Page 9 of The Orc's Captive Bride
He focused on the fire instead, feeding larger branches into the growing flames and watching them catch and burn. Once the fire was steady, he hung his travel pot over the fire and picked up the wrapped bundle of dried meat and grain that he’d prepared earlier.
They were traveling rations, designed to keep a soldier moving rather than satisfy any desire for flavor, but they would do.
He’d just started measuring out grain when he heard light footsteps behind him just as her scent reached him.
You have to be joking.
He turned to find Thea at the edge of the firelight, still wearing his tunic like an oversized dress. Her hair—that wild auburn tangle that seemed determined to escape any attempt at order—caught the firelight and turned it copper.
She looked at him and looked at the pot. Then she sat down right next to him as if she had every right to be there. As if he hadn’t just told her to stay in the tent where she’d be safe from men who were staring hungrily at her.
“What the fuck—” He caught himself. She wouldn’t understand.
She gave him a small, tentative smile—the kind of smile that said she knew exactly what he was thinking and had decided to ignore it.
Then she started talking.
It wasn’t the angry stream of words from before. Instead she gestured as she spoke—at the pot, at the fire, at him, at herself—her voice lilting upwards at the end of each phrase.
He added water to the pot and ignored her, but she kept talking. She pointed to the pot again, clearly asking a question. She wanted to know what he was making.
Why? What possible difference did it make?
But she was looking at him with those bright, curious eyes, and something in his chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with his Beast.
He sighed and held up the wrapped bundle of dried meat. “Rethka.”
Her eyes lit up. “Rethka?”
Her pronunciation was terrible—the guttural consonant came out wrong, too soft—but she’d tried.
“Rethka,” he repeated, slower this time.
“Reth-ka.” Better. Still not right, but closer and something that might have been approval stirred in his chest. He crushed it.
Don’t encourage her.
But she was already pointing at the grain. At the pot. At the fire. Each time making that questioning sound, waiting for him to provide the word.
He told himself he was only answering her because her constant stream of questions in that incomprehensible language irritated him. That teaching her a few basic words would make communication easier during the trip.
It certainly wasn’t because her face lit up every time she successfully repeated a new word. Or because his Beast settled when she focused on him instead of glancing nervously towards where the men sat watching them.
He pointed at the fire. “Thorak.”
“Thorak.” She frowned and tried again. “Thor-ak.”
“Close enough.”
She blinked and tilted her head, studying him as if he were some kind of interesting problem.
The thought should have annoyed him. Instead, it was almost… refreshing. The mercenaries looked at him with fear and resentment. The other humans in Lasseran’s service looked at him with suspicion—the tame orc, the High King’s pet monster. Even the other orcs in Lasseran’s private army of Beast Warriors would only have been looking for weaknesses.
Thea looked at him as if she wanted to know who he was.
Across the fire, Brennik muttered something too quietly for him to catch, but Dann’s responding laugh was much louder. Her attention snapped towards them, and her shoulders tensed.
He knew she didn’t understand what they’d said, but she knew it was about her.
