Page 17 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

KAELGOR

T he scout's approach is silent, professional. I notice the subtle shift in the air, the whisper of leather against fabric, before he even reaches our camp. My hand moves instinctively to the blade at my hip, but I recognize the gait, one of mine, from the Ironspine reserves stationed at the ridge.

"Commander." His voice is barely a breath, pitched low. "Urgent."

I extract myself from her warmth with careful precision, every movement calculated to avoid disturbing her rest. She stirs slightly, makes a small sound of protest, but doesn't wake.

The sight of her face in the growing light,peaceful, unguarded, makes something fierce and protective coil in my heart.

Outside, the scout waits with the rigid posture of a man bearing bad news. His name is Vorth, young but reliable, with the steady nerve that makes him valuable for reconnaissance. The tension in his shoulders tells me everything I need to know before he opens his mouth.

"Speak."

"There's an issue with the Vaelmark command structure. One of their envoys has been passing coded messages. To Commander Heldrik."

My fists clench involuntarily. "What kind of messages?"

"Intelligence about Lady Ressa's movements. Her tactical decisions. Her..." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "Her associations."

Her associations. Me. Us. Whatever fragile trust we've built, whatever understanding we forged in fire and flesh last night, someone is working to destroy it.

"How do you know this?"

"I've been watching the camp perimeter. Standard security sweep.

Caught sight of the exchange two nights ago.

Thought it was routine communication at first. But the pattern's wrong.

Too secretive. Too careful." Vorth's jaw tightens.

"And the envoy's been asking questions. About you.

About where Lady Ressa goes when she leaves camp. "

Ice settles in my veins, cold and sharp. Someone is spying on Ressa. Reporting her movements, her decisions, her private moments to her own uncle. The man who already sees her as a liability, who would gladly use any excuse to strip her of command.

"Description."

"Dark hair. Medium build. Scar through his left eyebrow—old blade work. Wears a silver pendant, wolf's head. Keeps to the southern edge of camp, near the supply wagons."

I know the man. Saw him yesterday during the briefing, standing just behind Heldrik's shoulder like a shadow. The way he'd watched Ressa then suddenly makes sense, not the assessment of a subordinate, but the observation of a predator.

"Continue your patrol," I tell Vorth. "Report anything unusual directly to me. No one else."

He nods and melts back into the pre-dawn gloom. I stand in the growing light, my mind churning through possibilities, implications, threats. The warmth of last night feels distant now, replaced by the cold calculation of a warrior who's learned that trust is a luxury he can't afford.

But this isn't about trust. This is about Ressa.

They're watching her. Hunting her.

This is personal. Primal. The same instinct that drove me to shield her from the ember-wolves, the same fierce protectiveness that made me teach her the mountain-steel techniques my clan guards jealously.

I move back toward the tent, but Ressa is already stirring. She stretches like a cat in the growing light, all graceful lines and unconscious sensuality. When she sees me standing in the entrance, her smile is slow and warm, full of remembered heat.

"Morning, warrior." Her voice is husky with sleep, intimate. "Come back to bed."

For a moment, I want nothing more than to crawl back under the furs with her, to lose myself in her warmth and forget about spies and coded messages and the web of betrayal closing around us. But the intelligence burns in my mind like acid.

"We need to move," I say instead. "Your uncle called a war council for dawn."

Something in my tone makes her sit up, instantly alert. The softness leaves her face, replaced by the sharp focus of a commander. "What's wrong?"

I want to tell her. Want to share the burden of knowledge, to let her decide how to handle the threat. But if I'm wrong, if it runs deeper than one envoy, any premature action could make things worse.

"Nothing specific," I lie, hating the taste of deception on my tongue. "But something feels off. Stay close to me during the meeting."

She studies my face for a long moment, and I can see her weighing my words, looking for the truth beneath them. Finally, she nods. "All right. But Kaelgor, if there's something I need to know..."

"You'll be the first to hear it," I promise. That much at least is true.

We dress efficiently, falling back into the professional rhythm that served us well before last night complicated everything. But even as we prepare for the day ahead, I catch her stealing glances at me, her brow furrowed with concern.

The war council convenes in the largest tent at the center of camp.

A canvas pavilion accommodates two dozen officers around a rough-hewn table.

Maps cover the surface, weighed down with stones and daggers, marking enemy positions and supply routes and the ever-shifting boundaries of clan territories.

Heldrik stands at the head of the table like a judge pronouncing sentence.

His pale eyes sweep the assembled officers with cold calculation, lingering on Ressa with something that might be disappointment or might be disgust. When his gaze finds me, standing slightly behind and to the left of Ressa's position, his mouth tightens.

"Gentlemen. Lady Ressa." The way he says her name makes it sound like an accusation. "We have developments."

I scan the faces around the table, cataloging expressions, body language, the subtle tells that separate ally from enemy. Most of the officers show the expected mix of attention and wariness. This is a war council, after all, and bad news is the usual fare.

But there, standing in the shadow near the tent's southern wall, just as Vorth described, is the dark-haired envoy. He watches Ressa with the focused intensity of a hunter marking his prey. When their eyes meet briefly, he offers a respectful nod, but I notice the calculation beneath it.

Roderick Tarn. The name surfaces from memory, one of Heldrik's intelligence officers, promoted rapidly through the ranks despite his relatively modest background. The man who builds his career on other people's secrets.

"The Bloodfang Clan has been more active than we anticipated," Heldrik continues, his finger tracing routes on the map. "Their raids are coordinated, systematic. Someone is feeding them information about our patrol schedules, our supply routes."

Murmurs ripple around the table. I watch Tarn carefully, but his expression remains professionally neutral. If he feels any guilt about his role in the intelligence leaks, he hides it well.

"Furthermore," Heldrik whispers, "there are reports of unauthorized negotiations with orc clans. Promises made without command approval. Alliances that could compromise our strategic position."

This time, his eyes lock directly on Ressa. The accusation hangs unspoken but clear: unauthorized negotiations means her arrangement with me, her willingness to work with Ironspine forces despite years of human-orc hostility.

Ressa straightens, her chin lifting with the stubborn pride. "Commander, if you have specific concerns about my tactical decisions?—"

"I have concerns about divided loyalties," Heldrik interrupts. "About officers who put personal sentiment above military necessity."

The insult hits its mark. I see Ressa flinch slightly, see her hands tighten on the table's edge. Around us, the other officers shift uncomfortably. This kind of public dressing-down humiliates, to undermine her authority in front of her subordinates.

I take a half-step forward, my hand moving instinctively toward my blade. The gesture is subtle but unmistakable, a warrior's promise that insults to his ally won't go unanswered.

Heldrik notices. His pale eyes flick to me with cold amusement. "Ah yes. The orc. I wondered when we'd address the elephant in the room."

"Kaelgor Ironspine has proven himself in battle," Ressa says, her voice carefully controlled. "His intelligence has been valuable. His combat skills?—"

"His combat skills are not in question." Heldrik's tone suggests otherwise. "What concerns me is the nature of his access to sensitive information. The timing of certain developments. The possibility that orc honor is more flexible than we've been led to believe."

Now it's my turn to feel the sting of accusation. He's suggesting I'm a spy, that my presence here is part of some Ironspine plot against Vaelmark interests. The irony would be amusing if it weren't so dangerous.

But before I can respond, Tarn steps forward from his shadowed corner. "Commander, if I may?—"

"Speak."

"There have been irregularities in some recent intelligence reports.

Patterns that suggest our security may have been compromised.

" Tarn's voice is smooth, deferential, but his eyes remain fixed on Ressa.

"Perhaps a review of all recent tactical decisions would be appropriate. To ensure nothing has been overlooked."

The suggestion sounds reasonable on the surface, but I hear the threat of it. A review means questioning every choice Ressa has made, every alliance she's forged, every moment of trust she's extended. It means using her cooperation with me as evidence of poor judgment or worse.

And Tarn is the one pushing for it, the same man who's been passing coded messages to Heldrik about Ressa's activities.

The pieces click together with ugly clarity. This isn't just about intelligence leaks or security concerns. They are coordinating an effort to undermine Ressa's command, strip her of authority and replace her with someone more amenable to Heldrik's vision of how they should fight this war.

Someone like Tarn himself.