Chapter 11 Seris
SERIS
Isink deeper into the basin, letting the blessed warmth seep into bones that haven't known comfort in weeks. The water laps against my swollen belly, and for the first time since I collapsed at Azhgar's gates, my body doesn't feel like a collection of aches held together by stubborn will.
Steam rises around me like incense, carrying the scent of herbs Maedra added to ease the constant pressure in my back and hips. My muscles finally uncoil, tension bleeding away into the heated water. I close my eyes and let my head fall back against the basin's smooth edge.
The melody comes without thinking—low and soft, the same tune my mother hummed when winter storms raged outside our cottage and the world felt too large and dangerous for a small girl to navigate.
Her voice had been gentle then, wrapping around me like the warmest blanket, promising that dark times passed and morning always came.
My hand drifts to my belly, fingers tracing the curve where new life grows. The baby shifts beneath my touch, a flutter of movement that makes my heart catch. I hum louder, letting the temple's ancient silence carry the sound through stone corridors that have heard centuries of prayers.
"You hear that?" I whisper to the child. "That's your grandmother's song. She would have loved you, little one. Would have sung to you every night until you knew every word by heart."
The water ripples gently as I adjust my position, seeking relief from the constant ache that pregnancy has carved into my spine.
Here, in this moment of stolen peace, I can almost pretend the world beyond these walls doesn't exist. That councils don't debate my fate, that betrothed orcs don't sharpen knives behind painted smiles.
Then something shifts. The air itself seems to change, growing heavier with a presence I can't name but feel in every nerve. The fine hairs on my neck rise despite the steam's warmth.
My eyes snap open.
I turn, water sloshing against the basin's sides—
Vargath stands in the doorway.
He's utterly still, carved from shadow and firelight like some ancient statue come to life.
His dark eyes lock on my bare shoulders, trace the down my spine, then drop to my belly where his child grows.
When his gaze finally meets mine, I see something raw and unguarded flicker across his features before his warrior's mask slides back into place.
He fills the doorway completely, broad shoulders blocking most of the corridor beyond.
His long black hair hangs loose around his face instead of braided for war, softening the harsh angles of his features without diminishing the power that radiates from his frame.
Steam curls around him like smoke, catching on the ritual burn scars that spiral up his forearms—marks of rank and honor earned through blood.
The leather and steel of his armor gleams dully in the brazier light, every piece perfectly maintained despite the evidence of recent battle. Dried mud still clings to his boots, and I catch the faint scent of snow and iron that follows him like a second skin.
His tusks catch the firelight as his jaw works silently, some internal struggle playing out behind eyes that have seen too much death.
There's something almost vulnerable in the way he stands there, frozen between advance and retreat, as if my naked form has stripped away more than just his composure.
"I—" His voice comes out rougher than usual, scraped raw by whatever emotions he's fighting to contain.
My gasp cuts through the steam like a blade.
Water sloshes violently as I scramble for the linen cloth draped over the basin's edge, my hands shaking so badly I nearly drop it twice before managing to pull it against my chest. The rough fabric clings to my wet skin, offering scant protection against his unwavering stare.
"Get out!" The words tear from my throat, high and sharp with panic. Heat floods my cheeks—not from the bath water, but from pure mortification at being caught so exposed, so vulnerable.
He doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. His massive frame remains perfectly still in the doorway, those dark eyes drinking in every detail like a man dying of thirst. His jaw works silently, muscles bunching beneath the ritual scars that mark his rank.
There's something raw in his expression—shock, yes, but beneath that lies something deeper. My breath catches despite my fury.
The way he looks at me... it's the same expression he wore that night months ago, when firelight painted his skin bronze and his hands trembled as they traced my curves. Like I'm something precious. Something he's afraid to touch for fear of breaking.
But that was before. Before councils and betrothed orcs and the harsh reality of what carrying his child truly means.
"I said get out." My voice shakes with anger and embarrassment, though I can't tell which emotion burns hotter.
The cloth slips against my wet skin and I clutch it tighter, acutely aware of how little it conceals.
Of how his gaze lingers on the swell of my belly where it presses against the thin linen.
His tusks catch the brazier light as he draws in a sharp breath. Something flickers across his features—longing so naked it makes my chest tighten. For a heartbeat, I see past the warrior's mask to the man beneath. The one who held me with reverent hands and whispered my name like a prayer.
Then his shoulders straighten. His expression shutters closed like gates slamming shut against an army.
Finally—slowly, as if moving through thick honey—he turns toward the door. Each step echoes off the stone walls with deliberate precision, the sound of a man forcing himself to retreat when every instinct screams at him to advance.
Just before he slips through the doorway, he pauses. His profile cuts a harsh silhouette against the corridor's flickering torchlight, all sharp angles and barely leashed power.
"The gods may damn me for what I'm thinking right now."
The words are rough with an honesty that strips away pretense. Then he's gone, his footsteps fading into the temple's ancient silence.
I sink beneath the surface until only my eyes and nose remain above water, my heart thundering against my ribs like a caged bird. Steam swirls around me, but it does nothing to cool the fire that his presence ignited beneath my skin.
I should be furious. Should be plotting ways to bar my door against future intrusions.
Instead, I'm terrified by how my body reacted to seeing him standing there—by the way heat pooled low in my belly despite my embarrassment, by how desperately I wanted him to stay even as I ordered him to leave.