleamed faintly, freshly sharpened.
Gorran was always sharpening his damn knives.
My stomach knotted as I reached for it, slow and quiet.
He was focused on his pack, and for a heartbeat, I thought I’d gotten away with it.
I wouldn’t use it to attack him; I’d seen him fight, and that would be asking for certain death.
But I could use it in the woods… to defend myself.
It was still daytime, and it was a clear, sunny day. I could make it back to the keep before night fell—before the direwolves came out again.
I slid the knife into my palm, my fingers trembling, and crept toward the entrance.
“Going somewhere?”
His voice cut through the quiet like steel through silk.
I froze.
In one stride, he was behind me, his shadow swallowing mine. I spun, blade clutched tight, heart hammering.
“Stay back,” I hissed.
He raised a brow, as if I were holding a stick instead of a weapon. “That’s my knife.”
“Good,” I shot back. “I’ll put it to good use.”
He stepped forward.
I lashed out, a wild swing, but he caught my wrist with terrifying ease. His other hand came down hard on my shoulder, spinning me back against the stone wall. The knife clattered to the floor.
I gasped, chest heaving, but he didn’t hurt me. He just held me there—one hand pinning my wrist, the other pressing flat against the wall beside my head.
“Let me go,” I snapped, trying to twist free.
“You don’t mean that.” His voice was a low rumble, heat curling through it like smoke. His body was a wall against mine—solid, unyielding, and far too close. I could feel every breath he took.
“I—”
“You’re not the only one who likes the fight,” he said softly, and I hated the way my pulse leapt, the way my skin burned where he touched me.
My hand moved on instinct. I slapped him. Hard.
The sound cracked through the air. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even move. For a heartbeat, I thought he might strike back, but instead… he smiled.
It was faint, just a small curl at the corner of his mouth, but it was there. And it infuriated me.
I shoved against him, and he stepped back, letting me go. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow. I snatched up the blanket and stormed toward the far side of the cave.
“Keep smiling,” I muttered, not daring to look back. “See what it gets you.”
But even as I put distance between us, my skin still buzzed with heat where his hands had been. It was like a brand.
I sank against the wall, curling my knees to my chest. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. He was too much: too big, too strong, too… him.
Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe there was no escaping this.
Even if he was acting patient for now…
I’d be deceiving myself if I tried to think I had any power here.
He could take what he wanted at any time.