Page 92 of The Orc's Captive Bride
“I’m close. I can feel it. If I just?—”
“Thea.”
His voice was gentle. Firm.
She looked up to find him standing next to her chair, looking down at her with those golden eyes that held more concern than anyone else had ever directed at her.
When did that happen? When did I become someone worth worrying about?
“Five minutes,” he said. “Take five minutes. Eat something. Clear your head. Then you can come back to it.”
“But—”
“The text isn’t going anywhere.”
“Lasseran’s deadline is.”
“Which is why you need to be sharp. Not running on fumes and stubbornness.”
She wanted to argue and tell him she was perfectly capable of managing her own research schedule, but her stomach chose that moment to growl. Loudly.
His mouth twitched. “Five minutes.”
“Fine. But only five.”
He produced a plate from somewhere. Bread. Cheese. Dried meat. A small cluster of grapes. When had he prepared that?
“You planned this,” she accused.
“I knew you wouldn’t stop working, so I came prepared.”
“You’re very presumptuous.”
“I’m very right.”
She scowled at him, but took the plate. The first bite of cheese was divine. Rich and sharp and exactly what her body needed. Okay. Maybe he had a point.
She ate, and he watched. He wasn’t hovering, just… present in a way that was oddly soothing. A solid anchor in the chaos of ancient languages and impossible deadlines.
“Better?” he asked when she’d finished.
“Marginally.”
“I’ll take it.”
She pushed the plate aside, and pulled the text back in front of her. Stared at it.
Come on. What am I missing?
The translation was complete, she was sure of that. Every word accounted for and every phrase analyzed, but the meaning was still opaque.
“It’s like there’s another layer,” she muttered. “Something beneath the surface text.”
“Maybe there is.”
She glanced up. “What do you mean?”
He was looking at the scroll, his expression thoughtful.
