Page 18 of Rapunzel's Outlaw Orc
He grins around his tusks. “Killer orc, remember?”
Ugh, why does he have to be so orc-ishly handsome?
By late afternoon, the tower looks almost… intentional. We’ve moved anything flammable away from the worst fissures, filled a bucket with water, set another with sand, and tucked the obsidian spearhead under the table leg nearest the window. Brannock knots the sheet-rope and tests it with his weight, even though we both know the tower won’t let us use it. He tests it anyway. That’s the kind of orc he is.
When he’s satisfied it won’t snap, he turns to me. “One more thing.”
“Only one?” I ask, exhausted and a little giddy.
His eyes soften. “Eat.”
I wrinkle my nose. “We don’t have much food left.”
He’s already dividing a hunk of bread and grabbing a handful of dried fruit. “You need strength. I need you. My metabolism allows me to survive longer without food, but you’re small. Fragile.”
My snort echoes off the tower walls.
He frowns. “What did I say?”
“That I’m fragile. That’s hilarious.”
“Compared to me, you are.”
“That’s not saying much. You’re practically a walking boulder with feelings. The last time Dame Gothel visited, she told me to lay off the cake because my hips were taking over the room. Doesn’t matter how much or little I eat, this is how I stay,” I say, indicating my generous curves.
His heated gaze wanders over me in my outdated, ill-fitting dress. “Good. You’re perfect the way you are.”
That brings heat to my cheeks and other, secret areas.
We eat on the floor, backs to the stove, knees touching. Outside, the forest shifts in the windless dusk, leaves whispering secrets I can almost hear.
Brannock leans his head back against the stone and closes his eyes. For a moment, he looks young. For a moment, I remember we’re just tired creatures trying to make new rules inside an old spell.
“Tonight,” he says, rising, “you stay in your bed. I’ll take the rug.”
“You’ll take the rug withmeon it,” I counter.
He opens his mouth to protest. I lift an eyebrow. He relents with a huff that sounds like a fond laugh and spreads the blanket.
We lie down facing the window. His arm finds me the way it always does—like water knowing the shape of its riverbed.
“Three days,” he murmurs into my hair. “We’re ready.”
I turn in his arms to face him. My fingers move without permission, seeking comfort, brushing along his jaw, then trailing to his lips. I want to taste them. Gods, I want that more than food or freedom right now.
“No one has ever touched me the way you do,” he rasps.
“Then they were fools,” I whisper, pressing my lips to his throat, emboldened by his words.
He shudders, and his reaction ignites something inside me. My mouth trails up his neck, tongue tasting his skin.
He sucks in a harsh breath. “Rapunzel?—”
I wind my hands into his dark hair. “Kiss me, Brannock. Please.”
Brannock’s tusks brush my cheek.Not as a warning or a threat, but something far more dangerous. Passion.Need. His breath is ragged against my skin, his massive chest rising and falling like he’s holding back a storm.
“I shouldn’t,” he growls, but there’s no retreat in his voice. “You’re too soft. Too breakable. I’m not gentle.”
