16. Mira
MIRA
T ime passed in strange, heavy breaths. Days blurred together, stitched by the rhythm of the forest and the crackle of the fire.
Gorran kept me here. Not cruelly—never that—but with an unspoken certainty, like he’d decided and there was no undoing it.
How could he be so… certain, so patient, so unwavering?
Over… me?
The question burned in my mind every time I caught his gaze lingering, every time I felt the weight of his presence beside me. I should have been terrified. Should have fought harder. Acted like a truly frightened human in the presence of the big, bad, scary orc.
But he was steady and patient, and there was something in the way he looked at me, in the quiet moments when his guard slipped. Something I couldn’t name.
And gods help me, I wanted him more and more.
I’d never looked at any other man the way I’d looked at Gorran.
An orc.
How could I fall for an orc, enemy of all humans?
How could he be so gentle with me, not treating me like chattel or something to be discarded?
That was the maddening part. I wanted him, but I couldn’t just give in. Not yet. Something in me refused to surrender—not when I didn’t understand what surrendering would truly mean.
And perhaps… Gorran understood that all too well.
He was in control, but he was giving me time… to come to an inevitable realization.
How did he understand humans so well? He’d probably killed—I shuddered to think—dozens, even hundreds of my kind.
And here I was, lusting after him.
And here he was, giving me time.
It was madness, and it was heady, addictive, like the most potent elixir.
The push and pull, the resistance before the inevitable.
I just hoped I wasn’t being too naive.
He brought me gifts.
A set of soft pelts, cleaned and cured until they smelled faintly of smoke. A pair of bone-handled tools, carved with spirals that looked almost ceremonial. And once, a pendant shaped like a fang, bone-coloured, elegant, smoothed by his hands until it gleamed like ivory.
I knew what it meant.
This was… orc courting.
When he handed me the pendant, I stared at it for too long. My fingers curled around it, my chest tightening, and I hated how warm my face felt. So I put it aside.
It clicked against the stone mantle, and his gaze sharpened on me, unreadable. But that night, when he wasn’t looking, I picked it up again. I couldn’t help it. I kept it near my furs, buried but close, for I couldn’t quite let it go.
He taught me to set snares. His hands might be large and scarred, but they were deft as anything as they worked the knots and loops. I watched, fascinated by how precise his fingers could be, how gentle when he wanted.
And my mind strayed, imagining how those fingers would feel… on me.
“Try,” he said, passing me the cord.
I did, fumbling the first time. His hand came over mine, warm and sure, guiding my movements. My breath caught at the simple contact, but I covered it with words.
“You know,” I said, “you’re as bossy as an old kitchen matron.”
He arched a brow. “What’s that?”
I taught him the word matron , and a few other choice curses in Common. His deep voice rolled over the strange syllables, slow and careful, until he got them right.
When he tried one out on me later—a particularly sharp insult involving burnt bread and donkey hides—I almost choked on my laugh.
“Not bad,” I admitted. “But your accent’s terrible.”
That night, I offered him food with my hands.
We were sitting close by the fire, our knees almost brushing. I dipped the smallest piece of roasted rabbit in the stew and held it out, too tired to fetch the bowl. He looked at my hand for a long moment before leaning forward and taking it.
With his mouth.
His lips brushed my fingers, rough and warm. And then—slowly, deliberately—his tongue slid against the tip of my finger, tasting the broth.
I froze, breath caught in my throat.
He didn’t break eye contact.
The world narrowed to that single, devastating point of heat where his mouth touched my skin.
I should have pulled away. I didn’t.
Instead, I watched him. His eyes were dark, the firelight threading gold through green, and I could feel something thrumming in the air between us, thick and electric. My pulse pounded, my body tightening with an ache I didn’t want to name.
He drew back just slightly, his gaze still locked on mine, his tongue catching the last trace of stew from his lips.
“Mira,” he said, my name low and rough, like a promise.
I swallowed, my fingers curling into my palm. I couldn’t move, couldn’t think.
The moment stretched, dangerously close to something I wasn’t sure I could stop.
He didn’t take his eyes off me. Not for a second.
I could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and unrelenting, as though he was peeling back every flimsy layer I’d built between us.
Slowly, deliberately, Gorran reached for my hand.
My breath stuttered as his rough, scarred fingers wrapped around mine, warm and solid, swallowing my smaller hand like it belonged there.
I should have pulled away. Gods, I should have. But I didn’t.
He turned my palm upward, and before I could think, his mouth lowered to it. His lips pressed to my skin—warm, dry, lingering—then his tongue traced a slow line from the base of my palm to the tip of my fingers.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The air left my lungs in a shiver I couldn’t hide.
I told myself to pull back, to break this spell before I drowned in it. But I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My eyes locked on his, and for a moment, the world shrank to the fire between us: the soft crackle of flames, the heat rolling through my body like a fever.
He shifted closer, so close I could feel the heat of his breath on my lips. My heart stopped.
Was he going to kiss me?
I wanted him to. The thought terrified me, but I couldn’t deny it. I wanted to taste him again, wanted the solid, unyielding strength of him pressed to me like before—only without the anger, without the fight.
My lips parted, just slightly, an invitation I didn’t dare voice.
But then…
I felt unsure, wavering.
And he stopped, as if sensing my hesitation.
He was in control again.
Teasing, but restrained.
When?
His gaze burned into mine, his mouth a whisper from my skin, and a faint, maddening smile touched the corner of his lips.
“Not yet,” he murmured, voice deep and steady, like he wasn’t even breathing hard while I was coming apart. “You’ll come to me. And when you do, you won’t want me to stop.”
The words set my skin on fire.
And then he let go.
Just like that, the warmth of his hand was gone, leaving me trembling in its absence. He leaned back, cool and calm as though he hadn’t just unraveled every shred of my composure.
I swallowed hard, my breath shallow, my body taut with frustration and something darker, something needful. “You’re insufferable,” I managed, my voice hoarse. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Playing mind games with me so that when I come, I won’t have even a shred of resistance left?”
He only gave a low hum, like the sound of a predator amused by its prey.
And my own words burned into my soul, heightening my need, for the thought of truly losing myself to him was becoming more and more intoxicating.
But still, he held back, because I was uncertain, and perhaps I prolonged this maddening dance because it was the only power I had over him.
He was giving it to me.