Page 49 of The War God's Woman

Lirienne emerges from behind a boulder, face pale. Her eyes dart over the wounded orcs, the monstrous corpses, and finally land on me. “You’re alive,” she says softly, voice trembling with both shock and relief.

I nod, swallowing. My heart pounds from the close call. “We all are.”

One by one, we help each other limp to a safer nook in the canyon wall, clearing a space to tend injuries. The priests resume chanting, partly in prayer to the War God for survival, partly in an attempt to ward off illusions if the saboteur tries to strikeagain. The stench of the beasts’ blood hangs in the air, mingling with the acrid bite of acid burns on the stone.

Lirienne crouches beside Karzug, carefully examining his wounded arm. Her mouth presses into a determined line as she reaches into her satchel for herbs and salves. I watch, shoulders taut. She is no orc shaman, but her healing knowledge has saved us more than once.

While the priests murmur, I guide Harzug and Gurtha in building a makeshift barrier around the campsite, hauling broken rock to form a low wall. My mind reels from the ambush, from how near we danced to ruin. Sabotage or not, these beasts nearly finished us.

Eventually, the immediate tasks slow. Orcs rest against the rocky slope, panting, while the priests fuss over their injuries or recite blessings. I stand near the far side of camp, leaning on my ax for support, adrenaline fading into bone-deep weariness. My right shoulder throbs, where a glancing blow from a beast’s claw cut my armor.

Footsteps approach—Lirienne. She carries a small pot of salve, hair askew, face streaked with sweat and grime. Her eyes flick over me, worry evident. “You’re hurt?”

I grunt, nodding to my shoulder. “Just a scratch.”

“Sit,” she insists. “Let me see.”

For a moment, I consider protesting—there is still so much to do, illusions to guard against, orcs to check on. But the pain twinges, and I exhale, dropping to a makeshift seat on a flat boulder. Lirienne kneels behind me, unlatching my chest plate to reveal the slash beneath. Her gasp tells me it is more than a shallow graze.

“Ghorzag,” she murmurs, voice tight. “This is deeper than you claimed.”

I breathe heavily, ignoring the sting. “I’ve had worse.”

Her fingers brush my skin, and a hiss escapes me. The gash burns where the beast’s claw raked across muscle. Warm blood trickles, though it isn’t gushing. I force myself to remain still, letting Lirienne dab at the wound with a damp cloth.

Silence stretches, the only sounds her careful breathing and the distant moans of injured orcs. My heart hammers, not just from pain but from the intimacy of her touch. We nearly died today. The significance weighs on my chest.

She applies a pungent salve, stinging sharply. My muscles tense. “Sorry,” she whispers, voice trembling with empathy. “I have to make sure it’s clean.”

I grunt in acknowledgment, letting her proceed. As she works, her hands grow gentler, the tension in her posture easing into a focused care. My mind flickers back to the night we first yielded to the powerful undercurrent between us—anger turned to desperate passion. Now, in the aftermath of battle, a different kind of intensity fills the air: relief, gratitude, a shared sense of precarious survival.

When Lirienne finishes bandaging my shoulder, she reaches around to inspect a bruise along my collarbone, leaning close. The breath catches in my throat. Her warm presence envelops me. The rough stone beneath my palms suddenly feels far colder by comparison.

Her voice comes softly, “You push yourself so hard, Ghorzag. Always charging into danger to protect everyone. Who’s protecting you?”

I swallow, a wave of unspoken emotion rising. “I protect myself,” I say, but it sounds unconvincing even to my own ears.

She shifts, eyes searching mine. The closeness of her face sends a jolt through my chest. “Sometimes even the strongest need help,” she whispers.

A swirl of conflicting impulses batters me. Duty demands I remain vigilant, keep watch for magic or traitors. But thewarmth of Lirienne’s closeness offers a fleeting moment of solace. I nearly lost her to the clan’s fury once. We both nearly died. The raw vulnerability of that thought loosens the walls around my heart.

Gently, almost tentatively, I let my fingers brush the side of her cheek, smudged with ash from the beasts’ remains. Her eyes flutter shut at the contact. “I—” I begin, unsure how to articulate the swirl in my chest.I can’t lose you, not when the entire clan demands your head.

She places a hand over mine, turning her face into the touch. A tremor races through her. “Ghorzag… every time we fight, I fear it’s the last I’ll see of you.” Her voice wavers, tears threatening.

Emotion surges. I pull her closer, ignoring the sting in my shoulder. My breath shudders as I press my forehead to hers, soaking in the simple comfort of her presence. We survived another trial. The world beyond us—the orcish stares, the priests’ chants—fades into insignificance for one stolen moment.

Her mouth opens under mine with a soft gasp, and I drink her in like it’s the last time I’ll ever taste her. Maybe it is. The way danger dogs our every step, we can’t afford to waste any moment—not with the War God watching, not with traitors in the mist.

“Ghorzag,” she breathes, her hands sliding over my bare chest, fingertips tracing the inked spirals of my tattoos. Her touch is reverent, not fearful. Each pass over my skin sends a tremor through me, as though she’s rewriting the meaning of every mark I bear. Not war. Not blood. Just… her.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers, brushing her fingers along my jaw, one grazing the chipped tusk that has made too many warriors flinch.

I huff a breath against her lips. “I’m a monster, Lirienne.”

“No.” Her eyes blaze with certainty, even as her voice trembles. “You’re mine.”

A growl claws up my throat. I crush my mouth to hers, trying to hold back the need roaring through my veins. But it’s no use. My cock is already hard, throbbing against the seam of my trousers, begging for her warmth, her slick heat, her trust. Still, I don’t rush. She deserves more than brute strength. She deserves to be cherished.

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