Page 7 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

KAELGOR

T he smuggler's blood has dried to rust-brown stains across the courtyard stones by the time I drag him to the interrogation post. His whimpering echoes off crumbling walls like screams that once filled this place back when Ember Hollow was more than ruins and ghosts.

Focus. Information first. Justice after.

I secure the restraints with efficient brutality, checking each knot twice. The man's wrists are already swelling where the rope bites into flesh, but I feel no sympathy. Smugglers who run weapons through clan territory deserve whatever pain they collect.

"Name."

"I don't?—"

My fist connects with his ribs before he finishes the lie. Not hard enough to break bones, but sufficient to steal breath and show intent.

"We start again. Name."

"Darian. Darian Thorne." The words tumble out between gasps. "I'm just a trader, I swear. Small cargo runs, nothing illegal."

I gesture toward the hidden cache we discovered beneath his cart, crossbow bolts tipped with poison, throwing knives balanced for assassination work, vials of liquid fire that burn through armor.

"Trader stock?"

His face goes pale. Sweat beads along his forehead despite the morning chill.

"Look, those aren't mine. I was hired to transport them, that's all. No questions asked, standard fee arrangement."

"Hired by whom?"

Silence stretches between us. I let it build, watching fear work its way through his nervous system. Most humans break under quiet pressure better than pain. They need words to fill empty spaces, even when those words condemn them.

Patience. Let him volunteer the rope for his own hanging.

"I can't tell you that. Professional discretion. Client confidentiality."

Another lie. Smugglers have no code beyond profit and survival.

I draw my belt knife, not to threaten, just to clean my fingernails while considering options. The soft scraping of steel against keratin fills the courtyard with menacing rhythm.

"Professional discretion." I repeat his words with the careful pronunciation of someone learning a foreign language. "Interesting concept."

Scrape.

"Tell me about this discretion. Does it protect you when clients abandon you to enemy interrogation?"

Scrape.

"Does it feed your family when you disappear into clan territory?"

Scrape.

"Does it heal broken bones?"

The knife tip finds a stubborn spot of dirt beneath my thumbnail. I work at it with surgical precision while he watches.

"I'm protected," he says, but his voice wavers. "My employer has influence. Resources. They'll come for me."

"Will they?"

I finish cleaning my nails and test the blade's edge against my thumb. A thin line of blood wells up, sharp enough for precision work.

"Your employer sent you through Ironspine hunting grounds during war season. Through territory where smugglers disappear like morning mist. Either they wanted you captured, or they consider you completely expendable."

Neither option bodes well for rescue operations.

"Which possibility offers better hope for your continued breathing?"

He stares at the knife, then at the bloodstain spreading across my thumb. His imagination does the rest.

"Look, I don't know names. Just descriptions, payment schedules, drop-off coordinates."

"Descriptions."

"Human. Female. Military bearing, maybe noble birth from the way she carries herself. Pays in Vaelmark silver."

My grip tightens on the knife handle before I catch myself. Vaelmark.

The name drags up memories of ash-covered stones and precise arrow shots. Of steady hands stitching wounds while storm-grey eyes catalogued weaknesses.

The woman who helped me. Who bandaged my injuries and asked nothing in return.

"Continue."

"She operates a mercenary company. Small but professional. Mostly takes contracts in disputed territories, border conflicts, clan skirmishes, that sort of work."

"And the weapons?"

"Destined for Bloodfang territory. She's planning something big up in the mountain passes."

Bloodfang.

The pieces fall together with sickening clarity. Ressa Vaelmark isn't just a mercenary who happened across my hunting party. She's running weapons to our enemies. The woman who bandaged my wounds may have been preparing to arm the orcs who'll use those weapons against my clan.

Trust. Such a costly mistake.

"When?"

"Three days. Maybe two. The Bloodfang payment comes through when she delivers the last shipment."

I lean closer, letting him smell the metal and leather scent of someone who's killed recently.

"Final shipment location."

"Thornback Ridge. The old watchtower ruins. But look, I was just transport. I don't know what she's planning to?—"

Boot steps echo across the courtyard. Multiple sets moving with military precision.

I turn to see Ressa Vaelmark striding through the broken gates, flanked by two soldiers in mismatched armor. Her auburn hair catches morning light like polished copper, and those pale violet eyes scan the scene with professional assessment.

Beautiful. Deadly. Treacherous.

"Impressive interrogation technique," she says, voice carrying the crisp authority of command. "But I'm afraid you're questioning my prisoner."

I keep the knife visible while rising to my feet. "Your prisoner ran weapons through Ironspine territory. That makes him ours by right of capture."

"He was captured in neutral ground. The southern approach to Ember Hollow technically belongs to no clan."

Technically.

I study her face for signs of deception, but find only calm competence. The same expression she wore while treating my wounds—focused, efficient, giving away nothing.

"Neutral ground patrolled by Ironspine forces."

"Patrolled, not claimed. There's a difference."

Her soldiers spread out slightly, hands resting near weapon hilts. Not threatening yet, but ready to become so. I count distances, angles of attack, tactical advantages.

Two swords. One crossbow. Professional spacing but not perfect.

"What's your interest in this smuggler?" I ask.

"He stole something from me. I want it back."

"The weapons cache?"

"Among other things."

We face each other across ten feet of bloodstained courtyard stones. The tension builds like pressure before a storm, that electric moment when violence hangs balanced on a knife's edge.

She armed our enemies. Gave them weapons to kill my clan.

But I remember the careful way she cleaned my wounds. The precise stitches that will heal clean. The way she refused payment and asked nothing in return.

Unless helping me was part of some larger strategy.

"Tell me about Bloodfang territory," I say.

"What about it?"

"Your weapons shipments. Your final delivery to Thornback Ridge."

Now she goes perfectly still, and I seethe posture of someone calculating kill ratios and escape routes.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"Your prisoner talks freely under proper motivation."

"Darian," she calls without taking her eyes off me. "Are you intact?"

"Mostly," comes the weak reply.

"Good. We're leaving."

She takes a step forward.

Too close for weapons. Perfect range for grappling.

"I think not."

"I think you'll reconsider."

Her voice drops to the tone commanders use before ordering executions. Soft. Final. Absolutely certain.

"One smuggler isn't worth starting a war between our forces."

"No," I agree. "But arming our enemies might be."

For the first time, genuine emotion crosses her face. Not guilt—surprise. As if the possibility of consequences hadn't occurred to her.

"You don't understand the situation."

"Explain it."

"The Bloodfang Clan has something that belongs to me. Getting it back requires certain... negotiations."

"What kind of negotiations require poisoned crossbow bolts?"

"The effective kind."

Her honesty catches me off-guard. Most humans try to elaborate justifications for treachery. She simply admits to planning violence as if it were a reasonable business decision.

Which makes her more dangerous, not less.

"And if those weapons kill Ironspine warriors?"

"Then they should have stayed out of Bloodfang territory."

The cold calculation in her voice ignites something savage in me. This is the woman who tended my wounds with gentle precision. Who refused payment and offered aid without conditions.

All while planning to arm my enemies.

"You bandaged my injuries."

"Yes."

"Knowing you intended to supply weapons to orcs who might kill me later."

She meets my stare without flinching. "Yes."

At least she doesn't lie about it.

"Why?"

"Because you were bleeding. Because I could help. Because in that moment, politics didn't matter."

The simple honesty hits harder than elaborate justification would have. She helped me because helping was the right thing to do, regardless of larger strategies or future conflicts.

Which makes this betrayal cut deeper.

"And now? Do politics matter now?"

"Now I need my prisoner back. And you need to decide whether preventing my mission is worth the cost."

"What cost?"

She gestures toward her soldiers, who've moved into more aggressive positions during our conversation. Still not openly threatening, but closer to weapons and better positioned for crossfire.

"I have twelve more fighters positioned around this courtyard. Crossbows trained on strategic points. One word from me, and this becomes a very different conversation."

I scan the ruins without moving my head. Subtle shifts in shadow, glints of metal where none should be, the faint sound of leather creaking as someone adjusts their grip.

She's not bluffing.

"You'd start a clan war over one smuggler?"

"I'd finish one."

This isn't negotiation anymore. It's a declaration of intent.

She came here ready for war.

"The Bloodfang have something you want badly enough to fight Ironspine forces for it."

"Yes."

"Something worth risking open conflict with a clan that's shown you mercy."

"Mercy?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You call interrogating my people mercy?"

"I call treating your wounds mercy. I call not killing you where you stand mercy."