Chapter 5 #2
“Aye.” He held the fabric up higher, examining it with exaggerated seriousness. “A fine piece of craftsmanship, really. Shame to waste it on a table when it could serve a more important purpose.”
She looked at him—at the way he stood there holding stolen table dressing like it was a precious garment, at the complete lack of shame in his expression, at the small curve of his mouth that suggested he knew exactly how ridiculous this was and didn’t care.
He was trying. Truly trying. Not to change her, not to force her into something she couldn’t bear, but to find some middle ground where they could both exist. He wasn’t laughing at her discomfort. Wasn’t dismissing her fears as silly or childish, though they probably were both.
And gods, she wanted him to touch her again. Not the careful, respectful touches of someone navigating an arrangement. She wanted the heat of his palm against her waist like in the alcove, the pressure of his body pinning her to stone. She wanted—
“You’re impossible,” she said quietly pushing the desire away.
“Practical.” He moved closer, the fabric still draped over his arm. “Now, turn around so I can drape this properly.”
She turned slowly, her hands falling to her sides.
The fabric settled across her left shoulder.
His fingers brushed her skin as he adjusted the drape, the warmth of his touch present even through the thin material.
He brought the runner across her back, the woven green falling over her right shoulder in a diagonal sweep.
He wrapped the material around her torso, layering it over the transparent linen panels.
The runner crossed over itself at her ribs. She heard him step away briefly. Leather creaked. “Hold still,” he murmured.
The corset belt cinched at her ribs, holding the makeshift shawl in place.
“There.” His voice came from behind her, low and satisfied. “That’ll hold.”
The leather corset belt sat at her waist, dark brown contrasting with the deep green of the runner and the pale linen beneath. The fabric stayed in place without her having to clutch it, covering her torso.
“My legs are still uncovered.” Quiet. More observation than complaint.
Khaeric’s gaze dropped to where the linen panels fell away from her thighs. “Are ye comfortable wi’ that?”
She looked down at her legs. It felt strange—improper by every standard she’d been raised with—but the fabric covering her torso made the difference somehow.
“I think...” She tested the words carefully. “I think I’m okay with it.”
Khaeric nodded. “Aye?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to say more.
Khaeric moved toward the archway, pausing at the threshold to gesture for her to follow.
Aeryn followed him through the archway. They descended another set of carved stairs.
The sound of voices grew louder—a steady roar of conversation, laughter, the clatter of dishes and tankards.
Aeryn’s stomach fluttered. Hundreds of orcs, Khaeric had said.
All gathered to witness their union, to celebrate the alliance.
The passage opened into a vast hall with crystal clusters along the walls and ceiling.
Warriors and artisans alike in leather and hide, their skin ranging from deep green to slate gray, their tusks gleaming white in the crystal light.
Some wore their hair loose, others in braids.
All of them turned as Khaeric entered with her on his arm.
The drums pounded a rhythm through the stone, rising through her body. Smoke drifted through the hall, fragrant with herbs and roasted meat that made her mouth water despite the anxiety knotting her stomach.
He didn’t flinch. His stride remained steady, confident, as he guided her through the press of bodies that parted before them.
The crowd opened a path toward the far end of the hall where a raised platform stood, decorated with thick furs and low tables. Large cushions in earth tones were scattered around the tables, along with several low seats.
Khaeric settled into the largest low seat at the platform’s center, knees spread wide, one hand resting on his thigh. The seat brought his face nearly level with hers. Then his other hand found her waist, fingers pressing gently through the layers of linen and stolen table runner.
“Come here.”
She sank onto the cushions arranged between his spread knees.
The position placed her lower. Khaeric’s hand came to rest on her shoulder, his palm warm through the layered fabric.
The drums continued their pulsing rhythm.
Aeryn forced herself to breathe, hands settling in her lap, fingers twisting together beneath the table runner.
Orcs approached the dais, some alone, others in pairs. Each stopped before it, speaking briefly with Khaeric in Orkish, then turned their attention to her. The pattern repeated—greetings exchanged, nods given.
Khaeric leaned forward, his chest brushing her shoulder as he reached across the low table and handed her a goblet. “Mead,” he said, his breath warm against her ear. “Drink.”
She tipped the goblet to her lips, letting the liquid flow across her tongue. The warmth spread through her chest and settled in her stomach.
“Good?” Khaeric’s voice rumbled from behind her.
“It’s sweet,” she said.
Khaeric’s hand left her shoulder. He leaned forward, reached for a tankard, and drank.
The drums grew louder, the rhythm shifting—faster, more insistent. The pounding shook the stones, vibrating up through furs and cushions until she felt it in her bones.
Around them, the roar of conversation swelled.
Tankards slammed against tables, sending droplets of ale arcing through the air.
Orcs surged from the crowd—no lines or careful patterns like the dances she’d seen at court.
They moved in a chaotic swirl, bodies following the drumbeat with barely contained energy.
Among them, pressed close against their sides, hands clasped in theirs, bodies moving in tandem with their larger partners, were humans and elf-blooded women.
A human woman near the front caught Aeryn’s attention.
She wore only a leather skirt hanging low on her hips, breasts bare, spinning in the arms of a massive gray-skinned orc.
Aeryn looked up at Khaeric. “That woman—she’s not wearing anything above the waist.”
His gaze followed hers to the dancer, then back to her face. “Aye.”
“Is that...” She searched for words that wouldn’t sound judgmental. “Is that normal?”
“Aye.” His hand remained steady on her shoulder, his thumb tracing a small circle against the fabric there.
Aeryn’s attention returned to the bare-breasted women moving through the dancers. “They’re not ashamed?”
“Why would they be ashamed?” Genuine confusion crossed Khaeric’s face.
At court, a woman’s bare breasts would have meant scandal, ruin, shame so deep it could destroy entire families. Here, the woman danced freely, confident, and no one stared. No one whispered behind raised hands or averted their eyes in horror.
She looked down at herself. The coverage that had felt like a compromise now seemed excessive, prudish. “I don’t understand.”
Khaeric’s hand shifted to rest on the back of her head. “What dinnae ye understand?”
“How they can—” She gestured toward the dancers. “How they can be so unconcerned about their bodies being seen.”
“Because there’s no shame in it here.” His fingers pressed gently against her scalp. “A body is just a body, lass. Flesh and bone. What matters is what ye do with it. The strength ye build, the work ye accomplish, the pleasure ye share.”
The pleasure ye share. The words echoed in her mind, and heat rose to her cheeks as she took another sip of mead, letting the sweetness coat her tongue.
A server approached with a platter filled with thick slabs of roasted meat still steaming, glazed root vegetables, flatbread torn into pieces around the edges. He set it on the low table, then withdrew without a word.
Khaeric reached for the platter, fingers closing around a piece of flatbread and tearing it to gather meat and vegetables. “Eat.”
She lifted a piece of meat. Khaeric took his own portion, tearing into it with less ceremony.
More bodies joined. What had been chaotic took on a different quality as orcs pulled their partners closer, hands sliding to waists, to hips. Bodies pressed together.
Aeryn’s fingers tightened around her goblet.
A human woman near the front arched her back as her partner’s mouth descended to her throat, his tusks gleaming as he kissed the exposed skin.
She looked away, finding another pair—an elf-blooded woman lifted by her orc partner, legs wrapping around his waist as his hands gripped her thighs. Their mouths met, open and unashamed.
Aeryn brought her goblet to her lips and drank.
The drums throbbed louder. She forced herself to look back at the dancers, to not appear scandalized or childish in front of the entire clan.
A movement at the edge of the crowd caught her attention.
An orc stood partially obscured by one of the massive stone pillars. He wasn’t dancing. His partner, a human woman with dark hair cascading down her back, faced him with her hands braced against the pillar above her head.
Aeryn’s jaw dropped.
The orc’s hips pressed forward, and the woman’s back arched away from the pillar. His hands gripped her waist as her mouth opened in pleasure. He bent his head, tusks gleaming, and captured her mouth with his.
The woman’s legs wrapped around his waist, her skirt bunched around her hips. Aeryn could see the skin of her thighs, the way they tightened as the orc’s hips moved in a rhythm that matched the drums.
They were—
The orc’s movements grew more urgent, his hips driving forward, and the woman’s legs tightened around him, her ankles locking at the small of his back.
The woman’s head fell back against the pillar, mouth open in a silent cry. The orc’s lips descended to her throat, kissing and biting at the exposed skin. His hands slid to grip her thighs, spreading them wider as he—
“Aeryn.” Khaeric’s voice cut through the drums. His hand tightened on her shoulder.
She turned to look at him.
“Ye look ready to bolt.”
“I’m fine.” Too quickly, too high-pitched to be convincing.
“Ye’re no’ fine. Ye’re red as a sunset, and ye’ve been starin’ at Torven and his mate for the past minute wi’out blinkin’.”
“I wasn’t—” She stopped. “They’re...”
“Enjoyin’ themselves,” Khaeric supplied, matter-of-fact. “Aye. It happens.”
“At a feast?” The words burst out before she could stop them. “In front of everyone?”
“Aye.”
At court, such behavior would have resulted in immediate expulsion, scandal, possible imprisonment depending on the parties involved. The Church would have been called. Penances assigned. Here, the couple at the pillar continued, and the orcs around them simply didn’t care.
“This is normal?” Her voice came out strangled.
“Aye. Though most prefer their beds. Torven’s always been one for makin’ a show.”
Making a show. Of coupling. In public. Aeryn forced her attention back to the plate. Her appetite had fled. She lifted her goblet and drank.
Two more orcs approached. The first was enormous—taller even than Khaeric, though less broad through the shoulders.
His skin was dark green, marked with patches of pale scarring across his arms and neck that looked different from battle wounds.
Black hair shaved close on the sides and tied back in a single tail with simple bronze rings.
When he stopped before the platform, his black eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her want to press back against Khaeric’s legs. One thick tusk was chipped, the ivory broken partway up from the tip.
The second orc was shorter, though still massive. His skin was dark gray and dark copper hair fell in a tidy braid over one shoulder, and soft eyes assessed her with a gentleness that sat at odds with his size. His tusks were modest and symmetrical.
“Aeryn.” Khaeric gestured toward the taller orc. “This is Varak of Clan Tarrn and Brakkar of Clan Kairn.”
“Princess Aeryn.” Varak inclined his head.
She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Clanlord Varak.” Her voice came out steadier than she expected. “It’s an honor.”
Brakkar stepped forward. “Princess Aeryn. The clans are honored by yer presence among us.”
“The honor is mine, Clanlord Brakkar. I—” Her response died.
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision—another couple pressed against a different pillar.
The orc’s hands gripped his partner’s thighs, holding her suspended against the stone as his hips drove forward.
The woman’s head fell back, her mouth open, and even through the drums and voices, Aeryn heard the sharp cry that escaped her.
Her goblet trembled. She forced her attention back to Brakkar, but another flash of movement pulled it away. Near the far wall, an orc knelt before his partner, hands braced against his thighs while his partner’s fingers tangled in his hair. The position, the motion—
Aeryn turned on the cushions to fully face Khaeric, her shoulder pulling away from his hand. Her eyes went wide, catching the crystal light. “Is everyone—” She swallowed. “Are they all going to—”
His expression remained steady, patient. “Some will. Most willnae. Depends on the couple, the mood, how much they’ve had to drink.” His hand found her shoulder again. “It’s no’ required, if that’s what ye’re askin’.”
“So we don’t have to—”
“No’ unless ye want to.” Matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing the weather.
“Please, no.”
Khaeric’s thumb pressed against her shoulder. “Then we willnae.”
Relief flooded through her. She rose onto her knees until she was level with his chest. His hand shifted from her shoulder to the back of her head and just held her while the drums pounded, the voices roared, the couples continued their shameless display throughout the hall.
“Breathe, lass.”
“I am breathing,” she snapped, her forehead resting on his chest. “Forgive me if I’m not doing it to your satisfaction while half-naked in front of your entire clan.”
The rumble that went through Khaeric’s chest wasn’t speech—it was laughter. His hand tightened in her hair, then his other hand came up to cup her jaw, tilting her face away from his chest.
His lips brushed her temple. Soft. Deliberate. The pressure lingered against her skin even after he pulled back. “There she is,” he murmured against her hair. “My fierce lass.”
“Fierce,” she muttered against the hand cupping her jaw. “Yes, that’s exactly what I am. Fierce enough to hide behind my husband while wearing pilfered table linens and praying no one notices I’m about to expire from mortification.”