Page 35 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

RESSA

T he ceremonial cord still binds our hands as we slip away from the celebration, its ember-glass components casting dancing shadows across the stone corridors. Public commitment follows us, but here in the quiet spaces between duty and expectation, we can finally breathe.

Kaelgor guides me through passages I didn't know existed, his knowledge of Ember Hollow's hidden pathways clear in every confident turn. The sounds of celebration fade behind us, replaced by the distant murmur of running water.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere that belongs to us."

After weeks of political maneuvering and public scrutiny, the promise of privacy feels like a luxury I'd forgotten to hope for.

We emerge onto a stone balcony overlooking the Ashfall River, its waters reflecting the last light of evening in ripples of gold and amber. The air here carries the clean scent of moving water, a welcome change from the heavy atmosphere of ceremony and negotiation.

Perfect. The thought comes unbidden, but fits. This place exists outside the reach of political calculation and public expectation, a pocket of peace carved from the landscape of conflict we've been navigating.

Kaelgor works to untie the ceremonial cord with careful precision, his fingers steady despite the complexity of the knots.

The process requires patience, but we don’t feel inclined to rush.

The binding has served its purpose, but removing it marks another transition: from public ceremony to private reality.

"There." The cord falls away, leaving only warmth. He coils it carefully, treating the symbolic object with the respect it deserves. "We can keep this or return it to the ceremonial stores."

"Keep it." The answer comes without hesitation. "Something this significant shouldn't disappear into storage."

A reminder. Not that we'll need one, but physical tokens carry weight that memory alone sometimes lacks. The cord represents when private choice became public commitment, when partnership expanded to encompass not just ourselves but our peoples.

The balcony overlooks a natural pool where the river widens and slows, its surface mirror-smooth in the evening calm. Stone steps lead down to the water's edge, worn smooth by generations of use but currently unoccupied.

"This was my brother's favorite place." Kaelgor says with a articular quality that accompanies mentions of the dead as not quite grief, not quite celebration, but something that encompasses both. "He said the water here held memory."

Sacred space. The recognition settles over me like understanding. He's brought me to a place that matters, somewhere that connects to the deepest parts of his history and identity.

"What kind of memory?"

"Stories. Songs. The voices of everyone who ever came here seeking peace or clarity or just the sound of moving water." He settles beside me on the stone bench someone carved into the balcony's edge. "He claimed he could hear them if he listened carefully enough."

Poetry in the practical. One more layer to understand about this man who hides depths beneath tactical precision. The brother he lost clearly influenced more than just his sense of duty and protection—also his capacity for finding meaning in simple things.

The river sounds like something beyond mere water over stone. Maybe it's suggestion, maybe it's the accumulated weight of all the conversations and confidences this place has witnessed, but the sound feels layered with significance.

"Can you hear them?"

Kaelgor tilts his head, listening with the focus he brings to everything that matters. "Sometimes. Tonight... tonight I think they're welcoming you."

Acceptance. The possibility that this place, this memory, this connection to his lost brother might extend to include me feels both humbling and profound.

We sit in comfortable silence, watching the water catch and release the fading light. The ceremony feels both recent and distant, its formal weight contrasting with the intimate simplicity of this moment.

"Regrets?" The question emerges softer than I intended, but Kaelgor doesn't treat it lightly.

"About the ceremony? The alliance? The choice to bind our fates together?" He considers each element separately. He measures his response rather than automatic. "No. About the timing, the politics, the way we had to navigate other people's expectations to get here... maybe."

Honest. No platitudes about perfect circumstances or destiny. Just the acknowledgment that important choices often come wrapped in complications that have nothing to do with the choice itself.

"I keep waiting for the doubt to hit." My admission surprises me with its directness. "The voice that says this happened too fast, that we're building on insufficient foundation, that partnership forged in crisis might not survive ordinary time."

"And?"

"Nothing. No doubt. Just..." I search for words that capture the certainty without sounding naive. "Recognition. Like finding something I didn't know I'd been looking for."

Kaelgor's hand finds mine, our fingers interlocking with the same natural ease that's characterized our partnership from the beginning. Physical touch that reinforces emotional connection, simple contact carries complex meaning.

"The recognition is mutual."

Understood. No elaborate declarations or flowery promises, just the straightforward acknowledgment that what exists between us runs deeper than convenience or political necessity.

The last light fades from the river's surface, replaced by reflected stars that turn the water into scattered diamonds. The temperature drops with the sun's departure, but the stone bench keeps enough warmth to make the change comfortable rather than harsh.

"The others will expect us to appear at some point." Practical considerations intrude on intimate moments, but reality we can't ignore entirely.

"Eventually." Kaelgor's tone suggests he's in no hurry to return to public duty. "But not yet. Tonight belongs to us."

Us. The pronoun carries different weight now, encompasses not just partnership but marriage, formal recognition of connection that was already real but is now also official.

I turn to face him more directly, studying the familiar lines of his face in starlight.

The ceremony changed nothing about his appearance, but somehow he looks different—not transformed, but revealed, as if formal commitment allowed him to set aside some protective reserve I hadn't fully noticed until its absence.

"What happens now?"

"Now we figure out how to build something that lasts. How to make this partnership work not just in crisis but in ordinary time. How to bridge the differences between our peoples without losing what makes each of them valuable."

The real work. Ceremony marks a beginning, not a conclusion. The binding ritual creates a formal framework, but the actual construction of sustainable unity requires daily choice and constant negotiation.

"And how to be married." The word still feels new, carries weight I'm learning to navigate. "How to make room for love alongside duty and obligation and all the other demands that won't disappear just because we've made formal commitment."

Kaelgor's response comes not in words but in action. His hands frame my face with the same careful precision he brings to everything that matters, callused fingers gentle against my skin. The kiss that follows tastes of ceremony and starlight, formal commitment transformed into intimate reality.

This. Physical expression of emotional truth, the way bodies can communicate what words sometimes struggle to encompass. Not just desire, though that certainly exists, but recognition, acceptance, the choice to be vulnerable with someone who's earned that trust.

When we separate, it's only far enough to breathe, to see each other's faces in the scattered starlight. His warmth becomes my warmth, that the boundary between self and other grows permeable.

"I love you." The words emerge without planning or hesitation, simple statements of complex truth. "Not just partnership or alliance or political convenience. Love. The kind that reshapes everything else around itself."

Exposed. No taking those words back, no pretending they mean less than they do. But looking into his eyes, I see reflection rather than retreat, recognition rather than fear.

"I love you too." He speaks with the same directness, the same willingness to state truth without decoration or qualification.

"From the moment you refused to let me bleed out in the ruins.

Before I understood what it meant. Before I knew love could exist alongside duty instead of competing with it. "

Partnership and passion. Not either-or but both-and, the discovery that romantic love can strengthen rather than weaken the bonds of practical alliance.

The stone bench proves less than ideal for extended physical intimacy, but the pool below offers possibilities. Natural steps lead down to water that runs clear and surprisingly warm, heated by underground springs that feed into the river system.

Private bath. The luxury of bathing without urgency or interruption feels almost decadent after weeks of campaign conditions and political tension.

We descend the steps together, hands linked for balance and connection. The water accepts us gradually, warm against skin that's been too long confined by ceremonial clothing and formal expectation.

Freedom. Not just physical, though the relief of removing heavy fabric and ornamental armor certainly registers. But the deeper liberty of being ourselves without audience or agenda, of allowing intimacy to develop at its own pace rather than the rhythm of external demand.

Kaelgor moves through the water with the same fluid grace he brings to combat, but here it serves gentleness rather than violence.

His hands trace patterns across my skin that have nothing to do with tactical assessment and everything to do with wonder, with the luxury of exploration without urgency.