Chapter 26 #2
The orgasm rolls through me in waves—long, slow, endless—and he holds me through every second of it.
Keeps moving, keeps the pleasure cresting, wrings every last tremor from my body before he finally lets himself follow.
His groan vibrates through my chest. His hips stutter.
His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise as he spills inside me.
We lie tangled in the aftermath. Neither of us moves. Neither of us speaks. The afternoon light shifts across our bodies, warm and golden, and for the first time in weeks—months—years—I feel safe.
His hand finds mine. Our fingers lace together. The oath marks on our arms pulse in sync—a matched heartbeat, a shared rhythm.
I press my face into his chest and let myself breathe.
The war band finds us as the sun begins to set.
We’re dressed by then—barely, hastily, my shirt on inside out and his braids in complete disarray. But we’re sitting together when Grothak ducks through the watchtower entrance, his expression carefully neutral in a way that tells me he knows exactly what we’ve been doing.
“Captain.” His voice is formal. Weighted with something I don’t understand. “A word.”
Blorjorn’s hand tightens on mine. “Whatever you need to say, you can say in front of her.”
Grothak glances at me. Something flickers in his gaze—respect, maybe. Acceptance.
“Very well.” He turns and gestures through the doorway.
The war band files in. Not just the survivors from our flight across the plains—others too. Orcs I don’t recognize, their armor battered, their faces hollow with exhaustion. There must be thirty of them. Forty. More than I’ve seen in one place since the Blackbone camp.
They’re not attacking. They’re not even armed—weapons sheathed, hands empty.
They’re kneeling.
One by one, the orcs drop to their knees before Blorjorn.
Veterans with kill marks covering their arms. Young fighters barely old enough to hold weapons.
Grothak, steady and sure. Vekra, her bad arm bound against her chest. Even Fenrik, still bandaged from the Waypoint massacre, his young face solemn.
“What is this?” Blorjorn’s voice is rough. Confused.
“The survivors of three war bands.” Grothak’s head is bowed, his voice carrying the weight of ritual.
“Scattered by Hadrin’s army, hunted across the plains, waiting for a leader worth following.
” He lifts his gaze to meet Blorjorn’s. “You killed the general. Destroyed his trap. Walked out of the Veilspire’s collapse with your woman in your arms. Word spreads fast.”
“Word of what?”
“Hope.” Vekra’s voice is quiet but firm. “For the first time in years, an orc captain has given us something to believe in. Something other than dying slowly while humans push us farther and farther into the wastes.”
Blorjorn is silent. His hand is still tight on mine, but I can feel him shaking—not with weakness but with something else. The weight of what’s being offered.
“You want me to lead.” Not a question.
“Orc tradition.” Grothak’s voice is steady. “The victor leads. You’ve earned the right to build something new, Captain. We’re asking you to take it.”
I watch Blorjorn’s face. Watch the war play out behind his eyes—the part of him that’s tired of fighting, tired of leading, tired of watching people die under his command. And the part that’s never stopped believing things could be different.
“I won’t be a warlord.” His voice is quiet but certain. “I won’t lead another endless war. If that’s what you’re looking for, find someone else.”
“We’re not looking for a warlord.” Grothak’s gaze flicks to me, then back to his captain. “We’re looking for someone who can show us another way.”
Another way. Not conquest. Not genocide. Something different—something that might actually last.
Blorjorn’s hand tightens on mine. He doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s waiting. Asking without words if I’ll stand beside him through whatever comes next.
I squeeze back.
“All right.” His voice carries through the ruined watchtower, reaching every orc kneeling before him.
“I’ll lead. But not as a weapon for anyone’s war.
” He rises, pulling me up with him. “We build something new. Something that isn’t just about survival.
And anyone who follows me follows her too.
” His arm slides around my waist, solid and possessive.
“She’s mine. I’m hers. Anyone who has a problem with that can leave now. ”
No one moves.
Then Grothak grins—fierce and proud and exactly the expression I remember from the first time I saved his life.
“Little healer saved three of ours at Waypoint, broke the captain’s blight chains, and fought beside us in the cathedral.” He looks around at the assembled orcs. “Anyone who has a problem with that can explain it to my axe.”
A rumble of approval rolls through the war band. Not quite cheering—orcs don’t cheer—but something close. Acceptance. Welcome.
I stand beside Blorjorn as the orcs rise to their feet, as plans begin to form, as the impossible future we’ve stumbled into starts to take shape. His arm stays around my waist. His heartbeat pulses steady against my shoulder.
And for the first time since Millbrook burned, I feel like I might actually belong somewhere.
The sun sets over the Bloodscar Plains, painting the sky in shades of orange and red. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new dangers, new questions about what we’re building and whether it can last.
Tonight, I lean into Blorjorn’s side and let myself believe.