Chapter 4 #2
Instead he closed his eyes. “Sleep.”
The word wouldn’t mean anything to her, but maybe the tone would. Maybe she’d finally accept that arguing was pointless and let herself rest.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them.
Then he heard rustling as she burrowed deeper into the furs, followed by a small sigh that might have been exhaustion or resignation or both. Her voice was softer now as she asked another question. The words blurred together, running into each other as fatigue dragged at her.
He kept his eyes closed and his breathing steady. If she thought he was asleep, maybe she’d stop talking and actually rest.
The questions continued, but they were slower now, quieter, until they finally stopped.
He waited with the patience of a trained hunter as the silence continued for several minutes before cracking one eye open.
She’d fallen asleep, curled on her side in the nest of furs, with her wild auburn hair spread across the bedroll like spilled copper.
Her spectacles sat crooked on her nose, and one hand was tucked beneath her cheek.
She looked so small. Fragile. Breakable.
She is breakable. That’s the problem.
Orcs were built for endurance with thick skin that could turn a blade and dense bones that could withstand impacts that would shatter human skeletons. Even without the Beast Curse, their strength made them formidable opponents. With it, they were almost unstoppable.
But Thea was built like spun glass. One wrong move, one moment of lost control, and he could break her without even meaning to.
He should move—go back outside and sleep by the fire where he wouldn’t be trapped in this small space with her clean, sweet scent and the soft sound of her breathing.
Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, blocking the entrance and standing guard.
For Lasseran, he told himself. Because the High King wants her unharmed.
His Beast didn’t believe the lie, and neither did he.
But it was easier than admitting the truth—that something about this small, fragile, impossibly stubborn female had wormed its way past his carefully constructed defenses. When the mercenaries had looked at her with that cruel hunger, his first instinct hadn’t been to think about Lasseran’s orders.
It had been to protect her.
You’re getting soft.
Softness was dangerous. Softness got you killed. Lasseran had taught him that lesson early and often. Compassion was weakness, attachment was a liability, and the only thing that mattered was power—who had it, who wanted it, and what they were willing to do to keep it.
He had been made into a weapon in Lasseran’s arsenal—sharp, controlled, and unquestioning.
Except lately, there had been questions. Doubts had crept in during the dark hours when he couldn’t sleep.
It is for the greater good, Lasseran always said. I will bring order to chaos, and unite the Five Kingdoms under one strong rule.
They were noble words, convincing words, but the faces in Khorrek’s nightmares didn’t look grateful for order. They looked betrayed.
He forced himself to push the thoughts away, and focus on the present. He had one simple task—deliver Thea, no, deliver the female to Kel’Vara. There was no room for doubt or questions or the uncomfortable stirring of his Beast every time she looked at him.
Outside, the mercenaries’ voices had faded. Either they’d gone to sleep or moved their conversation far enough away that he couldn’t hear it.
The fire would burn down to coals soon. He should probably bank it for the night to make sure the embers stayed alive for the morning. He didn’t move.
Thea shifted in her sleep, making a small sound, the soft murmur of someone deep in dreams. The frames covering her eyes had slipped further down her nose. If they fell off, she might roll over and break them.
He told himself that was the only reason he moved. He told himself it was practical—Lasseran would be irritated if the human arrived unable to see—as he carefully, slowly, reached out and eased them off her face.
The frames were delicate, made of some material he didn’t recognize, smooth and cool to the touch.
He set them aside, placing them where she’d see them when she woke.
Despite his care, his fingers brushed against her skin, impossibly smooth and delicate.
His hand hovered near her face for a moment longer than necessary, wanting to feel that softness again.
Instead he made himself pull back and settled against his pack again.
He forced his breathing to even out as the night deepened around them.
Stars appeared in the gap of the tent opening—constellations he knew from years of sleeping under open sky.
The Warrior’s Belt. The Crown of Thorns.
The Broken Chain. He’d heard others tell stories about those stars, but they weren’t his stories.
She made another noise, and this time it was distress—a whimper that spoke of bad dreams. He tensed as he watched her face contort. and saw her curl tighter into the furs like she was trying to make herself disappear.
Nightmares.
It was only to be expected. She’d been ripped from her world and dumped into this one. She was surrounded by strangers and unable to communicate. She was afraid and alone.
He should let her wake on her own, and deal with her fear herself. Instead, he found himself speaking to her in a low, soft voice.
“You’re safe.”
It was undoubtedly a lie. Lasseran’s plans were never safe. But in this moment, in this tent, with him keeping guard against anyone who might hurt her? It was true enough.
The sound of his voice seemed to reach her even in sleep. Her expression smoothed out and the tension in her shoulders eased. She settled back into deeper sleep, her breathing slow and even
He watched her for a moment longer, then he closed his eyes and tried to find his own rest, knowing it wouldn’t come easy. It never did anymore.
Even if he did sleep, a part of him would remain on guard, alert to any intruder. He would make sure she stayed warm and safe and unharmed.
For Lasseran, he told himself again, but the lie was wearing thin.
Outside, the fire cracked and popped as the last of the larger branches burned down to coals. The horses shifted in their sleep. Somewhere in the distance, that strange night bird called again—a lonely sound that echoed across the plains.
His hand rested near his sword. It was an old habit, an ingrained response to sleeping in hostile territory.
Except this didn’t feel hostile. It felt…
Don’t.
He shut down that line of thinking before it could fully form—before he could put words to the uncomfortable warmth in his chest when he looked at the sleeping female.
The last thing he heard before exhaustion finally dragged him under was her murmuring in her sleep—a soft, incomprehensible word that sounded almost like his name.