Page 7 of Claimed By the Wild Orc
And so washe.
I swallowed hard and backed up a step, then another. Gorran didn’t look at me as I slipped past him, back into the heat of the cave. His gaze stayed on the creature, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
He didn’t speak again until the night went quiet.
That silence felt worse than the howl.
I dreamt of his hands.
Rough and scarred, they were calloused in places where a blade had lived too long. They were capable of tearing a wolf apart, yet in my dreams, they didn’t hurt. They traced the length of my throat, the curve of my hip, and the hollow of my spine with unbearable patience.
Heat bloomed under my skin like a fever. My breath hitched, and I hated myself for the way my body arched into that imagined touch. For the way I wanted.
Impossible. Why did I dream of such things?
I must be feverish. Delirious.
When I woke, the cave was quiet, save for the slow burn of the fire. Gorran was where he had been, crouched near the flames, the blade balanced across his knees. Watching.
As if he already knew the things I dreamed.
MIRA
The cave smelled of smoke and metal, but also of him: of musk and rain and something wilder that clung to his skin like it belonged there. It made me restless, irritated in ways I didn’t want to examine, that I couldn’t explain. Once the disbelief and the shock cleared, I realized I needed to do something with my hands, something that wasn’t just sitting there pretending not to care.
Otherwise, I’d go mad.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since before the wolves. I glanced at the pile of supplies tucked into a corner: dried meats, roots, a pouch of ground herbs, a few iron pots blackened with age and use. It wasn’t much, but I’d worked in the kitchens of the keep for long enough to know how to make a meal out of nothing.
If I was going to be stuck here, I wasn’t going to starve.
I chose a medium-sized pot and sorted through the supplies with quick, decisive movements.
Then, I found a pitcher of water and filled the pot, before hanging it in the hearth.
There were cooking utensils, too: a knife, a mortar and pestle, a chopping board, and a wooden spoon.
My fingers worked on instinct, chopping and grinding, mixing water with the simple ingredients until the scent of something warm and edible filled the air.
Behind me, I could feel his eyes.
When I finally risked a glance over my shoulder, Gorran was seated near the fire, broad shoulders relaxed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was sharpening his blade again, in slow, methodical strokes, but his gaze wasn’t on the weapon. It was on me.
I refused to let that get to me.
“You’ve got nothing but jerky, roots, and this pouch of ancient herbs,” I muttered, stirring the pot. “Do you orcs not believe in seasoning? Or is flavor a human luxury?”
No answer. Just the steady rasp of stone against steel.
I set the pot closer to the flames, crossing my arms. “I guess I’ll take that as a no.”
Minutes later, I dished up the stew—if you could call it that—and handed him a bowl. He took it without a word, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest moment. Heat flared through me like a live wire, and I cursed my body for noticing.
He ate in silence.
He didn’t offer anything: not a grunt of approval, not even a glance.
Fine.
