Page 20 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

RESSA

T he canyon floor is littered with bodies.

Three of my recruits didn't make it out of the vine-beast attack.

Young faces, barely past their first campaigns, now staring sightlessly at the ash-dark sky.

I kneel beside Sean first, nineteen, eager to prove himself worthy of Vaelmark colors.

A vine crushed his windpipe before Kaelgor and I even reached the canyon floor.

This is my fault.

He closes his eyes, my fingers tremble against cooling skin.

If I hadn't been so distracted by the spy reports, by the growing tension between duty and desire, maybe I would have seen the signs.

The scratches on the canyon walls showed where the creatures had been feeding.

The unnatural silence that should have screamed danger.

Instead, I'd been thinking about Kaelgor's hands on my shoulders during training. About the way his eyes tracked my movements with an intensity that made my pulse quicken. About the moment in the firelight when everything shifted between us.

Selfish. Reckless. Exactly what Heldrik always said I'd become if I let emotion cloud judgment.

Taren lies a few feet away, his crossbow still clutched in dead fingers. Twenty-two, with a sister back in the southern territories who sent him letters every week. I'd read them sometimes when he asked, news of harvest festivals and village gossip, the ordinary life he fought to protect.

Now she'll get a different letter. The kind that starts with We regret to inform you and ends with meaningless words about honor and sacrifice.

The third body belongs to Senna, barely eighteen and the best tracker in my company.

She'd volunteered for this mission specifically, proud to be chosen for reconnaissance work.

The vine-beasts caught her first, dragging her up the canyon wall before we even realized what was happening.

By the time Kaelgor and I fought our way to her position, she was already gone.

I touch her forehead, whispering the traveler's blessing my mother taught me. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back.

Empty words for empty comfort.

"Ressa."

Kaelgor's voice comes from behind me, rough with exhaustion and something deeper. Pain, maybe. Or guilt that mirrors my own.

I don't turn around. I can't face whatever expression he's wearing while I kneel among the consequences of my failures.

"Give me a moment."

"We need to move. The creatures' death-scent will draw scavengers, and we're too exposed here."

He's right, of course. Tactical thinking over emotional processing. The lesson every commander learns or dies trying.

But knowing he's right doesn't make it easier to stand. It doesn't make it easier to abandon these young faces to whatever carrion-feeders inhabit these ruins.

"Ressa." Closer now, his boots crunching on loose stone. "Look at me."

I finally turn, and immediately wish I hadn't.

Kaelgor stands swaying slightly, one hand pressed against his ribs where vine thorns tore through his armor. Blood seeps between his fingers, bright against the burnished leather. But it's his eyes that steal my breath, raw and haunted.

He's blaming himself too.

"You're hurt." I rise quickly, military training overriding grief. "How bad?"

"Flesh wounds. Nothing that won't heal."

But when I step closer, I can see the lie in the tight lines around his mouth. The way he favors his left side, the shallow breathing that suggests rib damage. He's hurt worse than he's admitting, and we both know it.

"Let me see."

"The bodies?—"

"Can wait another five minutes." My voice carries command authority, the tone that brooks no argument. "Armor off. Now."

For a moment, I think he'll refuse. Kaelgor isn't used to taking orders, especially from someone outside his clan structure. But something in my expression must convince him, because he nods and begins working at the leather straps.

I help him lift the damaged armor over his head, careful not to jar whatever injuries lie beneath.

The revealed skin tells a story of recent violence, puncture wounds from vine thorns, already showing signs of infection.

Bruising suggests internal damage. And older scars that speak of a lifetime of battles survived.

"This needs cleaning." I pull medical supplies from my pack, the same kit I used to treat him after our first encounter. "And proper stitching. Some of these cuts are deeper than they look."

"I've had worse."

"I'm sure you have." I pour water over the worst of the punctures, washing away blood and plant debris. "That doesn't mean you should ignore them."

He hisses as the water hits raw flesh, but doesn't pull away. Instead, he watches my face while I work, those rust-red eyes studying my expression with uncomfortable intensity.

"You're blaming yourself for their deaths."

It's not a question, and I don't bother denying it.

"Three good soldiers died because I was distracted. Because I've been thinking about..." I gesture vaguely between us. "This. Whatever this is."

"The vine-beasts killed them. Not your distraction."

"The vine-beasts were a known threat in this sector." I thread a needle with practiced efficiency. "I chose to ignore the risk assessment because the supply run seemed routine. Because my attention was elsewhere."

The needle slides through skin, drawing the edges of a deep cut together. Kaelgor doesn't flinch, but I feel the tension in his muscles as I work.

"Where was your attention?"

The question is loaded with implications I'm not ready to examine. But honesty has always been easier than deflection, even when it hurts.

"On you. On what happened between us in the forge. On what keeps happening every time we're in the same space." I tie off the stitch, move to the next wound. "On how I've managed to betray everything I swore to uphold."

"What have you betrayed?"

"My House. My command." I pause, needle halfway through another puncture. "Maybe you."

"Me?"

The words come out sharper than intended, cutting through the canyon's stillness. I finish the stitch before answering, buying time to organize thoughts that feel scattered and dangerous.

"There's a spy in my command. Someone feeding information to Heldrik about our cooperation. About..." About us. "About tactical decisions that should remain confidential."

"You think I'm the spy."

"No." The denial comes immediately, instinctive. "But I should be considering the possibility. Any competent commander would."

"But you're not."

"No." I set down the needle, finally meeting his gaze directly. "And that's the problem. I'm compromised. Emotionally invested in a way that makes objective assessment impossible."

Kaelgor reaches up slowly, touching me with unexpected gentleness. "And that terrifies you."

"Yes." The admission feels like stepping off a cliff.

"I've spent years learning to keep emotion separate from duty.

It's the only way to survive in military command, especially as a woman in a male-dominated structure.

You have to be twice as cold, twice as calculating, twice as willing to sacrifice for the greater good. "

"But?"

"But when I look at you, all that training disappears.

When you're injured, all I can think about is getting you safe.

When you're in danger, tactical considerations become irrelevant.

" My voice drops to barely above a whisper.

"When those creatures had me, I wasn't thinking about command structure or political implications.

I was thinking about how much I wanted to live long enough to see you again. "

The confession is like a bridge we’re not sure we should cross. Kaelgor's thumb brushes across my cheek, and I realize I'm crying, tears I didn't notice falling now mixing with the blood and grime on my face.

"Ressa." His voice is soft, careful. "Look at me."

I do, though it takes effort. His eyes hold something I've never seen before, not just desire or tactical respect, but something deeper. Something that looks dangerously like understanding.

"You think emotional investment makes you weak?"

"I think it makes me unreliable. Unpredictable. A liability to everyone depending on my leadership."

"And what do you think it makes me?"

The question catches me off-guard. "What?"

"I've spent the last three days thinking about your safety more than clan obligations. I charged into those ruins without backup because the thought of you being hurt made strategic planning impossible." His grip on my face tightens slightly. "Does that make me weak?"

"No, but?—"

"Then why is it different for you?"

I don't have an answer that doesn't sound like Heldrik's voice echoing in my head. All those lessons about emotional distance, about the necessity of sacrificing personal desires for command effectiveness. Lessons that suddenly feel less like wisdom and more like fear dressed up as doctrine.

"Maybe it's not," I whisper.

"Maybe."

We're close enough now that I can feel his breath on my face, see the flecks of gold in those rust-red eyes. The air is charged with possibility and danger in equal measure.

"But if we do this," I continue, "if we let this happen, everything changes. The alliance between our forces becomes personal. Political decisions become emotional ones. Every tactical choice proves what we mean to each other."

"Yes."

"That's terrifying."

"Yes." His other hand finds my wrist, fingers wrapping around the pulse point where my heartbeat betrays every emotion I'm trying to keep controlled. "But maybe terror isn't always a reason to run."

"Kaelgor..."

"I know what this costs. What it risks. For both of us." His voice drops lower in a confession. "But I also know that loyalty isn't something you inherit or assign. It's something you earn. Something you choose."

"And what have I done to earn yours?"