Page 16 of The Orc's Captive Bride
He might not have understood her words, but he clearly understood her reaction because he simply reached down, grabbed her gently around the waist and lifted her onto the horse.
The world lurched. Suddenly she was eight feet off the ground, straddling a creature that could kill her with one well-placed kick, with nothing but a borrowed tunic and a fur between her and the saddle.
This is fine. This is completely fine. I’m not about to have a panic attack on horseback in the middle of nowhere in another dimension.
Before her panic could overwhelm her, he swung up behind her in a smooth motion that barely made the horse shift. His arms came around her, reaching for the reins and bracketing her in warmth and leather and that wild earthy scent.
Oh. Oh no.
This was… close. Intimate. The kind of proximity that made her acutely aware of every breath he took, every shift of his weight, every point where his body pressed against hers. He’d put on another tunic like the one she was wearing but it didn’t make any difference. Her brain, traitor that it was, decided this was an excellent time to notice that he was solid muscle under all that leather. That his chest was a wall of heat against her back. That being held like this felt…
Stop. Stop that right now. He kidnapped me. This is not the time for—whatever this is.
The horse started moving. She grabbed the saddle, her knuckles white, trying not to think about how far away the ground was or how easily she could fall or how his arm was now across her waist, holding her steady.
He said something into her ear, close enough that his breath stirred her hair. She didn’t know what it meant, but the tone was clear.
Relax. Stop tensing up like you’re about to die.
“Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You’re not the one who?—”
He repeated the word again. It was still incomprehensible, but the rumble of his voice vibrated through his chest into her back, oddly soothing despite her lack of understanding.
The landscape rolled past as they rode off—endless grassland broken by occasional stands of twisted trees and rocky outcroppings. No roads. No signs of civilization. Where were they going?
The men were on their own horses, and they kept a careful distance away from them.
They’re afraid of him, she realized. Or at least wary.
Good. If they were afraid of him, they were less likely to try anything with her.
I’m relying on my kidnapper for protection. Think about how messed up that is.
But messed up or not, it was her current reality. And she had never been one to ignore reality just because it was uncomfortable.
The morning wore on. The sun climbed higher, burning off the pre-dawn chill and replacing it with a gentle warmth. The landscape remained monotonously similar—grass, rocks, and distant mountains.
And through it all, his presence at her back, solid and unexpectedly reassuring in a situation that should have been terrifying.
I’m developing Stockholm syndrome,her rational mind noted.This is textbook trauma bonding.
Maybe. But her rational mind also recognized that he was the only thing standing between her and the men who looked at her like prey. He’d given her clothes and food and warmth when he could have done none of those things. He was teaching her his language instead of keeping her ignorant.
Why, though? What did he gain from any of this?
That was the question that gnawed at her. Understanding why someone did something meant being able to predict their behavior, but she had no idea why he acted the way he did.
He was a puzzle she couldn’t yet solve, so she did what she always did with puzzles—gathered more data.
She pointed at the grass and made a questioning sound.
He glanced down. “Thernak.”
“Thernak,” she repeated, mangling the guttural consonant.
“Thernak,” he corrected, emphasizing the final sound, and she tried again. “Thernak.”
He gave a grunt that might have been approval.
