Page 34 of The Orc's Princess Bride
She shook her head. “We both let fear come between us. I should have told you about my connection to Lasseran from the beginning.”
“You had no reason to trust me with that secret. I gave you no reason.” Those fierce golden eyes looked at her with such tender remorse that it made her heart ache. “But no more secrets between us. No more walls.”
Still holding her close, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“Lasseran tried to poison us with lies,” he said, his voice a low vow. “Let us wash it away. There is an old ritual. A promise.” His eyes searched hers. “Come with me.”
“Where?” she asked, though in truth, she would have followed him anywhere in that moment.
“The sacred springs beneath the palace. It is a place where truth is spoken and bonds are renewed.” He hesitated. “If you are willing.”
She thought of all they’d been through—the suspicion, the fear, the painful revelations. And now, this chance to begin anew, to wash away the poison of doubt.
“Yes,” she said simply, taking his hand in hers. “I’m willing.”
He smiled then, a true smile that transformed his stern features, making him look younger, unburdened. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a reverent kiss to her knuckles.
“Then come, my queen,” he said softly. “Let us make a new beginning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ulric led Jessamin through the winding corridors of the stronghold, his hand wrapped gently around hers. The warmth of her palm against his was a small miracle after his appalling behavior. Each stolen glance at her profile—the proud tilt of her chin, the lingering redness around her eyes—sent a fresh wave of shame and tenderness through him.
They descended a narrow spiral staircase, the air growing warmer and more humid with each step. Her curious gaze met his.
“What is this place?”
“A place sacred to my people. A place of truth.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he pushed open a heavy wooden door inlaid with ancient symbols. Steam billowed out, enveloping them in its warm embrace.
The chamber beyond was unlike anything else in the stark fortress. Carved directly from the living rock of the mountain, it resembled a natural grotto. A large, deep pool dominated the center, its dark waters reflecting the golden light from braziersplaced at intervals around the perimeter. The ceiling arched high above, disappearing into shadows broken only by the occasional glint of embedded crystals that caught and refracted the light.
“This place was discovered, not built,” he explained, watching her take in the space with wide eyes. “Our ancestors found hot springs deep in the mountain and channeled them here. For centuries, it has been a sanctuary.”
A small shrine was carved out of the rock on one side of the grotto, and she paused in front of it.
“The shrines in the temples in Almohad are nothing like this,” she whispered. “But this is a place of power. I can feel it.”
“The springs are dedicated to Freja,” he said softly, and she nodded.
“The mother goddess.” A breeze whispered through the grotto at her words, and she gave him a startled look. “Where did that come from?”
“This is a place of mysteries.” A place where it was easy to forget his doubts about the gods.
He guided her to the edge of the pool. The air was thick with steam and the scent of mineral-rich water, earthy and primal.
“In orc tradition, this is where couples come to reaffirm their bond,” he continued, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand. “To speak truth before the gods and each other. No lies can exist here. No deception.” He paused, swallowing hard. “No fear.”
Her eyes met his, steady and unflinching. The trust he saw there humbled him.
“I failed you,” he said roughly. “I let my fear poison what we were building. Here, now, I want to wash it away. If you’ll allow it.”
She nodded, a small, decisive movement. “Show me,” she whispered.
With deliberate movements, he began to unfasten the clasps of his tunic. There was nothing seductive in his actions, only honesty. He removed each layer methodically, letting them fall to the stone floor—first the tunic, then the light shirt beneath, revealing the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders.
He did not rush or hide. This was a ritual, an offering of vulnerability. The scars that mapped his skin told the story of his life—the jagged line across his ribs from his first battle, the three parallel marks on his shoulder from a mountain cat, the fresh wound from the rockslide still pink and tender.
