Page 19 of Halfling
He accepted them with another nod, and she put them in the pile of ingredients he’d not yet added.
“Would you like help?”
At her question, he glanced at her over the fire, a pensive look in his deep-set eyes. In the firelight, his irises danced like liquid gold.
“It’d be easier with my paring knife.”
The blood drained from her face, and a wave of sickness swept through her belly.
As if it could feel itself spoken of, the little knife, hidden in her boot, pricked against her calf.
He knows.
The orc watched her quietly, unmoving. To calm her or like a predator stalking its prey…she couldn’t tell.
Silence again settled between them, the fire keeping its own crackling conversation. A breeze picked up the curls on her forehead and sent a shiver through Sorcha.
She cleared her throat though she didn’t know why.
She didn’t apologize. She didn’t show her hand.
The orc’s throat bobbed on a nervous swallow, and he went to look for something else in his pack. Sorcha held her breath, muscles tightening to spring up and run if she had to. It was only a paring knife, would mean little more than a scratch to this hulking male, but it was the first bit of defense she’d had in a fortnight and she wasn’t about to part with—
Sorcha leapt up when he pulled a sheathed dagger from the pack.
He frowned, splaying his free hand in peace. Those golden eyes took her in, wild-eyed and ready to race into the night.
“Trade,” he said slowly. “The knife for this.”
She didn’t know why the deep rumble of his voice calmed her nerves; it was ludicrous, but her knees stopped shaking all the same.
Sorcha pulled in a long, fortifying breath, willing her heart to settle.
“You’d give me that?”
He shook his head. “Trade.”
Slowly, he extended his arm, offering her the sheathed dagger. And that’s what it was, a wickedly long thing, longer than her forearm. Not a knife nor a hatchet, a dagger, meant to stab and slash andfight.
She wanted it badly.
Moments passed in more agonizing silence, the wind beginning to beat against her back, as if pushing her toward the fire, the camp,him.It bit through her layers, and Sorcha shivered again, suddenly overwhelmingly tired.
She wanted that dagger and she wanted a night by the fire. Her captors hadn’t lit one often, not wanting to give themselves away to other travelers.
Still, she didn’t rush. She took her time inching back to the fire.
The orc’s arm remained steady as she knelt, eyes always on him, and retrieved the paring knife from her boot. That arm never wavered as she drew closer, and he didn’t reach for the knife when she offered. Instead, the orc let her take the dagger from his hand and place the knife handle in his palm.
Swallowing hard, Sorcha sat back down with her offering clutched to her chest, not quite sure where to look but not able to keep his penetrating gaze.
The orc—Orek—watched her for another moment before nodding with a huff. He cleaned the knife and set about chopping. Eventually, Sorcha reached for the dried meat and began ripping it into smaller pieces to add to the bubbling pot, the dagger safely cradled in her lap.
And that was how they spent their evening, adding ingredients to their stew as night descended. She watched over their meal as he snipped carrots between knife and thumb, absentmindedly sneaking a piece into his mouth now and again. When he noticed her watching him, he offered her the nub of the carrot he’d cut.
They ate in silence, though Sorcha found she didn’t mind it quite so much. The forest around them was a chorus of sound, chirps and warbles as the day creatures sought their dens and the nocturnal animals took their turns.
Orek ate easily, and so Sorcha didn’t let herself worry about the errant flick of reflective eyes she spotted at the edge of the firelight.
