Page 19 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

EIRIAN

T he whispers start before I've even dressed.

I wake to hushed voices drifting through the grotto's entrance, guttural Orcish syllables that slice through the morning air like thrown knives. My body still hums from Drokhan's touch, every nerve ending alive with memory, but the sounds beyond our sanctuary drag me back to harsh reality.

Kheval-tash. The word repeats like a chant. Bond-sworn. Blood-mixed.

Drokhan stirs beside me, his amber eyes snapping open with the alertness of a born warrior. Even in sleep, he never fully surrenders to vulnerability. His massive hand finds my waist, fingers move over the curve of my hip with possessive tenderness.

"They know." His voice conatians no surprise, only resignation tinged with something darker.

"What will they do?" The question tastes like copper in my mouth.

"Talk. Judge. Decide our fate." He sits up, muscles rippling beneath skin still marked by fading Kheval glyphs. "The elders will demand explanation."

I pull my torn robes closer, suddenly aware of how exposed I am, not just physically, but spiritually. Every inch of my skin feels branded by his touch, marked by choices that can never be undone.

"And what will you tell them?"

His gaze meets mine, steady as mountain stone. "The truth. That you are mine, and I am yours."

The simplicity steals my breath. No apologies, no justifications. Just truth, raw and uncompromising as everything else about this man who's claimed my heart.

Voices grow louder outside. I catch fragments, human , betrayal , weakness . My stomach clenches.

"I should go." I struggle to my feet, legs unsteady from our night's passion. "Face whatever comes."

Drokhan rises in one fluid motion, catching my wrist. "Not alone."

"Your clan needs to see you're still their chief. Not some lovesick fool blinded by human tricks."

Pain flickers across his features. "You think I'm ashamed?"

"I think you're practical." I press my palm to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath bronze skin. "And I think your people matter more than one night of pleasure."

His grip tightens. "This wasn't pleasure, Eirian. This was?—"

"I know what it was." The words emerge sharper than intended. Sacred. Transformative. Terrifying. "But they don't."

Footsteps echo closer. Drokhan releases me reluctantly, gathering his scattered armor with swift efficiency. Within moments, he's transformed from tender lover back to war chief as imposing, untouchable, carved from living stone.

"Stay in the grotto. Let me handle the council."

"I'm not a child to be hidden away."

"You're my..." He stops, jaw working as if wrestling with words. "You're under my protection."

Not his lover. Not his equal. His protected thing.

The distinction shouldn't sting, but it does.

"Go," I whisper. "Before they decide you've been bewitched by human magic."

He hesitates at the entrance, looking back with an expression I can't quite read. Then he's gone, leaving me alone with cooling water and changed everything.

I dress slowly, hands trembling as I secure my healer's sash. Each movement awakens fresh reminders of our joining—tender spots where his teeth marked my throat, the deep ache between my thighs, the ghost-touch of calloused fingers mapping my skin.

Focus, Eirian. You're still a healer. That hasn't changed.

But even as I think it, I know everything has changed. I'm no longer Lady Thorne's dutiful daughter or House healing tradition's faithful keeper. I'm something new, something unnamed. Caught between worlds like a bird with clipped wings.

The grotto entrance darkens. Three figures emerge from shadow, priestesses of the healing grove, their faces painted with ritual ash and disapproval.

"So." The eldest, a crone named Ghasha with filed teeth and knowing eyes, steps forward. "The human shows her true nature at last."

I straighten, drawing on every lesson in deportment my mother ever drilled into me. "Priestess Ghasha. How may I serve?"

Her laugh is like grinding millstones. "Serve? You've served enough for one lifetime, I think."

The younger priestesses flank her, Vega with her scarred arms and Thila whose amber eyes burn with barely contained rage. They move like predators circling wounded prey.

"We heard the stones singing last night," Vega says. "Felt the Kheval fires wake for the first time in decades."

"Dangerous magic," Thila adds. "Sacred magic. Not meant for human hands."

I keep my voice level. "I healed what needed healing."

"Did you?" Ghasha circles me slowly, examining like I'm some fascinating specimen. "Or did you bewitch our chief with pale skin and false promises?"

"Chief Drokhan makes his own choices."

"Does he? When human witches cloud his judgment with their soft flesh and honeyed lies?"

Anger flares, hot and sudden. "I'm a healer, not a witch."

"Are you? Then explain how a human girl awakens power that's slept since the Great Burning." Ghasha stops directly in front of me, close enough that I smell sage and copper on her breath. "Explain how our war chief forgets duty for the sake of enemy flesh."

Enemy. The term strikes me as though it were a tangible assault.

"I saved lives. Orc lives. Your lieutenant would be dead without my intervention."

"And how convenient that healing leads to bedding." Thila's voice drips venom. "Human tactics haven't changed, seduce the strong, weaken from within."

"That's not what happened."

"Isn't it?" Ghasha's filed teeth gleam. "Tell me, little healer—when you touched our chief, did you think of duty? Or did you think of how his defeat might benefit your precious House Thorne?"

The accusation steals my breath. "I thought of nothing but healing."

"Liar."

I want to protest, to explain, to make them understand that last night transcended politics and prejudice. But their faces show only contempt and suspicion.

"Perhaps," Ghasha continues conversationally, "you should demonstrate this pure healing intent. Prove your worth to the clan you've served so faithfully."

Unease prickles my spine. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, she gestures toward the grotto's deeper recesses. "Vega. Bring the child."

My heart lurches as they produce a small figure from the shadows, an Orc boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, cradled in Vega's arms like broken pottery. His breathing comes in shallow, pained gasps. Infected wounds cover his arms and chest, red streaks climbing toward his heart.

"Gorthak's son," Ghasha explains. "Caught in the border skirmish. Our remedies have failed."

I drop to my knees beside them, healer instincts overriding everything else. The boy's skin burns with fever. Poison flows through his blood. I smell the rot, see death's shadow creeping closer.

"How long has he been like this?"

"Three days. He worsens each hour."

My hands hover over his wounds, reading the damage. Deep punctures, probably from human arrows dipped in something vile. The infection has advanced far, too far for simple herbs and poultices.

"I'll need clean water, willow bark, honey if you have it." I'm already reaching for my satchel, mind cataloguing remedies. "And time. This won't be quick."

"No." Ghasha's hand closes over my wrist. "No human medicines. No foreign techniques. If you truly serve this clan, prove it. Use our ways. Our power."

I stare at her, comprehension dawning like a cold sunrise. "You want me to attempt Kheval healing."

"The power woke for you last night. Surely it will answer again."

"I don't know how. What Drokhan and I shared was different. Spontaneous."

"Then the boy dies." Thila shrugs. "And we learn the truth about human healing ."

The child whimpers, small hand reaching blindly for comfort. Without thinking, I catch his fingers in mine. His skin is paper-thin, burning hot, slick with fever sweat.

They're testing me. Using an innocent child to prove I'm worthy or dangerous.

The calculation should horrify me. Instead, it clarifies everything. This isn't about the boy's life. It's about my place in a world that sees me as either tool or a threat.

"Fine." I settle beside the child, crossing my legs beneath me. "But if I fail, his death is on all our heads."

Ghasha's smile is sharp as the winter wind. "If you fail, human, his death proves what we've suspected all along."

I close my eyes, trying to recall the sensation from last night, the heat that built between Drokhan and me, the way power flowed like water finding its course. But that was passion, connection, love blazing bright enough to wake sleeping magic.

This is different. Clinical. Observed.

Focus on the child. Forget everything else.

I press both palms to his fevered chest, feeling the weak flutter of his heartbeat. Live, I think desperately. Just live.

Nothing.

The boy's breathing grows more labored. Vega shifts restlessly. Ghasha watches with predatory patience.

I can't do this. Not like this. Not under scrutiny and suspicion.

Then small fingers squeeze mine, and I look down into dark eyes full of pain and trust. He doesn't see human or Orc, enemy or ally. He sees someone trying to help.

For him. Not for them. For this innocent child, who deserves better than politics and prejudice.

I think of my mother's secret teachings, of herbs that shouldn't work but do, of healing that transcends understanding. I think of Drokhan's hands mapping my skin, of power flowing between us like shared breath.

Heat builds in my chest, not the wildfire of passion, but something steadier. Purposeful. I let it flow down my arms, through my palms, into the child's failing body.

The Kheval markings along my wrists glow.

Gasps echo around me, but I don't open my eyes. I can't afford distractions. The power is fragile, uncertain, like trying to hold water in cupped hands.

Heal, I whisper, mind and heart and soul focused on that single imperative. Heal and live and grow strong.

Light blazes behind my eyelids. The child's breathing eases. Under my hands, infected wounds close, poison burning away like mist before sunrise.