Chapter 8 #2
He comes apart. Buries himself to the hilt and groans my name as he spills inside me. I feel every pulse. Every throb. The heat of him flooding me, marking me from the inside.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
His weight presses me into the mattress. I should feel crushed. I feel claimed. Owned. Exactly where I belong.
His heart pounds against my chest. Or maybe that's my heart. I can't tell anymore.
He shifts, starts to pull away, and I grab his arm.
"Stay."
"I'll be right back."
"No—"
But he's already slipping out of me, and I gasp at the loss, the sudden emptiness. He presses a kiss to my forehead—gentle, so gentle compared to everything that came before—and slides off the bed.
"Where are you going?"
He doesn't answer. Just disappears through the bedroom door.
I lie there, boneless and wrecked, staring at the ceiling. My body aches in places I didn't know could ache. Between my thighs, I'm sore and swollen and still throbbing. I can feel him leaking out of me.
Water runs somewhere in the cottage. The bathroom. I close my eyes, assuming he's cleaning himself up. Fair enough. He's probably a mess too.
The water keeps running. Longer than it should for just washing up.
The bedroom door opens. I turn my head.
He's wearing sweatpants now. Nothing else. His chest is still heaving slightly, sweat glistening on green skin. Without a word, he crosses to the bed and scoops me up.
"Diesel—what—"
"Shh."
"I can walk—"
"Didn't ask."
He carries me down the hall, my naked body pressed against his bare chest. I should protest more, but I'm too wrung out to fight. Too content to be held.
The bathroom is small and steamy. The tub—the same claw-foot I've showered in every day—is filling with hot water. The steam rises and the heat calls to my aching muscles.
"What are you doing?"
He doesn't answer. Just lowers me into the water with a gentleness that makes my chest ache. It's hot. Almost too hot. But the moment I sink into it, my muscles unclench and I groan.
"Oh god."
"Yeah." He turns off the tap. "Thought so."
"How did you—" I shift in the water, feeling the heat seep into all the places that are sore and used. "This is... this is exactly what I needed."
"You're going to feel it tomorrow." His voice is matter-of-fact. "The soak will help."
I watch him through half-lidded eyes as he opens the cabinet, pulls out a bar of soap and a washcloth. Then he lowers himself to the floor beside the tub, kneeling on the tile. It can't be comfortable—he's too big for the space, knees pressing against the porcelain, but he doesn't seem to care.
"How do you know?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
A glance at me. "Know what?"
"That I'd need this. That it would help." I bite my lip. "Have you... done this before? With human women?"
He dips the washcloth in the water, starts working the soap into it. A flicker of something crosses his face.
"No."
I wait.
"You're the only one."
The words land somewhere deep in my chest. "Really? What about... before?" I gesture vaguely. "Before you crossed?"
Is he blushing? Under that green skin, I can't tell for sure, but his expression shifts. He focuses very intently on the washcloth.
"I was eight when I crossed."
Oh.
Oh.
I just took an orc's v-card.
"Diesel—"
"Don't." His voice is gruff, but not angry. Embarrassed, maybe. "It's not—I didn't want—" He exhales. "There were opportunities. After. Human women who were... curious. But I didn't want to be someone's experiment. Someone's story to tell her friends." He meets my eyes. "I wanted it to matter."
My throat tightens. This massive, terrifying orc who just fucked me like he was trying to ruin me for anyone else—he waited. For something real.
For me.
"It mattered," I say quietly. "It matters."
He doesn't answer. Just lifts my other arm, runs the cloth down it with hands that are suddenly unsteady.
"Then how do you know what to do?" I ask after a moment. "If you've never..."
"I have brothers." His voice steadies, grateful for the subject change. "And they have human women."
I blink. "You guys talk about—"
"I've heard things." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Crow won't shut up about Maya. And Vargan—" He shakes his head. "Man's useless since Savvy."
I laugh. It comes out watery, exhausted. "So you took notes?"
"Something like that." He moves the cloth to my collarbone. "Orcs are... bigger. Rougher. What we just did—" His jaw tightens. "Humans need care after. I know that."
The tenderness in his hands contradicts everything I just experienced. The same fingers that left marks on my hips are now tracing gentle circles on my skin, washing away the sweat and the sex and the intensity.
"Tell me about this one." I touch the tattoo on his forearm. A series of symbols I don't recognize, angular and sharp.
"Clan markings. From before." His voice is matter-of-fact. "Orcs use tattoos as memory books. Everything important gets recorded on the skin."
"And this?" My fingers find his inner wrist, where a barcode sits above a string of numbers. Clinical. Ugly.
His jaw tightens. "Camp tattoo. They tagged us when we crossed. Like livestock."
My stomach turns. I trace the numbers gently, wishing I could erase them.
"This one's better." I move to his chest, where a motorcycle breaks through a circle of chains. "Ironborn?"
"Yeah." Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Got that when I patched in. First ink I chose for myself."
I sit up a little, water sloshing. "You remember? Before the Rift?"
"Some." He resumes washing, moving to my neck, my throat. "I was eight when it happened. Old enough to remember bits and pieces. Young enough that the camps could shape me into something else."
"What was it like? Before?"
He's quiet for a long time. The water laps against the sides of the tub as he works.
"Different," he says finally. "We had our own world. Our own ways. Then the Rift opened and suddenly we were here, in a place that didn't want us. Couldn't even speak the language at first. Had to learn everything—how humans live, how they think, what they fear." A pause. "Mostly they feared us."
"Not everyone."
"No." His hand stills. "Not everyone."
My fingers drift to his arm, tracing the edge of a scar I hadn't noticed before. Raised, mottled. Not a cut or a bullet wound. A burn.
He flinches. Just barely, but I feel it.
"How did you get this?"
For a long moment, he doesn't answer. His jaw works. I watch him decide whether to shut me out.
He doesn't.
"There was a fire." His voice is flat. Careful. "A long time ago. A man named Red—he took care of me after the camps. Fed me, taught me, gave me a home when no one else would." He swallows. "The neighbors didn't like that an orc was living with him. So they burned his house down. With him inside."
My heart stops.
"I tried to get to him." He's staring at the water now, not at me. "Ran into the fire like a fucking idiot. Couldn't save him. Just got these." He touches the burn scars. "Reminders."
"Diesel—"
"He died because he loved me." The words are quiet. Final. "That's what happens to people who get close to me. That's why I tried to keep my distance from you."
I don't argue. Don't tell him it wasn't his fault, even though it wasn't. He's heard that before. It hasn't helped.
Instead, I take his hand—the one that's been so gently washing me—and lift it from the water. Press my lips to his scarred knuckles. Hold it there.
He freezes.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say against his skin. "And I'm not afraid."
"You should be."
"Probably." I kiss his hand again. "I'm not."
He stares at me for a long moment. His face shifts—not quite belief, but the first crack in the wall. The possibility that maybe, this time, it could be different.
"You're leaving the day after tomorrow," he says.
"For the trial. Not forever." I press his palm to my cheek. "Unless you want me to go."
"No." The word comes out fierce. "No, I don't want you to go."
"Then stop talking."
He doesn't need to be told twice. Just leans forward and kisses me—soft, slow, his wet hand cradling my face.
When he pulls back, he reaches for a towel.
"Water's getting cold," he says. "Come on. Let's get you dry."
He lifts me out of the tub like I weigh nothing, wraps me in the towel, and carries me back to bed. This time when he lies down beside me, he doesn't try to leave.
I fall asleep with my head on his chest and his heartbeat in my ear.
***
I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon.
For a moment I don't know where I am. Late morning light streams through the curtains. The sheets smell like him—soap and smoke and something warmer underneath.
Then I remember.
The shed. The gun. The way he kissed me like he was drowning. The bath. The story about Red.
I stretch, and my whole body aches in the best way. The soak helped, but I still feel him everywhere. Muscles I forgot I had. Places he found that I didn't know existed.
His side of the bed is cold, but recently vacated. The pillow still holds the indent of his head.
I pull on the first thing I find—a fresh flannel from his drawer—and pad barefoot to the kitchen.
He's at the stove. Shirtless. Sweatpants slung low on his hips. Spatula in one hand, coffee mug in the other. The morning light catches the scars on his back, the ink that winds across his shoulders.
He hears me coming. Turns. And the look on his face—
Soft. Open. A little uncertain.
"Hey."
A grunt. But his eyes are soft.
I cross the kitchen. Slide my arms around his waist from behind. Press my cheek to his back.
He freezes. Then his free hand covers mine, pressing it flat against his stomach.
"Bacon's burning," I say.
"Don't care."
"You will when the smoke alarm goes off."
He grunts. Turns back to the stove, but doesn't let go of my hand. Just holds it there against his skin while he flips the bacon one-handed.
I could stay here forever.