Chapter Thirteen
Silas
A rustle shakes the thick tree line ahead, and just like that, my entire world narrows and sharpens, zeroing in on that single point of movement.
Figures emerge from the pines; Ulric first, shoved forward by an Orc, and behind him a scrawny human female with ginger hair hanging in her face.
My gaze barely lingers on her. She looks half-starved and frightened, but she is not the one who matters.
Beatrice is.
She’s dragged out next, and my body goes so rigid I feel like stone, every primal instinct in me screaming to charge forward and tear them apart for daring to lay a hand on her.
She stumbles, her boots catching on the uneven ground, but the two Orcs holding her arms just yank her upright without a care, and the casual violence of it makes my vision pulse with a red haze.
She’s a mess; dirt is streaked across her cheek, her hair is a wild tangle of gold and straw, her clothes are rumpled, but her chin is tilted up in that defiant way I know so well, and the look she shoots the Orc beside her is pure, undiluted fury.
My heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Gods, she’s beautiful. My female.
Then, my focus snaps to the Orc stepping forward from the main group to meet them, and the recognition hits me like a physical blow, making my blood run cold.
Rurak. I’d know that particular arrogant swagger anywhere; he’s the chief’s son of the Bone-Tusk clan.
We met once, years ago, during a tense stand-off over hunting territory, and even at that time, when he was younger, he wasn’t just some mindless brute—he was smart and calculated, his eyes missing nothing.
I’d marked him then as one to watch out for.
This isn’t just some random raider. This is a political nightmare.
“She’s spirited,” he rumbles, appraising her with amusement.
He’s talking about my mate like she’s a wild horse he’s thinking of breaking, instead of a living, breathing person.
“She bit one of my warriors,” he adds, and a fierce, stupid rush of pride hits me straight in the chest. That’s my girl.
“Maybe you should keep your green sausages to yourselves next time!” Beatrice hisses in response.
The Orcs around them howl with laughter, and even Rurak chuckles, shaking his head like he’s never heard anything so entertaining.
He looks from her spitting fury over to me, his expression saying, Can you believe this?
as if we’re old friends sharing a joke, and it makes me want to break his face for daring to think we have anything in common.
His teasing gaze lands squarely on me, testing, probing for weakness. “You Minotaurs breed interesting cattle. I see why you want her back.”
Cattle. The word is a slap, a vile reduction of all her fire and spirit and stubborn, brilliant life into property, as if she’s nothing more than something to be owned. It makes me sick. My hand tightens on the hilt of my blade until the leather groans and my knuckles ache with the strain.
“She’s not cattle.”
Rurak tilts his head, his mocking smile finally fading into something like genuine curiosity as he looks from her furious, defiant face back to mine, and I can see the gears turning behind his eyes as he tries to solve the puzzle of why I’m here, why I’m standing on the edge of his territory risking a war for one single female.
His next question hangs in the air between us, simple, yet utterly terrifying in its implications.
“Then, what is she to you?”
Everything. The word screams through my head, a truth so absolute and overwhelming it steals the air from my lungs.
She’s the first thought in my mind when I wake and the last before I sleep; she’s the reason my focus shatters every time she enters a room; she’s the fire in my veins and the quiet, constant ache in my chest that I can’t ever seem to get rid of.
But I’m not sure if I should admit that here, surrounded by enemies who would use it against me.
Her wide, fearful eyes watch me, waiting to see what I’ll do, as her own fate hangs on my next words.
I draw in a slow, deliberate breath. This is it.
The line is drawn. The carefully constructed walls I’ve built around this truth crumble to dust. “She is mine.” That’s all there is to it.
“I would start a war, break every treaty, and defy my own chief to keep her safe.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “Because I love her.”
A stunned hush ripples through the Orcs, so complete I can hear the drip of water from a nearby branch. Even Beatrice freezes in her captor’s grip. Her lips part, her eyes wide and unblinking, staring at me like I’m a stranger, like she’s never seen me before in her life.
Rurak studies me with open, calculating interest. “Love,” he murmurs, rolling the word over his tongue like it’s foreign to him.
“An odd claim from a Bull. Your kind thrives on war, on conquest. The only things we Orcs and Minotaurs have in common. And yet the Wolf says you’re offering fifty gold sovereigns and twenty obsidian blades to purchase her? ”
Ulric shifts beside me, sheepishly, and I can feel the heat of my own fury flare. I lock eyes on him, and the weight of my glare presses down hard enough that I know he wishes he could vanish into the ground. I want to tear him apart for opening his mouth without my consent.
My pulse is a wild drum against my ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the forced calm in my voice.
“I do not know what the wolf promised you.” I let the disdain for Ulric color my tone.
“I cannot offer you that. It is not mine to give.” I am my Chief’s voice, not his treasury.
I cannot beggar my people for my own heart, no matter how desperately it beats for her.
“But I can offer you something rarer,” I continue, my hand moving to the hilt of my own sword.
“Something your finest smiths could never hope to forge, not in a hundred lifetimes.” I draw the blade, and the sound is a clear, sharp ring in the quiet clearing.
I turn it slowly in the fading light. The black steel seems to drink the sun, rippling like dark water, the faint, ethereal shimmer of dragon scales dancing along its edge.
“Dragon-forged. Quenched in ancient flame and guardian’s blood.
A blade like this…” I let my gaze sweep over his warriors, seeing the naked hunger in their eyes. “…is worth more than kingdoms.”
A low, greedy murmur ripples through the Orcs. Even Rurak’s casual arrogance falters, his brows rising in genuine shock. He takes an involuntary step closer, his eyes locked on the weapon. “You would trade a dragon’s blade…for her?” The question is barely a breath, laden with disbelief.
“Yes.”
Beatrice lets out a strangled sound of pure disbelief. “Silas—”
“Quiet,” I shush her, not unkindly, but stern. My eyes never leave Rurak’s. This is the most dangerous negotiation of my life, and her safety hangs on every word, every flicker of expression. I cannot look away.
The young Orc prince studies me, his dark eyes sharp in the harsh daylight.
The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant cry of a hawk and the ragged sound of my own breathing.
Then, a slow grin spreads across his face, and he throws back his head and laughs.
It’s not mocking, but deep, genuine, and delighted.
“You are mad, Bull!” he booms, shaking his head.
“Mad and reckless. I like that.” He turns and slaps one of his warriors on the back.
“I could keep her and start a war that would stain these forests for another generation, but what would that prove? I will be chief soon, and I have seen what endless blood costs. Too many sons have died for pride. I will not start another war over one woman, no matter her worth. Release her. The dragon-steel is a king’s ransom, but his insanity is the real treasure.
Keep your sword. I have no need for trinkets to prove my power.
Tell your chief that Rurak of the Bone-Tusk chose peace, and remember that it was mine to give. ”
The grip on Beatrice’s arms loosens. She sways for a moment, unanchored, then stumbles forward a step.
My hand is there in an instant, closing around her elbow to steady her.
Her skin is cold. She jerks away from my touch as if scalded, her cheeks flushing a deep, furious red, but not before I feel the fine, violent tremor that wracks her entire frame.
She’s shaking. The bravado is gone, leaving behind raw, exposed nerve.
“And the other one?” Ulric’s voice cuts in, strained and uncharacteristically serious. He’s staring past me, his entire body tense, focused solely on the other woman, who is still held firmly by another Orc. “The human female.”
Rurak follows his gaze, his tusked smile widening. “Ah, yes. The wolf’s mate.” He looks between Ulric’s desperate expression and her defiant glare. He chuckles. “My mood is generous today. A story to tell my father. Take her too. One less mouth to feed.”
He waves a dismissive hand. The Orc shoves her forward. She stumbles into the clearing, shooting a venomous look at her captor before her eyes lock onto Ulric. She doesn’t look grateful or pleased; in fact, she looks ready to tear out his throat.
Rurak smirks at the back-and-forth, clearly entertained, and then his eyes are back on me, “You’ll see me again, Minotaur.
Next time, maybe we’ll share a drink instead of threats.
” He tips his head toward Beatrice, and turns, barking an order in Orcish as his warriors begin to fall back, melting back into the trees.
The moment the last Orc disappears, the strength seems to drain from Beatrice’s body. She sags, and this time, when I reach for her, she doesn’t pull away.
“We need to move,” I say, my attention completely on Beatrice. Her eyes are wide, glazed with shock and exhaustion. “Can you walk?”