Page 40 of The Orc's Captive Bride
She wanted him. Wanted the fierce, scarred orc who’d given her his tunic. Who’d taught her his language with surprising patience. Who’d almost killed a man for trying to hurt her. Who looked at her like she was brave instead of terrified. Brilliant instead of ordinary. Like she was beautiful.
She’d seen it in his eyes in the library—the same hunger she felt.
“This is a disaster,” she informed the ceiling.
The ceiling, unsurprisingly, had no advice.
She pushed off the blanket and sat up, accepting that more sleep wasn’t happening. Not with dream-images still burning behind her eyes and an ache between her thighs that made her want to do extremely inadvisable things.
Like open the door. Invite him in. Finish what they’d started.
No.
She had bigger problems than unrequited lust. She was trapped in another world, threatened by a sociopath, tasked with an impossible translation that would probably take months or years she didn’t have. Getting emotionally—or physically—involved with Khorrek would only complicate an already catastrophic situation.
Even if he wanted her back. Which he clearly didn’t, based on the speed with which he’d fled last night.
Even if her traitorous body disagreed with every logical argument her brain could construct.
She stood, wincing at the lingering soreness in her muscles from the days of hard riding. The room was still dark, but faint light showed around the edges of the heavy silk curtains. Dawn. Or close to it.
Time to face another day in her gilded cage.
She made her way to the bathing room, marveling again at the luxury. The hot water that flowed from carved spigots. Sweetly scented soaps and thick towels. All the comforts Lasseran could provide. All of them tainted by the terror he could deliver with a smile.
The contrast made her sick.
She washed quickly, trying not to think about the dream. About Khorrek’s hands on her skin. His mouth. His voice saying he wanted her.
Not helping.
Clean and dressed in another borrowed gown—this one a deep green that made her feel like she was playing dress-up in someone else’s life—she forced herself to think about the translation.
Lasseran had called the book crude and simple. He’d lied.
She’d only really seen a few pages last night before exhaustion claimed her, but even that glimpse had revealed sophistication and depth. It wasn’t the work of savages—it was art. Knowledge.
Her fingers itched to get back to it. To find the patterns and make sense of chaos. Languages were safe. They followed rules, even when those rules seemed chaotic at first. Understand the structure, and meaning revealed itself.
Unlike people. Unlike emotions. Unlike Khorrek.
A sharp knock on the outer door made her jump.
“Dr. Monroe,” he said stiffly. “Are you awake?”
Her heart did an absolutely ridiculous flip at the sound of his voice.
Get yourself together.
“Yes,” she called back, proud that her voice sounded steady. “I’m awake.”
A pause. “A servant will bring you breakfast shortly. After you eat, I will escort you to the library.”
All business. As if last night had never happened. As if he hadn’t kissed her like she was his salvation.
She took a deep breath and opened the door.
Khorrek stood there—dark armor, scarred face, tusks that should have been intimidating but weren’t. Not to her.
