Page 10 of The Orc's Captive Bride
His hand drifted toward his sword. Brennik noticed, and his grin faltered.
“Just talking, orc. No need to get territorial.” The mercenary’s tone was mocking, but he shifted his weight backwards away from the fire, away from her.
Good.
The water in the pot began to boil. He added the grain and meat, stirring it with a long wooden spoon that had seen better days. The smell of cooking food filled the camp—not appetizing, exactly, but familiar enough to make his stomach growl.
She’d gone back to watching him. When he looked over at her, she gave him a hopeful smile before pointing at the pot and miming eating.
She’s hungry.
Of course she was. Who knew how long she’d been in the stone circle? His Beast growled at the thought of her hunger, but he held up his hand, counting down with his fingers—enough time for the meat to soften and the grain to absorb the liquid.
She nodded and waited with surprising patience until he ladled out a portion of stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to her.
She took it with both hands, her fingers brushing his, and the brief contact sent sparks racing up his arm. He quickly pulled back to fill his own bowl with more haste than necessary. The stew sloshed over the sides, but he ignored it.
She said something, the same sounds she made when he gave her his tunic. She was thanking him—and why did that bother him? He was simply making sure that his… captive survived the trip to Kel’Vara.
She took a cautious bite and made a face, but she took another bite anyway. She was smart enough to know she needed to eat,even if she didn’t like it. But perhaps he could capture some game on the way back, some fresh meat to add to the pot…
His Beast growled approvingly at the idea of proving his hunting prowess, but he quickly suppressed the idea.
They ate in silence as night fell around them. The mercenaries gathered on the opposite side of the fire, passing a bottle around. The horses stamped and snorted in their makeshift corral. Somewhere in the distance, a night bird called. It should have felt peaceful, but there was a subtle undercurrent of tension that made his skin prickle.
She finished her stew and set the bowl aside, and he realized she was shivering slightly.
The temperature’s dropping. She’s wearing nothing but your tunic.
He stood, and pointed toward his tent, then made a sleeping gesture—his hands pressed together beneath his cheek.
She looked at him, then looked at the tent and shook her head.
Why am I not surprised?
She started talking again although he couldn’t tell if it was more questions or simply arguments. Her voice had that stubborn edge that he was rapidly learning meant she’d dug her heels in about something.
He tried again. Tent. Sleep.
She crossed her arms and stayed exactly where she was.
Fine.
He walked over to where she sat, bent down, and picked her up.
“What—hey! Put me?—”
He carried her to the tent, ignoring her protests. She wasn’t hitting him this time, just making outraged noises that would have been funny if he’d allowed himself to find anything about this situation amusing.
Inside the tent, he set her down on his bedroll. Again.
She glared at him, and said something that was definitely not complimentary.
“Stay,” he ordered, pointing at the furs. It was the same tone he used with subordinates who were testing his patience—but she still opened her mouth to argue.
He raised one eyebrow.Try me.
Her mouth snapped shut. For a long moment, they stared at each other in a silent battle of wills. She looked away first.
