Page 87 of Her Orc Protector

"This one?" I asked softly, touching a particularly jagged mark that ran from his left shoulder blade to his spine.

"Two years before the war ended," he said, his voice a low rumble I could feel beneath my palm. "Scout mission gone wrong. We found a nest of shadowbeasts."

"We?"

"Kazrek was there. And Thok, though he was just a foot soldier then." His shoulders shifted as he recalled it. "Three men died to bring the thing down. Would've been four if Kazrek hadn't been so quick with that ax of his."

I traced the scar again. He tensed—not in pain. In memory. "You carry a lot of history on your skin," I murmured.

"Most warriors do."

"And the rest? The parts that don't leave scars?"

He was quiet for so long that I thought he might not answer. Then, so low I almost missed it: "Those you carry other ways."

The cloth slipped from my fingers. I pressed my palm flat against his back, feeling the steady beat of his heart through skin and bone. "Uldrek—"

He turned suddenly, catching my hand in his. His eyes met mine fully for the first time all night—intense, searching, almost desperate. "Issy."

Just my name. Just that. But in it, I heard the questions he wasn't asking. The doubt. The fear.

I didn't look away. "What are you afraid to tell me?"

His thumb traced circles on the back of my hand, a small, unconscious gesture at odds with the tension in his frame. "I'm not afraid."

"Liar," I whispered.

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. "You're getting too good at reading me."

"Good. Someone should."

His other hand came up to my face, rough fingers gentle against my cheek. For a breath, he just looked at me, and I felt pinned under the weight of his gaze, of everything unsaid between us.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally.

But it did. We both knew it did. The claiming mark lay silent, the magic dormant. And something in him had pulled back, retreated behind walls I thought we'd long ago torn down.

I could have pressed. Could have demanded answers, explanations. But the vulnerability in his eyes stopped me. Whatever was happening, whatever he was wrestling with—it wasn't simple. And it wasn't about me, not entirely.

So instead, I leaned forward and kissed him.

His response was immediate—almost desperate. One hand at my waist, the other tangled in my hair. I pressed closer, every point of contact a relief. A confirmation. This, at least, hadn't changed. This hunger, this heat between us.

The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine, a low groan building in his chest. I arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, wanting more. Needing more.

He walked me backward until I felt the wooden post of the lean-to against my spine. His body pressed against mine, hard and insistent, and I welcomed the weight of him, the solid reality of muscle and bone and want.

"Issy," he breathed against my mouth, the word half-plea, half-warning.

"Don't stop," I answered, pulling him closer.

His hands found the laces of my dress, working them open with surprising gentleness given the urgency thrummingthrough both of us. I felt the night air cool against my skin as the fabric gave way, slipping down to pool at my feet. His eyes followed the movement, drinking in the sight of me in only a thin shift.

"Inside?" he asked, voice rough.

I shook my head, nodding toward the wooden stall beside us—the little shower with the rune-warmed barrel and hand pump. "Here."

His eyes darkened. "You sure?"