Page 26 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

The needle completes its work. She wipes away the excess ink, revealing the mark that now lives above my heart—a permanent reminder of the bond forged between enemy bloodlines.

"Now you carry part of me wherever you go." She caps the ink vial, her task complete. "And I'll bear the memory of tonight in every scar I heal, every life I save."

I pull her down, careful not to disturb the fresh tattoo. The ink will set by dawn, becoming as permanent as any clan mark. More permanent, perhaps, this one born of choice rather than tradition.

"The elders will see it," I warn her. "They'll know what it means."

"Let them." Fire sparks in her storm-grey eyes. "I'm tired of hiding what I feel. If they question my loyalty to this clan, they can watch me fight beside you tomorrow."

Tomorrow. The word carries weight like a falling stone. Dawn approaches with its promise of blood and chaos. The raiders who struck at our borders won't retreat quietly—they'll return with reinforcements, seeking to claim what they failed to take.

"You're not fighting beside me," I growl, the chief's authority reasserting itself. "You're a healer, not a warrior."

"I'm whatever I choose to be." She meets my glare without flinching. "You don't get to decide my worth, Drokhan. Not even as my lover."

The challenge in her voice stirs something primal in my blood—not anger, but fierce pride. This woman refuses to be diminished, even by someone she cares for. Perhaps especially then.

"The battlefield?—"

"Will be filled with wounded who need tending." She shifts against me, her bare skin warm in the cooling night air. "I won't cower in the grotto while others bleed for our safety."

Our safety. She speaks as if the clan's survival matters as much to her as to me. As if the bond marked above my heart extends beyond flesh to encompass everything I've sworn to protect.

The eastern sky shows the first pale hint of dawn. Soon the war horns will sound, calling every able body to defensive positions. The raiders will come with the sunrise. It's their way, striking when morning light reveals the weak points in our defenses.

"If you insist on staying close to danger," I concede, knowing argument would be futile, "you'll follow my lead. No heroics. No unnecessary risks."

"Agreed." She seals the promise with a kiss that tastes like midnight and determination. "But I won't watch you charge into death without backup."

I want to argue further, to command her to safety through sheer force of will.

But the practical part of my mind—the part that's kept our clan alive through three harsh winters and countless skirmishes—recognizes the wisdom in her words.

A healer on the battlefield saves lives that would otherwise be lost to blood loss and shock.

And perhaps, if I'm honest with myself, I want her nearby. Want to know exactly where she stands when chaos erupts around us.

The fresh tattoo throbs with each heartbeat, a pleasant reminder of her touch. I trace the outline of her healer's marks—the willow and chalice inked in green along her forearm, symbols of service and sacrifice.

"When this battle ends," I murmur against her hair, "what happens to us?"

"We face whatever comes next. Together." Her fingers find the copper wire in my braids, tugging gently. "Unless you're planning to trade me back to House Thorne for political advantage."

The suggestion hits like a physical blow. "Never."

"Then we have nothing to worry about." But I hear the uncertainty she tries to hide, the fear that circumstances might force us apart despite our promises.

The war drums intensify, their rhythm shifting from the slow pulse of night watch to the rapid thunder of call-to-arms. Dawn breaks over the mountain peaks, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold.

I rise from our makeshift bed of moss and discarded clothing, offering Eirian my hand. She accepts it without hesitation, allowing me to pull her upright. The morning air raises goosebumps along her pale skin.

"Your armor," she says, gathering my scattered gear with efficient movements. "And mine."

I see her don her healer's robes with practiced speed, transforming from lover to battlefield medic in moments. The duality still amazes me—this woman who whispers my name in passion can also face arterial bleeding without flinching.

My armor feels familiar and strange after our night of vulnerability. The leather straps and iron plates create barriers between my skin and the world, but they can't diminish the warmth of the mark above my heart.

The war horns sound from three directions—our scouts have spotted the approaching raiding party. Larger than expected, judging by the prolonged blast. They're not content with testing our defenses; they mean to overwhelm them.

"Ready?" I ask, checking the edge of my war-axe one last time.

Eirian adjusts her healer's satchel, ensuring the supplies won't shift during movement. "Ready."

We move together through the pre-dawn darkness, following paths carved by generations of my ancestors. The stronghold awakens around us—warriors emerging from sleeping quarters, weapons being distributed, defensive positions manned by grim-faced fighters.

The clan's war-leader approaches, his scarred face set in familiar lines of concentration. "Chief. The eastern watchtower reports at least sixty raiders, maybe more. They're moving in coordinated groups."

"Disposition?"

"Heavy infantry in front, archers providing cover. They've learned from their last attempt." His gaze flicks to Eirian, question clear in his expression.

"Lady Thorne fights with us," I state flatly, forestalling any objection. "She tends the wounded where battle dictates."

The war-leader nods, accepting my decision without comment. Good. Unity of command matters more than personal opinions when death approaches.

The eastern battlements overlook a narrow pass between two cliff faces—the most likely avenue of attack. Our defensive positions take advantage of the terrain, forcing attackers into a killing field where our superior knowledge of the ground provides tactical advantage.

I position Eirian behind the main defensive line, close enough to reach wounded quickly but shielded from the worst of the fighting. She surveys the arrangement with a tactical eye I didn't expect from someone raised in noble comfort.

"The secondary fallback position," she says, pointing to a sheltered alcove twenty yards back. "If the line breaks, wounded will retreat there first. I should prepare supplies in advance."

Smart, battle planning comes naturally to her, despite her lack of formal military training. Perhaps healing and warfare require similar strategic thinking, anticipating where the greatest need will arise.

The sun clears the eastern peaks just as enemy voices echo from the pass below. Harsh shouts in dialects I recognize but haven't heard in months. These aren't desperate bandits seeking easy plunder. They're organized fighters with specific objectives.

"They want the peace totem," I realize aloud. Word of our discovery must have spread beyond the clan. "And they want you."

Eirian's hand finds mine, her grip strong. "Then they'll have to go through both of us."

The first arrows whistle overhead, falling short of our positions but announcing the battle's beginning. My warriors respond with disciplined volleys, their aim true despite the range.

Below in the pass, enemy shields lock together as they advance up slope. Professional formation, coordinated movement—someone with real military experience leads them.

"Drokhan." Eirian's voice cuts through the growing din of combat. "Whatever happens, don't let fear make you reckless. I need you alive."

I turn to meet beautiful eyes one final time before chaos claims us both. In them I see a determination that rivals my own, love that burns deeper than any clan loyalty.

"Stay close," I growl, raising my war-axe as the enemy reaches optimal range. "We fight together."

The battle cry erupts from three dozen throats as one, a sound that echoes and announces our defiance to any who would threaten what we protect.