Chapter 20 #2
The words sank into her like a stone dropped into deep water, rippling through the silence between them.
He did not stop combing, each stroke slow and deliberate.
"I've slain soldiers," he said, voice even, untroubled by the admission. "Lords and knights. Orc chiefs and rival clans. Assassins who came for me in the dark. All of them had already chosen their path. Men and women who decided long ago to live by the sword, and so they died by it."
The comb slid through another knot, his hand patient, careful.
"But you…" His breath stirred the strands at her temple. "You are not like them. You've wielded a blade, yes—but in spite of your title, not because of it. To kill you would have been…" His voice roughened, just slightly. "A waste."
"A waste," she repeated flatly, turning the words over as slowly and carefully as he combed her hair.
She stood in the warm sunlight, velvet heavy around her, allowing his slow caress. Every drag of the comb reminded her of the dangerousness contained within him—and of his restraint. His gentleness.
Their first real touch.
This man who was to be her husband.
And even as her skin tingled under his careful hand, she resolved to free herself. To slip from his grip, his power. Once she was back in her castle, within the walls of Istrial, it would be easier. Her people. Her mages. Perhaps he underestimated her. Or perhaps he was already one step ahead.
He moved closer.
"You have the mantle now. The crown," he murmured, his voice deep as stone. "These lands have always belonged to both our peoples. Our fates are already bound. Why not change everything?"
A sudden realization struck her, sharp and unexpected. A low, soft chuckle escaped her lips. "I understand," she said. "You're an idealist."
He did not rise to her taunt. Instead, he leaned in, parting her hair at her neck, pushing it gently aside. She felt his warm breath, the graze of his tusks against her skin. Then—his lips, brushing a slow, assured kiss there.
The tremor it sent through her betrayed her utterly.
Just one kiss. Slow, warm, infuriatingly certain.
It shouldn't make her react this way. But it did.
This male… Dangerous. Compelling.
"Idealist?" His voice vibrated against her skin. "Maybe. If being idealistic means I'm mad enough to claim you, then yes."
She didn't shy away. In fact, when he relented, she almost missed his lips.
"You truly believe you can make this… more than what it is?" she asked, her voice low, caught between disbelief and something more dangerous.
His fingers slid along her jaw, strong, unyielding, until he turned her head, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Try me."
He let go of her jaw.
And she yielded—because she had to admit it, if only to herself. She was caught under his spell. And this—this being in thrall to another—was something she was unused to. Unprepared for. And yet she couldn't deny it, even though every part of her screamed that she shouldn't.
It was only for now.
Here, in this private sanctuary. Away from prying eyes, away from her court, away from the games and the intrigue and the endless, crushing pressure.
Just… for now.
His fingers slipped through her hair, strands nearly dry beneath the sun's warm touch. She felt warm too. Too warm. The heat uncoiled low in her belly, winding deeper, seeping into the very core of her, sliding between her thighs.
Languorous. Trapped. Tempted to let go.
No. She clung to the thought like a blade's edge. Soon this spell would be broken. Soon, everything would change.
But for now…
To her surprise, his fingers shifted, dividing her hair into sections. And then, deftly, expertly, he began to braid. Not a clumsy knot, not some fumbling gesture, but the sure, skilled work of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
"Among my people," he said quietly, "braiding is an intimate act.
Reserved for family. For mates. For those bound by blood or oath.
" His hands moved with confidence, drawing the braids taut, weaving one, then the other, from the crown of her scalp down.
"The pattern tells a story. This one," his fingers tightened slightly on a particular section, "speaks of strength.
Of royalty." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper against her ear. "Of belonging."
She understood then. This was not merely practical—this was ritual. By braiding her hair in the style of his people, he was marking her. Claiming her in a way that would be instantly recognizable to any orc who saw her.
She couldn't see what it looked like. But she felt it. The rhythm. The steadiness. The strange, quiet care threaded into every motion.
"When you return," he said softly, breaking through the haze that had settled over her, "they will see a queen. And the authority you wield will have a different power behind it."
Her trance shattered. She drew a breath, steadying herself against the tug of his braids.
"And what of you?" she asked, her voice edged with steel. "What power do you hold in the orc kingdom? How can I trust you'll keep your father—and your brother—in check?"
The braiding stilled, his hands resting against her hair as though the question had struck deeper than she intended. Then he resumed, calm, measured, each motion deliberate.
"The shadows obey me," he said simply. His fingers paused in their braiding, and she felt it then—the subtle shift in the air, the darkening that wasn't merely absence of light but presence of something else.
Something alive, aware. The shadows around his feet stirred like liquid, twisting toward her without touching, then retreating.
"Not just mine. All shadows. Everywhere. "
She caught his meaning instantly. Even in Istrial. Even in her castle. Even in rooms where no orc had ever set foot.
"My father fears what I can do," he continued, resuming his braiding with the same steady rhythm.
"Kardoc resents it. The clan elders respect it.
None of them fully understand it." His voice lowered to a whisper.
"With you by my side in Maidan, there would be nowhere they could strike without my knowing.
No plot I couldn't uncover. No threat I couldn't eliminate. "
And then he finished her braids, tying off the ends with threads she hadn't seen him produce, leaving that stark truth hanging in the air—strangely powerful, edged with menace, yet carrying a strength that was almost… reassurance.
"By the way," he added, a hint of amusement warming his tone, "that was well beyond your allotted three questions. I'm beginning to think humans don't count the same way orcs do."
Eliza let his unexpected amusement wash over her, partly disbelieving, her thoughts swimming.
For if he were to be bound to her…
What kind of power would they have… together?