Page 8 of The Orc's Captive Bride
So this is what an orc’s tent looks like. Who knew they’d be so tidy?
The tent was small—barely large enough for one person to stand upright—and dominated by the pile of furs that served as a bed. The furs were well-maintained but worn. Used for years, probably. A pack sat in one corner, along with a neat array of weapons that she automatically catalogued.
Short sword. Daggers—three of them. Axe. Another axe. Is that a mace? Why does one person need so many ways to kill people?
She crouched next to the pack, her fingers itching to search through it. Academic curiosity warred with the knowledge that touching his belongings was a bad idea.
Curiosity won, and she carefully opened the pack.
She found rations—dried meat and hard bread. A water skin. A few pieces of clothing, along with tools for mending and for attending to his weapons. They were practical supplies for a traveler. A soldier. But at the bottom, wrapped in oiled cloth, she found something unexpected.
A book.
The cover was leather—old and worn soft with handling. The pages were hand-bound, the edges uneven in a way that suggested it had been made rather than manufactured.
The script inside was beautiful—flowing characters that reminded her of Celtic illuminated manuscripts, but different. Unique.
He can read.
The realization shouldn’t have been surprising—she’d seen the intelligence in his eyes. It shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it shifted something in her mental model of him. Literate meant educated, and educated meant culture, history, and a civilization advanced enough to value written language. Perhaps even a civilization where she would have value.
She turned the pages, studying the script and looking for patterns, repeated characters, anything that might give her a foothold in understanding his language. There was that same teasing hint of understanding that she’d experienced at the stone circle even though it was clearly a different language, but she couldn’t decipher it. Yet.
Sighing, she carefully rewrapped the book and placed it back in the pack before crossing to the tent flap and peering out.
All three of the men had found reasons to position themselves so they could watch the tent. They weren’t looking directly at her, but she could feel the weight of their attention.
One of them said something, and it took her a moment to realize what she’d been too terrified to realize earlier. They were speaking the same language as Khorrek but it was easier to understand in their lighter voices and the words were… familiar. Not English, but perhaps something with romance language roots? Or Germanic?
Come on, brain. You speak six languages. Work with me here.
She thought she caught a few words. Perhaps “woman” or “female.” Something that might have been “pretty” or possibly “small.”
One of them caught her eye and smiled.
It wasn’t a friendly smile.
She ducked back inside the tent, her heart hammering, but she couldn’t remain hidden away forever. Hoping she was correct about Khorrek protecting her, she took a deep breath and marched back out of the tent.
CHAPTER FOUR
After depositing Thea in his tent, Khorrek crossed to the fire pit and began the familiar ritual of building a fire. Kindling first—dried grass and small twigs arranged in a pyramid—then larger sticks layered around it. Then flint and steel, the sharp crack-crack of sparks until one caught and smoke began to curl upward.
The mindless work helped. Gave him something to focus on besides the uncomfortable awareness that Thea was in his tent, surrounded by his things.
He added a few more sticks to the fire, the snap and crackle a familiar comfort even though he could feel Brennik’s gaze on him.
“So, what’s the plan?” Brennik asked with false innocence. “Do we get to play with her before we get to Kel’Vara?”
“No.” The word came out clipped and hard.
“Just asking.” Brennik held up his hands, but his eyes lingered on Khorrek’s tent. “I can see why the High King might want her untouched.”
I didn’t leave her untouched. I gave her my tunic. I carried her to my tent and left her on my bedroll.The image of her small body on his furs was seared into his brain.
He ignored the low growl from his Beast and forced his expression to remain neutral. Lasseran might suspect him of wavering loyalty, but he couldn’t know that Khorrek’s own body was betraying him with this… obsession with his captive.
Stop.
