14. Mira
MIRA
T he smell of rabbit stew filled the cave, heavy with herbs and the promise of real warmth in my belly. I sat by the fire, ladle in hand, watching the broth bubble and darken, the scent wrapping around me like a memory I’d never had.
I realized, with a strange twist of my chest, that this wasn’t bad.
In the keep, I’d cooked for lords who never even glanced at me.
Endless nights of sweating over smoky fires, hands raw from scrubbing pots, only to watch trays of food vanish without a single word of thanks.
I’d eaten my meals cold, alone, tucked in the corner of the kitchens with scraps if I was lucky.
Here, the air was sharp with pine, the fire warm against my face, and I wasn’t alone.
And he—this infuriating, impossible orc—actually appreciated it, unlike the dour lords and knights of the keep.
When I handed Gorran his bowl, his expression softened, just a fraction. He lifted the spoon, tasted the stew, and I saw it—the pause. The quiet hum of approval in his throat.
“You like it?” I asked, unable to stop the flicker of pride in my voice.
He met my gaze, his face unreadable but for that faint glint in his green-gold eyes. “You cook better than anything I’ve tasted in years.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“Wow,” I said, smirking to hide the sudden warmth in my chest. “Careful, or I might start thinking you’re capable of being nice.”
He gave a low grunt, like that single compliment had cost him something. “Don’t push your luck, cook.”
“Too late,” I teased, leaning back on my hands. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. “You should know, when you eat my food, you’re bound to me for life. You owe me. My cooking’s special. It’s enchanted. Who knows? Perhaps I have witch blood in me.”
He shook his head, a skeptical look crossing his face, his hard green features softening for just a moment. “What a stupid notion. Which daft human made that one up?”
I shrugged, mimicking his earlier tone, when he’d acted all high and mighty about orc law. “It’s the law. I don’t make the rules.”
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, but I swore I caught the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Your laws are strange.”
“They work better than yours,” I shot back. “At least mine don’t involve kidnapping.”
“I saved you,” he said, but his voice was quiet now, not defensive.
“And now you’re eating my stew,” I replied, my grin turning soft despite myself. “So really, who saved who?”
His gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat too long, and I noticed the faintest flush on his green-tinted cheeks. Something about that—this dangerous, scarred creature who’d ripped wolves apart with his bare hands—looking almost shy?
Gods help me, it was somewhat… adorable.
And that was dangerous.
I looked down at my own bowl, stirring the stew just to have something to do with my hands. It wasn’t just the food that warmed me; it was the firelight, the quiet, the strange sense of safety I hadn’t felt in years. Maybe not ever.
For all his roughness, Gorran wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t the way I’d imagined orcs to be. He’d brought me here, fed me, fought for me. And now, watching him eat like this meal mattered, like I mattered…
It wasn’t bad.
It was better than the keep. Better than choking on smoke and feeling invisible. Here, I wasn’t invisible.
I swallowed hard, my heart doing something strange and traitorous.
And to think I’d tried to run…
When I looked up again, his gaze was already on me. There was something unspoken in the way his eyes darkened, the firelight flickering across his sharp cheekbones. For a moment, the air between us shifted, tightening, like a bowstring pulled too far.
I thought he might reach for me.
I wanted him to.
Instead, he set his bowl down abruptly.
“I need fresh air,” he said, rising in one smooth motion.
I blinked, the moment breaking like glass. “What? You’re just… leaving?”
He gave a single nod, turning toward the cave mouth.
I stared at his broad back, my chest tight with confusion and irritation. “Fine. Go breathe your fresh air,” I muttered. “See if I care.”
But I did. And I hated that I did.
As the fire crackled, I stabbed my spoon into the stew, trying to shake the feeling clawing at me. Warmth. Safety. Closeness.
And the maddening fact that I wanted more.