Chapter 30
Targesh scooped her up with one arm under her thighs, the other around her back. Verity's breath caught at the effortless strength, and she wrapped her arms around his neck as he carried her through the door to the sleeping chamber.
The bed was exactly as she remembered it—massive, piled with furs, built to hold a man twice her size. He set her down on the edge and stepped back.
"Off," he said, gesturing at her dress.
She reached for the laces at her bodice.
Her fingers fumbled. The shaking had come back, not from fear but from the sheer overwhelming fact of being here, of having said what she said, of watching him watch her with eyes that tracked every movement of her hands like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Slower," he said.
She stopped. "What?"
"I have imagined this." His voice was low, rough at the edges. "For two days I have thought of nothing else. I am not going to rush."
Verity's hands stilled on her laces.
He stood at the foot of the bed, arms at his sides, making no move to touch her. The firelight from the main chamber reached through the doorway and caught the planes of his face, the silver threads in his scars, the absolute focus of his attention.
"You imagined this," she said.
"Every hour."
She pulled the first lace free, then the second. The bodice loosened. She could feel the fabric shift against her breasts, the slight release of pressure.
"What did you imagine?"
His eyes dropped to her hands. Tracked the movement of her fingers as she worked the third lace free.
"This," he said. "You."
The fourth lace. The bodice gaped. She was wearing a shift underneath, thin linen that hid nothing in this light.
"What else?" she asked.
Fifth lace. The bodice fell open. She shrugged it off her shoulders and let it pool at her waist. She felt the weight of his stare like a touch.
He stepped forward. Knelt at the edge of the bed, his massive frame bringing his face level with her chest. His hands settled on her waist, thumbs pressed into the give of her belly.
"This," he said as he leaned in. "All of this softness. Mine to hold."
Verity threaded her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer.
He growled, the sound thrumming against her sternum, and nuzzled into her, tusks dragging slow lines along her ribs.
She lifted her hips, and he tugged the dress down, past her thighs, letting it fall to the floor.
Her shift followed, yanked up and over her head in one motion, leaving her naked on the furs.
His hands slid up, cupping the weight of her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they ached.
"These curves," he murmured, voice thick. "Built for plenty. For me."
She parted her thighs, bold with the need building in her blood. His nostrils flared, eyes darkening further.
His hands left her breasts and slid down, spanning her waist, her hips, the soft swell of her belly. He pressed his face against her stomach and breathed in, a deep inhale that made his shoulders shudder.
"Two days," he said against her skin. "Two days I stayed away. Told myself it was the right thing."
"It wasn't."
"No." His mouth moved lower. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading them wider, tucking them over his arms as he held her open. "It was cowardice dressed up as courtesy."
"Targesh—"
"I am done being courteous."
His mouth found her.
Verity arched, a gasp tearing from her throat as the wet heat of him claimed her.
She was slick already, and the evidence of it smeared against his lips, his tusks grazing the tender skin of her inner thighs as he worked her. The points dragged lightly, not piercing but pressing, a reminder of his edges even in this intimacy.
His tongue was devastating. Broad strokes that made her hips buck, then precise, focused attention on the spot that made her vision white out at the edges.
"I thought about this," he said against her, the words vibrating through her core. "Your taste."
She wasn't thinking. She was sensation and heat and the desperate grip of her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, demanding more. He gave it. His tongue pushed inside her, and she cried out.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow. Just held her open and took what he wanted, and what he wanted was her coming apart on his tongue.
The first orgasm hit her like a wave breaking. She shattered, back arching, his name torn from her throat in a sound that didn't belong to the woman who wrote careful notes in margins and organized other people's memories. This sound was raw. Animal. His.
He worked her through it, gentling only when she started to shake, when the aftershocks made her twitch against his mouth. Then he pressed one last kiss to her center and lifted his head.
His face was wet. His eyes were wild.
"Again," he said.
"Again."
He slid two fingers inside her.
She gasped at the stretch, every nerve raw and alive. His fingers were thick, the ridges of his knuckles dragging against her inner walls as he pressed deep.
"Targesh—" The word broke on a moan.
She wasn't passive in this; her hips rolled to meet his rhythm, chasing the pressure building again, surprising her with how quickly her body demanded more.
His other hand spanned her thigh, holding her open, thumb pressing into the soft flesh where her leg met her hip.
"This," he growled, eyes locked on where he entered her. "Your body takes me like it was made for me."
She could feel herself clenching around his fingers, the obscene wet sounds filling the chamber. Her face should have burned with it. Instead she watched him watch her, watched the way his jaw worked, the way his chest heaved with breaths he wasn't bothering to control.
"More," she said.
He added a third finger.
The stretch made her back bow off the furs. He stilled, giving her time to adjust, his thumb finding her clit and circling with maddening patience.
"Look at you," he growled.
His thumb pressed harder, his fingers curled, and the second orgasm crashed through her without warning. She heard herself cry out, felt her body clamp down on him, felt the gush of wetness that soaked his hand and the furs beneath her.
He withdrew his fingers slowly. Brought them to his mouth. Licked them clean while she watched, chest heaving, utterly undone.
"Targesh." She reached for him.
He stood. His hands went to his tunic, pulling it over his head in one motion. The firelight caught the planes of his chest, the old scars, the dark hair that trailed down his stomach. His hands moved to his trousers.
"On your back," he said.
She lay back. Spread her thighs. Let him look.
His breath hissed between his teeth. He climbed onto the bed, the frame groaning under his weight, and settled between her legs. The head of his cock pressed against her entrance, slick with her arousal, and he paused.
"You chose this," he said.
"Yes."
"You chose me."
"Yes."
He pushed inside.
The stretch was exquisite. She was swollen from two orgasms, sensitive and slick, and he filled her in one slow thrust that drove the air from her lungs. His forehead dropped to hers. His arms braced on either side of her head, caging her in warmth and muscle and the overwhelming presence of him.
She wrapped her legs around his waist. Drew him deeper. Felt the ridges of him drag against her inner walls, felt her body clench in response.
"Move," she said.
He moved.
Not gentle. Not slow. He fucked her like he'd been starving for it, like two days of distance had built something in him that could only be released this way. His hips snapped against hers. She met every thrust, her nails raking down his back, her moans swallowed by his mouth when he kissed her.
His pace was relentless. Each thrust drove her deeper into the furs, the bed frame creaking in protest, and she didn't care.
She didn't care about anything except the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he filled her so completely that there was no room left for doubt or fear or the careful distance she'd spent her whole life maintaining.
"You're mine," he said against her throat.
"Yes."
His hand found her thigh, hitched it higher against his hip, changed the angle. The next thrust hit something inside her that made her vision spark white.
"Say it again."
"Yours." The word came out broken, barely a sound. "I'm yours."
He growled, the vibration traveling through his chest into hers, and his rhythm stuttered. She felt him swell inside her, the ridges thickening, and she knew he was close.
So was she.
Her body was tightening around him, every muscle drawing taut, the pressure building to something unbearable, until finally, she came.
The orgasm ripped through her, deeper than the others, pulling a sound from her throat that wasn't a word or a moan but something more primal.
She felt herself clench around him, felt the gush of wetness between them, felt her body try to hold him inside her as though it could keep him there forever.
He followed her over the edge. His hips jerked, once, twice, and then he was spilling into her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere beneath his ribs. She felt the heat of it, the pulse of him, the way his cock locked inside her as the ridges swelled.
They stayed like that. Joined. His forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged against her lips, his weight a comfort rather than a burden. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, could feel the fine tremor in his arms where he held himself above her.
His hand came up to cup her face. His thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. The touch was impossibly gentle for hands that had killed, that had commanded, that had held her open and taken her apart.
"I should have asked you," he said.
"Asked me what?"
"To stay." His eyes found hers. "I should have asked. Instead of—"
"Instead of being noble and insufferable and making me do all the work?"
The corner of his mouth quirked. "Yes."
"You're forgiven." She turned her face into his palm. "This time."
They lay tangled together as the fire burned low in the other room, as the fortress settled into its nighttime rhythms around them.
She could hear the distant change of the guard, the wind finding its familiar paths through the stone.
Sounds she would learn. Sounds she would know for years, if she was lucky.
If she was brave enough to keep choosing this.
His hand moved from her face to her hair, working loose the pins she'd forgotten were there. The quill fell onto the furs. She'd forgotten that, too.
He picked it up. Turned it in his fingers. The feather was bent from being slept on, the nib stained with ink she hadn't bothered to clean.
"Targesh."
"Mm."
"I need to write to Master Aldric."
His hand stilled. "Now?"
"Not now." She pressed closer, her cheek against his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart. "But soon. He deserves to know my decision before the Council hears it from someone else."
"What will you tell him?"
She considered. The letter would need to be careful. Aldric had advocated for her. He had spent years training her, recommending her, building her reputation in rooms she wasn't allowed to enter. He had earned honesty, even if the honesty would disappoint him.
"The truth," she said. "That I found work here that matters more to me than the position. That the archive needs someone who can build the bridge Varresh designed. That I'm the only person who can do it."
"Will he understand?"
"No." She traced a scar on his chest, following the raised line with her fingertip. "He'll think I've lost my mind. He'll think I've thrown away everything I worked for because I fell in love with an orc and couldn't think clearly."
She felt him go still beneath her. "Verity."
She lifted her head. Looked at him. His face was unreadable in the low light, but his eyes were not. She could see it there. The thing he'd been holding back.
"I love you," she said.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw. His eyes searched her face, and she let him look. Let him see whatever he needed to see.
"I love you," he said.
The words were rough. Unpracticed. They sounded like they'd been locked in a chest for decades and had only just remembered how to form.
She kissed him. Softly this time. A seal on something that had already been sealed, a confirmation of what their bodies had been saying for weeks.
When she pulled back, his hand was still cradling her face, and his expression had changed. The careful blankness was gone. In its place was something raw and open, something she suspected very few people had ever seen.
"You should sleep," he said.
"So should you."
"I will." His arm tightened around her waist.
The fire in the other room had burned to embers. The chamber was cooling, but his body was a furnace, and the furs were heavy, and she was warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
"The letter," she murmured. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
"And the council will want to discuss terms."
"They will."
"And I need to go back to the archives. There's a section in Chamber Three I haven't—"
"Verity."
She stopped.
"Sleep."
She smiled against his chest. "You're very commanding."
"I am the warchief."
His hand moved to her hair, fingers working through the tangles with absent gentleness. She felt her eyes grow heavy. The rhythm of his breathing slowed beneath her ear, deep and steady, the breathing of a man who was not lying awake waiting for something to go wrong.
She had done that. She had given him that.
The thought settled in her chest like a stone finding its place in a cairn. One more marker on a trail she was building. One more sign that said: this way. I came this way. I chose this.
Tomorrow there would be letters to write and terms to negotiate and archives to catalogue. Tomorrow she would begin the work of building the bridge Varresh had designed, document by document, gap by gap, until the two halves of history finally touched.
But tonight, she was here. In his bed. In his arms. In the fortress she had chosen over everything she'd thought she wanted.
She slept.