Page 15 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

RESSA

T he fire crackles low, embers painting shifting shadows across my hands as I feed it another piece of dried wood.

The flame gutters, then catches, sending sparks spiraling into the star-drunk sky.

Around me, the camp sleeps with guards posted, weapons close, everyone dreaming of home or glory or simple survival.

I should sleep too. Should conserve energy for whatever tomorrow brings. Instead, I sit here in the moon-washed silence, fingers grazing the braided cord where it rests against my collarbone, warm from my skin and heavy with meaning I'm still learning to understand.

Ironspine protection cord.

Promise of return.

Faith made tangible.

Three days since Kaelgor rode into darkness toward Skullcrack Pass.

Three days of maintaining camp discipline, managing supply lines, keeping morale steady while half my attention stays fixed on the northern horizon.

Waiting for riders that might never come.

Listening for hoofbeats that could bring news of victory or disaster with equal likelihood.

The cord shifts against my throat as I lean forward to adjust the fire, leather and metal catching firelight like captured lightning.

When he placed it in my hands, I felt the clan tradition, personal honor, sacred vows wrapped in simple braided material.

Now I understand it carries something more dangerous than tradition.

Hope.

Investment in someone else's survival.

Permission to care beyond professional necessity.

I've spent years perfecting emotional distance, treating every alliance as a temporary convenience, every partnership as a tactical advantage rather than a personal connection.

Safer that way. Cleaner. No messy complications when missions end and people move on to different wars, different causes, different loyalties.

But this cord around my neck makes distance impossible.

Every hour that passes without word from the north has nothing to do with tactical concerns or strategic implications.

Pure, selfish fear he might not come back.

That I might never see those rust-red eyes again, never feel the controlled intensity of his presence, never have the chance to explore what sparked between us in the forge's glow.

Dangerous thinking.

Personal investment in a professional partnership.

Exactly what I swore to avoid.

The wind shifts, carrying scents of pine and stone from the northern peaks where frost-fang raiders make their lairs.

Somewhere in that wilderness, Kaelgor fights for clan survival and personal honor, carrying my trust along with his weapons.

The thought sends a phantom pain in me, sharp and unwelcome.

Focus on what you can control.

Maintain the position.

Hold the camp.

Wait.

Movement at the edge of my vision snaps attention back to my immediate surroundings. One sentry approaches, boots crunching on frost-hardened ground, expression alert but not alarmed. Routine patrol check, not emergency response.

"All quiet on the perimeter," she reports. "No movement in the passes."

"Good. Maintain watch rotation. Wake me if anything changes."

She nods and melts back into darkness, professional competence that reminds me why I chose these particular mercenaries for this operation. Skilled, reliable, discreet. No unnecessary questions about why their commander sits by dying fires instead of sleeping in her tent.

Sleep brings dreams.

Dreams bring memories.

Memories bring pain.

Better to stay awake, stay focused, keep mind and hands busy with immediate tasks rather than dwell on possibilities that accomplish nothing except increased anxiety. The fire needs tending. Weapons need checking. Plans need reviewing.

Productive activity.

Professional responsibility.

Distraction from personal concerns.

I pull my cloak tighter and settle in for another sleepless night, fingers automatically returning to the cord on my throat. Tomorrow might bring word from the north. Tomorrow might bring answers to questions I'm afraid to ask directly.

Will he return?

Will he survive?

Will I?

The questions chase each other through my mind like smoke through darkness, impossible to catch or contain. I focus on the fire instead, feeding it carefully measured fuel, maintaining steady heat that will last until dawn without consuming more wood than we can spare.

Control what you can control.

Survive what you can't.

Hope for what you can't predict.

Hours pass in contemplative silence. The moon travels its ancient arc across star-scattered sky while I tend flame and faith with equal attention.

Around me, the camp breathes with the rhythm of sleeping soldiers, occasional murmurs or restless movement the only sounds besides wind through pine branches and distant wolf songs echoing from mountain peaks.

The cord pulses warm against my skin as if responding to my thoughts, a physical reminder of promises made and faith given. I wonder if Kaelgor carries something similar as some token of clan loyalty or personal connection that reminds him of reasons to survive when death beckons from every shadow.

Movement in the darkness beyond the firelight stops my wandering thoughts dead.

Not a sentry making rounds, wrong direction, wrong rhythm.

Someone approaching from the north, moving with careful stealth but obvious purpose.

My hand finds my sword hilt automatically, body shifting into combat readiness while my mind catalogs possibilities.

Messenger.

Scout.

Enemy infiltrator.

Kaelgor.

The last thought hits with a force that steals breath from my lungs.

Hope and fear warring in my chest as the figure resolves from shadow into recognizable form.

Tall, lean, moving with controlled grace despite obvious exhaustion.

Familiar silhouette that makes the cord around my throat sing with vindicated faith.

But as he steps into the fire's circle of light, relief transforms into sharp concern.

His cloak hangs in tatters, dark stains marking tears in the fabric.

His left arm dangles awkwardly, and frost clings to his hair and beard like crystallized breath.

When he sways, catching himself against a supply crate, I see the grey pallor of someone pushed beyond normal endurance.

I rise smoothly, professional assessment warring with personal relief.

Whatever happened at Skullcrack Pass, he survived it.

Made it back across hostile territory despite injuries that would stop most warriors cold.

He's standing at all speaks to orc constitution and stubborn determination in equal measure.

"Ressa." My name exudes exhaustion and gratitude. "Mission... complete."

"Sit down before you fall down." I move toward him, hands already reaching for the clasps of his ruined cloak. "Report can wait until you're not bleeding on my fire."

He tries to wave me off, automatic response of someone unused to accepting help, but the gesture lacks his usual strength. When I push gently at his shoulders, he settles onto the ground beside the fire with obvious relief.

I strip away his cloak with careful efficiency, revealing the extent of damage beneath.

Frost-fang claws have raked across his ribs, leaving parallel gouges that seep blood despite crude field dressing.

His left shoulder shows signs of dislocation, poorly reset and swollen with accumulated stress.

Smaller wounds dot his arms and chest—bite marks, blade cuts, the accumulated damage of sustained combat.

"Frost-fangs?" I ask, reaching for my medical kit.

"Pack of twelve. Caught us in narrow defile. Lost two mounts. Garok took claw to the leg, but he'll live."

I work in practiced silence, cleaning wounds and applying fresh bandages while he sits still under my ministrations. The fire paints his skin in shifting patterns of gold and shadow, highlighting the stark beauty of orcish features shaped by war and hardship.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Mine.

The last thought ambushes me with its certainty, stopping my hands mid-motion. When did professional respect become personal investment? When did tactical alliance become something deeper, more complicated, more dangerous than simple military cooperation?

When he gave me his protection cord.

When he trusted me with clan honor.

He kept his promise to return.

He notices my stillness, rust-red eyes meeting mine with question and something that might be hope. "Ressa?"

Instead of answering with words, I let instinct guide action.

My hands frame his face, touching the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone, mapping features that have haunted my thoughts for three sleepless nights.

He protests with professional boundaries, tactical complications, reasonable objections.

I silence him with my mouth against his.

He goes still for a heartbeat, surprise and uncertainty warring with desire and relief. Then his good arm comes up to circle my waist, pulling me closer with gentle strength that speaks of careful control despite obvious need.

I deepen the kiss, tasting frost and copper and something uniquely him, letting three days of worry and fear and hope translate into a physical connection that needs no words. When we finally break apart, breathless and heated despite winter air, his eyes hold wonder mixed with cautious joy.

"You kept the cord," he observes, fingers tracing its path against my throat.

"I kept my promise." My voice comes out rougher than intended, scraped raw by emotion I'm still learning to acknowledge. "You came back."

"Always." The word carries a weight of vow and certaint. "For you. Always for you."

I settle beside him in the fire's warmth, his good arm around my shoulders, my head against his chest where I can hear the steady rhythm of his heart. Around us, the camp sleeps on, unaware that everything has changed in one breath and the next.