Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
His mouth on her throat. Teeth grazing skin. The scrape of tusks against her collarbone.
Thea gasped, arching into the touch. Hands—large, rough, impossibly gentle—mapped the curve of her waist. Her ribs. The swell of her breast.
“Khorrek.”
His name came out as something desperate and aching; something she’d never felt before.
“Tell me to stop.”
His voice rumbled through her, dark and dangerous and edged with barely controlled hunger.
“No.”
“Thea.” A growl that was both warning and promise. “Tell me to stop before I can’t.”
She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Those golden eyes that saw too much, that looked at her like she was something precious instead of ordinary.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
He made a sound—half snarl, half groan—and his control shattered. His mouth claimed hers with devastating thoroughness.
And she met him with equal fervor.
Her hands found the hard planes of his chest. Traced the ridges of muscle and scars. Felt the rapid thunder of his heartbeat beneath her palm.
Alive. Real. Mine.
He lifted her like she weighed nothing and pressed her against the wall. The cool stone was a shock against her heated skin, but she didn’t care.
Couldn’t care about anything except the way he touched her. The way his body felt against hers. The way his kiss stole every coherent thought.
“I wanted this,” he murmured against her lips. “I wanted you. From the moment I saw you.”
“Then have me.”
His eyes turned black as his Beast rose to the surface, making him look dangerous. Feral.
Perfect.
His mouth moved to her throat, then down to her breast, drawing the aching peak into his mouth with a single-minded intensity that made her writhe against him. She was coming apart in his arms, pleasure building to an impossible crescendo—
She woke up with a gasp.
The room was dark and empty. There was no Khorrek. No pleasure building to impossible heights. She was alone in her luxurious prison, and there was an ache between her thighs that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with want.
Oh my God.
She pressed her hands to her burning face, mortification warring with lingering arousal. She’d just had a sex dream. About Khorrek.
Who was probably standing guard outside her door right now.
Kill me. Someone please just kill me now.
She was an academic—someone who lived in her head, not her body. Physical attraction had always been something she understood intellectually but rarely experienced personally. Certainly nothing like this. Nothing that made her wake up aching and desperate and wishing the dream had been real.
“This is insane,” she whispered to the empty room. “You’ve known him for less than a week. He kidnapped you. He’s an orc. He works for a psychopath. This is literally the worst possible person to develop feelings for.”
Her body, apparently, didn’t care about logic.
The dream had felt so real. The weight of him. The heat. The way his hands had touched her with a mix of reverence and hunger that made her breath catch even in memory.
And that voice. Dark. Rough. Telling her he wanted her.
From the moment I saw you.
She groaned and pulled the blanket over her head like she could hide from her own mortifying thoughts.
It was the stress. Had to be. Her brain was processing trauma through incredibly inappropriate sexual fantasies about her captor. There were probably academic papers about this sort of thing. Stockholm Syndrome with an erotic twist.
Except it hadn’t started after he kidnapped her.
It had started the moment their eyes met at the stone circle. That instant, electric connection that had made his Beast stir. And she’d felt it too—an instant recognition, a pull she couldn’t explain.
Insanity. This is insanity.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about their kisses. The real ones. How he kissed her like she was oxygen and he was drowning. How she’d pulled him down to her last night with no hesitation, no second thoughts. How right it had felt.
Until he’d wrenched himself away like she’d burned him.
You need to sleep. You are exhausted and not thinking clearly.
The words had stung—still stung—because they meant he thought the kiss was a mistake. That she’d only done it because she was tired and confused and not in her right mind.
Maybe he’s right.
But lying here in the dark, achingly aware of every place dream-Khorrek had touched her, she couldn’t convince herself it was true.
She wanted him. Wanted the fierce, scarred orc who’d given her his tunic. Who’d taught her his language with surprising patience. Who’d almost killed a man for trying to hurt her. Who looked at her like she was brave instead of terrified. Brilliant instead of ordinary. Like she was beautiful.
She’d seen it in his eyes in the library—the same hunger she felt.
“This is a disaster,” she informed the ceiling.
The ceiling, unsurprisingly, had no advice.
She pushed off the blanket and sat up, accepting that more sleep wasn’t happening. Not with dream-images still burning behind her eyes and an ache between her thighs that made her want to do extremely inadvisable things.
Like open the door. Invite him in. Finish what they’d started.
No.
She had bigger problems than unrequited lust. She was trapped in another world, threatened by a sociopath, tasked with an impossible translation that would probably take months or years she didn’t have.
Getting emotionally—or physically—involved with Khorrek would only complicate an already catastrophic situation.
Even if he wanted her back. Which he clearly didn’t, based on the speed with which he’d fled last night.
Even if her traitorous body disagreed with every logical argument her brain could construct.
She stood, wincing at the lingering soreness in her muscles from the days of hard riding. The room was still dark, but faint light showed around the edges of the heavy silk curtains. Dawn. Or close to it.
Time to face another day in her gilded cage.
She made her way to the bathing room, marveling again at the luxury. The hot water that flowed from carved spigots. Sweetly scented soaps and thick towels. All the comforts Lasseran could provide. All of them tainted by the terror he could deliver with a smile.
The contrast made her sick.
She washed quickly, trying not to think about the dream. About Khorrek’s hands on her skin. His mouth. His voice saying he wanted her.
Not helping.
Clean and dressed in another borrowed gown—this one a deep green that made her feel like she was playing dress-up in someone else’s life—she forced herself to think about the translation.
Lasseran had called the book crude and simple. He’d lied.
She’d only really seen a few pages last night before exhaustion claimed her, but even that glimpse had revealed sophistication and depth. It wasn’t the work of savages—it was art. Knowledge.
Her fingers itched to get back to it. To find the patterns and make sense of chaos. Languages were safe. They followed rules, even when those rules seemed chaotic at first. Understand the structure, and meaning revealed itself.
Unlike people. Unlike emotions. Unlike Khorrek.
A sharp knock on the outer door made her jump.
“Dr. Monroe,” he said stiffly. “Are you awake?”
Her heart did an absolutely ridiculous flip at the sound of his voice.
Get yourself together.
“Yes,” she called back, proud that her voice sounded steady. “I’m awake.”
A pause. “A servant will bring you breakfast shortly. After you eat, I will escort you to the library.”
All business. As if last night had never happened. As if he hadn’t kissed her like she was his salvation.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Khorrek stood there—dark armor, scarred face, tusks that should have been intimidating but weren’t. Not to her.
His eyes met hers for a heartbeat before sliding away. But she saw it—the hunger. The want.
He feels it too.
The knowledge should have helped. It didn’t. Because if he wanted her but was choosing to stay away, that meant he’d decided they couldn’t have this. Whatever this is.
The knowledge should have helped. It didn’t.
If he wanted her and still chose distance, that meant he’d decided they couldn’t have this—whatever this was. And she was supposed to agree.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “For standing guard. I hope you got some rest.”
“I don’t need much sleep.”
Clipped. Professional.
She wanted to scream.
“Right. Well.” She pushed her glasses up, a nervous habit she couldn’t break. “I’m looking forward to getting back to work. The text is fascinating. Even from what little I saw, the complexity is—”
“The High King expects results,” he interrupted. “Not academic enthusiasm.”
The words were like a slap, and she couldn’t quite hide her flinch before she assumed the cool, professional mask she’d perfected during years of dealing with dismissive colleagues and condescending academics.
“Of course. Results. I’ll do my best to decode the crude, simple script.” She couldn’t quite keep the bite from her voice. “Assuming I can overcome my tendency toward useless enthusiasm.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I—”
“It’s fine.” She gave him a brittle smile. “You’re my guard, not my colleague. I’ll try to remember my place.”
“Thea—”
“Dr. Monroe,” she corrected deliberately. “Since we’re maintaining professional distance.”
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, frustration—but he swallowed it back.
Good.
Because she was hurting too. Aching from a dream that would never be real and kisses that had meant nothing to him.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway. A human servant appeared, clutching a tray with shaking hands.
“For the scholar,” the girl whispered, eyes down.
“Thank you,” she said gently, taking the tray. “What’s your name?”
The girl blinked, startled. “M-Mira, my lady.”
“Thank you, Mira. This looks wonderful.”
Mira fled as if kindness were dangerous. What kind of place is this?
She carried the tray to the window table, acutely aware of Khorrek behind her.
Bread, cheese, a citrus-scented fruit. All of it was probably delicious, but her appetite had deserted her.
“You should eat,” he said from too close.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You skipped dinner. You need—”
“I know my nutritional requirements, thank you.” She turned, startling at how near he was. Close enough to see the fatigue in his eyes. The tightness around his mouth. “Did you eat? Or were you too busy standing guard to bother?”
His face went blank. “I am fine.”
“Liar.”
The word hung between them—truth and accusation both.
“Eat,” he repeated roughly. “Then we will go to the library. Those are the High King’s orders.”
“Is that all you care about? His orders?”
She knew she shouldn’t have asked, but the dream was still vivid in her mind. She needed to know if last night had meant anything to him at all.
His hands clenched, and for a heartbeat she thought his mask would break, but then his expression went stone-cold again.
“Yes,” he said. “That is all I care about.”
The lie was painfully obvious, but it didn’t make her feel any better.
“Fine.” She picked up a piece of bread and bit into it. It tasted like nothing. “I’m eating. Satisfied?”
Silence.
“I will wait outside.”
He left before she could respond. The door closed with careful precision. Not a slam, just a quiet, controlled click.
She stood there, bread in hand, staring at the closed door.
I’m an idiot.
She knew that. She knew that getting involved with him was stupid and pushing him was dangerous.
But it didn’t matter because she was falling for him anyway. Falling for the male who looked at her as if she mattered. Even if he’d never admit it.
She forced down the rest of the bread, her appetite nonexistent but her stubbornness intact. If he wanted to pretend last night didn’t happen, fine. She could play that game.
She’d spent a good part of her career being underestimated and dismissed. She knew how to smile and nod and prove them wrong. This was no different.
Except it hurts more.
Focus on the translation, she told herself. The impossible task. The ancient text. The knowledge that failure meant death.
It was still simpler than dealing with an orc who made her heart ache.