Chapter 20
Chapter
Twenty
Eliza lifted the garment from the bench, the velvet heavy and cool against her fingers. For a moment she simply studied it, brow furrowed.
It was a dress, robe-like in its cut, with ties meant to fasten at the waist—similar to what she'd glimpsed on female orcs during border negotiations years ago.
Nothing like the elaborate silks and layered gowns of Maidan, which clung and shimmered with jewels, designed to enhance a woman's figure while restricting movement.
This was different—starkly so. Simple in its lines.
Practical enough for a warrior to move in, yet elegant in its own alien way.
And the fabric was sumptuous, rich, the same kind of velvet she had seen on the robe he himself wore—a fabric she now recognized as a marker of rank among his people.
A prince's garment. Or perhaps a prince's mate.
And it would fit her. She could tell. The sleeves were narrower than she would have expected, the length just right for her height. Orc women were larger, broader. He must have—
Her lips pressed together, heat rising in her cheeks. Had he truly arranged this? Had it been made for her, tailored before she ever arrived here?
The thought unsettled her.
The color was striking—a rare, deep shade of blue, richer than midnight, unlike any dye she had seen in Maidan. It shimmered faintly in the daylight that spilled from the windows above, a quiet power in its simplicity.
It was unadorned. No embroidery. No jewels. Nothing to soften the severity of its orcish lines.
And unmistakably orcish it was. Not a stitch of Maidan craft to be found.
Her stomach twisted. Of course. This wasn't just clothing. It was a symbol. His claim, draped across her shoulders.
Bastard.
But what choice did she have? To refuse and remain in a nightgown—his shirt still clinging to her, smelling of him? To appear before him undignified, diminished?
Never.
With tight fingers, she lifted the dress over her head and pulled it down, fastening the ties one by one. The velvet fell heavy and sure against her frame, swallowing her in its alien elegance.
It fit. Perfectly.
There were no shoes.
Her gaze swept the bench, then the floor, searching for slippers, boots, anything. But there was nothing.
Barefoot.
Her jaw tightened. Was that deliberate? Another subtle reminder of her captivity, a quiet demand for submission disguised as practicality? A queen without shoes, silent in her steps, humbled in an orc stronghold.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides.
But the velvet hem brushed the ground when she stood. At least the dress was long enough to conceal her feet, to hide the indignity. If he thought she would appear before him looking stripped of dignity, he would be disappointed.
She drew a steadying breath, squaring her shoulders. The gown was heavy, alien, undeniably orcish—but it fit her. And if she must wear it, she would wear it with the bearing of a queen, not a captive.
Dressed in this strange, flowing, orcish garment, she went outside, into the sunshine, where she found Rakhal leaning against the weathered tree.
"It suits you," he said, sounding a little too pleased with himself.
And she hated that she felt a sliver of satisfaction at the fact that he was pleased.
"It'll do for now." She made a point of acting unimpressed. "So, what now?"
He looked her up and down, slowly, infuriatingly.
His eyes darkened.
The shadows danced around his feet.
"You will do," he said slowly, turning her own words back at her. "Far better than I'd expected."
"Expected?" A harsh, derisive laugh escaped her. "One shouldn't make plans based on expectations. I trust you have a coherent plan for entering Istrial, orc, because the entire city will be up in arms, and my mages won't hesitate to incinerate any enemy who dares approach the gates."
She already knew his plan probably involved displaying her, using her as a hostage to gain entrance… and agreement.
Rakhal said nothing. He just moved forward, peeling himself away from the tree with uncanny grace, disappearing into the bathing chamber.
He emerged moments later, with something in his hand…
The comb.
Intricately carved from bone, gleaming in the sunlight.
She'd forgotten about it. Forgotten to comb her hair before she stalked outside.
Eliza snatched it from his big, rough hands. At least, she tried. Rakhal held it in an iron grip, his powerful arm outstretched.
"What?" she demanded.
"If I'm to be your consort, I should learn to do things like this."
She held firm, her expression like stone, but inside, her soul trembled a little. There should not be a part of her that wanted this. "I have maids for that sort of thing, although I usually comb my hair myself."
"I insist," he said stubbornly, infuriatingly, locking her in a battle of wills. "Or would you rather arrive at Istrial looking disheveled?"
Bastard.
She could have taken the bait, could have played into his little power game.
She could have held out and allowed her hair to stay wild and tangled.
But she could also use the situation to her advantage. "I'll allow it… If you grant me a concession in return."
"A bargain?" Rakhal's eyes darkened. "I'll consider it. Tell me what it is you want."
Her eyes narrowed, her pulse a taut thread beneath her skin. She couldn't risk asking for too much. If she reached too far, he would shut her down, and she'd be left with nothing but the sting of indignity—and his hands in her hair regardless.
But a thought struck her, quick and sharp.
"Three questions," she said. Her voice was cool, deliberate. "I get to ask three questions, and you will answer honestly."
Rakhal's grip on the comb did not slacken, though his gaze sharpened, shadows whispering faintly at his feet as though they, too, were considering her demand.
"Questions," he repeated, slowly, as though tasting the word. "That is your concession?"
"Yes." She lifted her chin. "Nothing more. Nothing less. Three truths. That is all I ask."
A long silence stretched between them. She felt the weight of his scrutiny, the dangerous patience of a predator deciding whether to allow its prey to circle closer—or to strike.
Finally, the corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile, not quite mockery, something darker. "You could ask me anything. About my people. About your fate. About me." His voice dipped lower. "Are you certain you want the answers?"
Her stomach knotted, but she refused to flinch. "That is the bargain. Do you agree, or do we waste more time standing here like fools?"
His gaze lingered on her, unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he placed the comb in her hand. His fingers brushed hers, rough against her skin, a contact that lingered longer than necessary.
"Three questions," Rakhal said at last. His voice was a promise and a warning both. "Ask wisely."
"Why this?" she pressed, her voice taut.
"You're a prince, with power, with influence enough to command armies.
You could have killed me. You could have broken me, discarded me, taken another of your own kind to stand at your side.
Yet instead, you choose this. Me. A human.
You choose to march into my territory, away from your people, away from your throne. Why?"
The air thickened between them. His hand hovered, the comb suspended inches from her hair, as though the question itself had rooted him to stone.
Slowly, he lowered his arm, the bone teeth grazing at last through a lock of her hair, careful, deliberate. His breath stirred the nape of her neck when he answered.
He went quiet for a moment, brushing her hair with slow, steady strokes, the comb's teeth whispering through the strands. Expertly, he teased out the knots, patient and sure, as if he'd done this before.
"It wasn't planned," he said at last, his voice low, unguarded.
"It wasn't a scheme, nor was it strategy.
The choice came then and there, in your chambers.
I saw the way you fought, even with nothing left to wield but your will.
I saw the future laid bare before me—a fork in the road.
I saw a hundred different possibilities.
That's when the notion came to me… that this could all end. So I chose one."
The comb slid through her hair again, deliberate, unhurried.
"Seeing you like that, as you faced my blade…
something spoke to me," he continued, almost as though confessing to himself.
"I can't explain it. I saw the way you looked at me.
I remembered you on the battlefield, your defiance, your fire.
In that moment, I felt it was wrong to kill you.
My being recoiled against it. I've never felt that so strongly before. "
Quiet surprise flickered through her. His words carried no guile, no hidden edge. He seemed to have no trouble telling her this, laying it bare without subterfuge or pretence.
Is this the orc directness he spoke of?
She remained silent, unwilling to break the spell of honesty, allowing herself instead to feel the steady drift of the comb through her tangled, damp hair. Each stroke was sure, controlled, and not once did he hurt her.
She wanted to trust him. Wanted to lean back into the impossible spell of gentleness he wove with each careful stroke of the comb. For one breath, then another, she let herself hover there, on the edge of surrender.
But she understood too well how dangerous this was. To succumb so easily, to forget what he was, what she was, would be her undoing.
So she steeled herself.
"Tell me this, then," she said quietly, her voice cutting through the hush. "Why did that thought not occur to you with any of the others? The men and women who fell beneath your hand?"
The comb paused only a fraction before moving again, steady, patient.
"Because," he said, his tone unflinching, "I've never had to kill a queen before. Let alone a noble and honorable one."