Page 19 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

She doesn't turn. "Tell me something, Kaelgor. In your clan, when warriors doubt their chieftain's judgment, how do they handle it?"

The question hits closer to home than she probably realizes. "Depends on the nature of the doubt. And the chieftain."

"My uncle thinks I've lost my objectivity. That my personal feelings are compromising my tactical judgment." Now she turns, and I see the strain in her face, the command made heavier by isolation. "He's probably right."

"About your judgment being compromised?"

"About my feelings affecting my decisions." Her gaze finds mine, holds it. "This morning, when he questioned your presence here, my first instinct wasn't to consider the tactical implications. It was to defend you. Not because of your military value, but because of... other reasons."

Other reasons. The careful euphemism for whatever passed between us last night, whatever connection we've forged that transcends simple military alliance.

"That doesn't make your judgment wrong."

"Doesn't it?" She moves closer, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "When I make decisions about troop movements, supply routes, intelligence sharing, how much of that is based on sound tactical reasoning and how much is because I trust you more than I should?"

The doubt in her voice echoes the uncertainty churning in my mind. We're both walking blind through territory we don't understand, guided only by instincts that might lead us toward disaster.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe my uncle is right. Maybe I've let personal attachment cloud my professional responsibilities." Her hand moves toward mine, stopping just short of contact. "Maybe the honorable thing would be to step back before I compromise everything my command is trying to accomplish."

The words pierce between the ribs. Not because she's wrong, she might be entirely correct, but because the thought of walking away from her now, after last night, after everything we've shared, feels like tearing away part of myself.

"Is that what you want?"

"What I want and what's best for my people might be two different things."

Before I can respond, a scream comes from deeper in the canyon. High-pitched, terrified, definitely human. Ressa's head snaps toward the sound, her military training overriding whatever personal crisis we were navigating.

"That came from the supply run. They're not due back for another hour."

We move toward the canyon's edge together, peering down into the shadowed maze below.

At first, I see nothing but rocks and scrubby vegetation.

Then movement catches my eye as something large and green thrashes between the canyon walls, and the distinctive glint of metal that means weapons or armor.

"Verdant vine-beasts," I breathe.

Ressa's face pales. The creatures are rare but deadly, plant-animal hybrids that burrow through root systems and emerge to feed on anything warm-blooded they encounter. Most terrifying of all, they're drawn to metal, weapons, armor, anything that carries the scent of iron and steel.

Another scream echoes from below, closer now.

"The supply wagon must have taken the canyon route," Ressa says, already moving toward the narrow path that leads down into the rocky maze. "Shorter but more dangerous. They're trapped."

I grab her arm before she can start the descent. "Wait. You don't have proper gear for fighting those things. The vines are tough as leather, and they move faster than you'd expect."

"Those are my people down there."

"And you'll be dead before you reach them if you go in unprepared.

" I scan the area quickly, noting our tactical disadvantages.

The canyon path is narrow, with no room for maneuvering.

The vine-beasts will have home advantage, using the rocky walls to anchor their attacks.

And we're both carrying enough metal to draw their attention from a considerable distance.

"There has to be another way down."

"There is." Ressa's voice is grim as she strips off her sword belt, then her mail shirt, the metal rings singing as they hit the ground. "But it means going in light. No armor. Minimal weapons."

I stare at her, understanding dawning with horrifying clarity. "That's suicide."

"It's the only way to help them without painting a target on ourselves." She's already moving, keeping only a single knife with a leather-wrapped handle. "The beasts track by the scent of worked metal. Less metal, less attention."

Another scream from below, weaker this time. Whoever's trapped down there is running out of time.

"I'm coming with you."

"Kaelgor—"

"Don't." I strip off my gear with quick, efficient movements. Battle-ax, mail vest, the ceremonial arm guards that mark my clan rank. "Those are my allies down there too. And you're not going alone."

For a moment, she looks like she wants to argue. Then she nods, and together we start down the narrow path into the canyon's throat.

The screaming stops before we're halfway down.

The silence is worse than the sound had been. That means either the victims escaped, which is unlikely, or something overwhelmed them. Vine-beasts rarely kill quickly unless they're in a feeding frenzy, which means we might already be too late.

The path levels out into a narrow corridor between towering rock walls. Ahead, I can see the overturned supply wagon, its contents scattered across the canyon floor. But no sign of the drivers or the creatures that attacked them.

Ressa moves ahead of me, her remaining knife held low and ready. Without her armor, she looks smaller, more vulnerable, but also more graceful. Each step is calculated, silent, and predatory.

Then, the vines explode from the canyon wall beside her.

Three of them at once, thick as a man's arm and moving with impossible speed. They wrap around her legs, her waist, lifting her off the ground before she can react. The knife spins from her grip as she's slammed against the opposite wall.

I'm moving before conscious thought kicks in, charging toward the writhing mass of green and brown that's trying to crush the life from her. No weapons, no armor, just fury and desperate need drove me forward.

The first vine whips toward my head. I duck under it, get my hands around its base where it emerges from the rock, and pull . The plant flesh is tough but not impossibly so, and my leverage advantage lets me tear it loose from its anchor point. Green sap sprays across the canyon wall like blood.

The creature, creatures, I realize, there are at least two distinct entities here, hisses through whatever passes for its mouth. The sound is wet, organic, utterly alien. More vines lash out from hidden positions, forcing me to dodge and weave while trying to reach Ressa.

She's fighting back now, using her smaller size and flexibility to slip partially free from the creature's grip. But every movement seems to trigger new restraints, more vines wrapping around her throat, her arms, cutting off circulation and breath.

She's going to die.

This is pack loyalty, the fundamental drive to protect what's mine regardless of cost or consequence.

I grab a loose rock from the canyon floor, heavy enough to do damage, and hurl it at the largest concentration of vines.

The impact disrupts their coordination just enough for Ressa to tear one arm free.

She immediately goes for the knife at her belt, her backup blade, smaller but still sharp enough to cut plant flesh.

Together, we work systematically to destroy the creatures' anchor points. Ressa slices through the vines holding her while I tear away the root systems that give them leverage. It's ugly, brutal work, like performing surgery with an ax, but gradually the grip loosens.

When the last vine falls away, Ressa drops to the canyon floor in a graceless heap, gasping for breath. Her skin shows the pattern of the creature's grip, red welts and scratches where the rough plant flesh abraded against her. But she's alive, already trying to stand.

"Easy." I kneel beside her, checking for serious injuries. "Take a moment."

"The supply run?—"

"Can wait." My hands move over her arms, her shoulders, checking for broken bones or deeper wounds. "You're bleeding."

She looks down at the scratches covering her forearms, and seems surprised to see them. "Just surface damage. Nothing serious."

But when our eyes meet, there's something in her gaze that has nothing to do with injury assessment. Something fierce and grateful and heated despite the danger we just faced. Or maybe because of it.

"You came after me," she says softly.

"Of course I did."

"Even though it was stupid. Even though we should have gone for help instead of charging in like heroes from a bad ballad."

"Even though."

She reaches up, touching the line of my jaw where vine sap has splattered. "This is what I was talking about earlier. This feeling makes tactical sense irrelevant."

"Ressa..."

"I know." Her hand slides to the back of my neck, pulling me closer. "I know all the reasons this is dangerous. All the ways it could compromise everything we're trying to accomplish."

The space between us disappears. Her lips find mine, fierce and demanding, tasting of adrenaline and gratitude and something deeper. When we break apart, both breathing hard, her forehead rests against mine.

"But I can't seem to care about the tactical implications," she whispers. "Not when you look at me like that. Not when you risk everything to keep me safe."

The canyon suddenly feels too small, too exposed. The vine-beasts are dead, but this isn't the place for whatever conversation we're stumbling toward.

"We should check on the supply run," I manage.

"We should." But we don’t move.

The moment stretches between us, loaded with possibility and threat in equal measure. Whatever choice we make here, in this blood-stained canyon with enemy sap still dripping from the walls, will determine not just our personal futures but the fate of both our commands.

The spy watching from the ridge above captures every detail.