Page 15 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

Sacred depths. More of the cultural context to understand these people properly. The healing grotto connects to something larger, older than the current conflicts that define our relationships.

"Your fever is breaking," I observe, checking his forehead with the back of my hand. "The infection should begin retreating within hours, but you'll need to return tomorrow for additional treatment."

"Will you use the old words again?"

The question carries weight beyond simple medical curiosity. Permission to continue practices that bridge cultural boundaries, acknowledgment that some knowledge transcends political divisions.

"If you want me to."

"I do." He meets my gaze across the steaming pool. "My grandmother would have approved. She believed healing belonged to all peoples, not just those who shared the same blood."

The admission reveals more vulnerability than his fevered state or infected wound. Leaders rarely share personal histories with captives, especially memories that contradict current tribal policies regarding enemies.

"Your grandmother sounds wise."

"She died protecting the healing springs during a human raid twenty years ago.

" The words carry old grief, carefully controlled but not fully healed.

"I've wondered since then whether her death accomplished anything meaningful, or if it simply perpetuated the cycle of revenge that keeps our peoples killing each other. "

And now he protects a human healer in those same springs.

The contradiction registers with both of us, but neither mentions it directly. Some truths need time to settle before we can acknowledge them aloud.

"The wound will heal cleanly now," I say, helping him from the pool and providing clean cloth for drying. "But you need rest and proper nutrition. Fighting infection requires resources your body doesn't have while you're maintaining the pace of a war chief."

"Tomorrow," he agrees, donning his clothes with movements that show genuine improvement. "We'll continue the treatment tomorrow."

But as he prepares to leave, I sense we've crossed a threshold that extends beyond medical care.

The forbidden blessing I chanted over his healing, the trust required for him to accept treatment that violates cultural boundaries on both sides.

These create connections that simple captivity can't contain.

What happens when healing becomes more than medicine? When enemies discover they share deeper values than the ones that divide them?

The touch happens by accident. We reach for the same herb packet floating in the pool, our fingers brushing beneath the mineral-warmed surface. Contact lasts only seconds. His calloused palm against my wrist, my thumb grazing the thick vein at his throat where fever still pulses.

But those seconds stretch into something that defies measurement.

Heat flows between us, not the simple warmth of skin contact but something deeper.

Through that touch, I feel the steady drum of his heartbeat, the careful control he maintains over pain and exhaustion, the leadership that never allows him true rest. Power radiates from his massive frame, but also a loneliness so profound it makes my chest ache.

What am I sensing?

He goes rigid, amber eyes widening as if experiencing similar impossibilities. His breathing changes, becoming deeper and more deliberate. The fever flush across his cheekbones darkens into something that has nothing to do with infection.

"You..." He pulls back from the contact, water sluicing between our separated hands. "That's not normal human healing."

"I don't know what that was." Truth, but incomplete. The sensation felt familiar, like remembering a dream upon waking. Something my mother's journals described but never fully explained. "Did you feel it too?"

"I tasted your thoughts." His voice drops to a whisper, as if speaking heresy. "Compassion. Dedication. And underneath, fear of your own power."

He tasted my thoughts. The phrasing suggests this phenomenon exists in Orc healing traditions, even if rarely experienced.

"Is that normal? In your culture?"

"Among the deep-bonded. Warriors who share blood oaths. Healers who bind their spirits to clan chiefs." He studies my face with new intensity. "Never between peoples of different blood."

The implications crash over me like freezing mountain water. Blood oaths. Spirit binding. Practices that create connections deeper than marriage, more permanent than political alliances.

"I should go," I say, gathering my supplies with hands that shiver. "You need rest, and I have other patients to check."

But I don't move. Neither does he. We remain frozen beside the steaming pool, both understanding that something fundamental shifted in those seconds of contact. Something that can't change by pretending it never happened.

"Eirian." My name sounds different in his voice now, less formal and more intimate. "What happened just now?—"

"Was healing. Nothing more." The denial sounds hollow even to my own ears. "I should return to my chamber."

This time I move, gathering my satchel and walking toward the grotto entrance with as much dignity as I can manage. But I feel his gaze following my retreat, and the heat of that attention burns between my shoulder blades long after I reach the safety of my assigned quarters.

Sleep eludes me that night. I lie on the simple cot they've provided, staring at phosphorescent patterns on the ceiling while replaying those moments beside the pool.

The touch itself, yes, but also the aftermath.

The way Drokhan's expression changed from suspicion to something approaching awe.

The carefully controlled hunger in his voice when he spoke my name.

Warriors who share blood oaths. Healers who bind their spirits to clan chiefs.

My mother's journals mentioned such practices, but always in clinical terms that emphasized their primitive nature.

Barbaric rituals performed by peoples who hadn't learned to separate emotion from medical treatment.

I'd dismissed those passages as anthropological curiosities, examples of how superstition corrupted genuine healing knowledge.

But what if she was wrong? What if the practices she documented contained wisdom that civilized medicine had forgotten?

I roll onto my side, pulling the rough blanket higher against the grotto's perpetual chill. I hear the indistinct murmur of Orc voices engaged in late-night conversation. Guards changing shifts, perhaps, or wounded warriors unable to find comfortable sleep.

Then a distinct sound reaches my ears. Footsteps approaching my chamber, measured and deliberate. Too heavy to belong to any of the healers or servants who normally move through these passages.

A soft knock against the wooden door that separates my quarters from the main grotto.

"Lady Eirian?" The voice belongs to Gorth, Drokhan's lieutenant, whom I treated on my first day of captivity. "The Chief requests your presence in the council chamber."

My heart lurches. Council chamber. Not the healing grotto where medical consultations take place, but the formal space where clan business gets conducted. Where decisions about captives and their ultimate fate receive official pronouncement.

"At this hour?" I sit up, reaching for the healer's robes draped across the chamber's single chair. "Is someone injured?"

"Not injured, Lady. But..." Gorth's voice carries a careful neutrality that suggests they instructed him to reveal nothing. "He asks that you come immediately."

I dress quickly, securing my hair in practical braids that keep it away from my face during healing work.

Whatever Drokhan wants to discuss, I suspect it relates to this afternoon's unexpected connection.

Perhaps he's decided that humans who show mystical abilities pose too great a risk to clan security.

Perhaps he's right.

The council chamber lies deeper in the mountain stronghold than I've previously traveled.

Gorth leads me through passages carved directly from living rock, their walls decorated with scenes of Orc history rendered in relief.

Warriors battling impossible monsters. Healers call down mountain spirits.

Chiefs receiving blessings from robed figures whose faces remain mysteriously obscured.

Who are the robed figures? The artistic style suggests these reliefs are ancient, predating current conflicts by centuries. But the recurring image of healers working alongside warriors implies a tradition of spiritual alliance that modern politics have largely forgotten.

We reach a circular chamber lit by oil lamps mounted in iron sconces.

The space feels ceremonial rather than administrative, with a raised dais at the center surrounded by concentric rings of stone benches.

Drokhan stands beside the dais, no longer wearing the casual clothing from our healing session but full ceremonial armor that makes him appear even more imposing than usual.

He's not alone. Three elder Orcs occupy the front bench, their advanced age clear in silver-streaked hair and deeply lined faces. Clan elders, I realize, are the advisors who help guide major decisions affecting tribal welfare.

This is a formal proceeding. Whatever he wants to discuss has official weight.

"Lady Eirian," Drokhan greets me with the same careful neutrality Gorth employed. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit."

He gestures toward a stone chair positioned directly opposite the dais. Not quite the defendant's dock, but clearly designed to place me at the focal point of whatever discussion follows.

I take the seat, keeping my expression composed despite the anxiety clawing at my chest. "You wished to speak with me, Chief Drokhan?"

"We wished to speak with you," corrects the eldest of the three advisors, a weathered female whose voice carries absolute authority. "About what occurred during today's healing session."