Page 22

CHAPTER TWELVE

Myra

I did not sleep well that night.

It might have been because I’d napped in Vartok’s arms atop the horse yesterday afternoon.

It might have been because these western isles managed to be even colder than the Highlands.

It might have been the constant niggling worry over how my sister was doing back home.

It might have been because, despite his arms around me, the ground was even harder—and rockier—than my cot in Avaleen’s home.

Or it might have been the fear coursing through my veins.

Last night I’d almost fallen. I’d almost fallen into the camp of Battleborn orcs who were using one woman with gusto. What would have happened if I had fallen? Vartok would have rushed to save me, and I would have had to watch as they slaughtered him .

When I did manage to fall asleep, I was plagued by visions—nightmares—of what might have happened.

Oh, he was brave and he was strong, and I’d seen him practicing with the other warriors enough to know he could hold his own in a fight…

but he couldn’t have defeated so many of the fierce sea raiders, not alone.

He’d have been killed, and I would have my heart ripped out.

‘Twas easier to just not sleep rather than have to see those horrible images.

So I lay there on the rocky ground, wrapped in Vartok’s arms and his fur cloak. Shivering because we couldn’t afford a fire to announce our presence, I wished for morning, trying to ignore the hard oat cakes we’d eaten for supper which sat heavy in my stomach.

At some point in the night it became clear he wasn’t sleeping either. Mayhap his heart and mind were full of worry as well, or mayhap he was just keeping watch. Either way, we didn’t speak of it.

And then, in the wee hours before dawn, his hand moved to my breast. ‘Twas a casual touch, one which might have been an unconscious movement in sleep…except I didn’t think he was asleep.

I held my breath as his fingers tightened, just slightly.

Squeezing, cupping. Had he done this last month, I might not have responded the way I did.

But now that I knew his habits and knew he knew what I liked, my body responded immediately to his touch.

Liquid heat pooled between my legs, and beneath the layers of my clothing I pressed my thighs together to capture that sensation .

We made love slowly.

He touched me in all the right ways, with my back pressed against his chest, my arse cradling his hard cock. His hand caressed and plucked and fondled, slowly driving me mad as the eastern sky brightened.

And then, when he finally inched my gown up and slid his cock into me from behind, I was so ready I moaned aloud.

His palm covered my mouth.

“Hush, dkaar ,” he breathed in my ear. “We dinnae ken who might be around.”

When he was fully seated and my orgasm claimed me, I was glad for his hand in place to muffle my sounds of ecstasy.

Vartok began to slowly move, his thrusts gentle, strong, driving me nearly mad with his patience. His hand fell to my breast again, then lower, and when I came again, I managed to bite down on my cries of pleasure.

And when he pulled his cock from me to spill against the rocky ground?

My glow of pleasure was dimmed by disappointment.

With sighs, we rolled to our feet with the dawn, keeping quiet as we broke camp and readied the horse. Then we snuck back to the cliffs and carefully peered down.

The Battleborn were gone.

I don’t know where they slept last night, but they—and their great boat—were gone, leaving only churned-up sand and the remains of the great bonfires to mark their presence .

I’ll admit I breathed several sighs of relief.

“Well,” announced Vartok, sitting back on his haunches. “I suppose this means we’re free to harvest sea holly? Ye’ll teach me how to do it?”

But last night’s fear was still sharp in my stomach.

“They are really gone?” I leaned out to peer down the beach. “Where did they go?”

“I dinnae ken,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “And I’m no’ sure I want to ken. They might be still on the island, or they might have returned to Islay. But either way, I am glad we dinnae have to worry about them.”

I shot him a glance, remembering my horrible dreams.

“Aye, me as well,” I admitted quietly, then took a deep breath. “So, we are looking for a spiky plant with the dried remains of last autumn’s umbels.” I pointed to one down the slope. “See?”

Vartok grunted as he crouched in front of it. “Aye, I can find more of them. Ye want to be the one to harvest, or should we both?”

“You find them and hold them. Here.” I handed him a cloth bag I’d brought along for the purpose.

“I will harvest. We need to pull them up—the roots are the most important part for Avaleen. See?” I demonstrated how to keep the roots intact.

“We always leave enough for the colony to thrive next season, so we move on to another batch—oh.”

Although I did not believe in the orcs’ gods, Nan told me ‘twas very important to say the words. So I took a deep breath and sped through the prayer .

“Thanks be to Malla the Beginner and Torvar the Strong for this bounty that we take from the ground.”

Vartok grunted as he took the plant from me to slide into the bag.

“There’s another patch over there, lass.” He offered his arm to help me up. “Thank ye for respecting our ways.”

I glanced at him in surprise. “Aye, of course. This is your world, after all.”

As I watched, his eyes flared green for a moment before he looked away.

They’d been doing that more often these days.

I remembered Avaleen—or mayhap ‘twas Nan—telling me such a thing was a sign of intense emotion. The old woman had chuckled when Torvolk had stalked around with glowing eyes for a sennight, and finally said to me, “ ’Tis the Mating Heat. He needs to claim Isadora and things will be right.”

Mayhap Vartok was angry. Or worried about the Battleborn?

I moved to the next patch of sea holly he’d found and chose the plants I would uproot, but they were stubborn, growing deep.

“Damnation,” I grunted, using my fingers to pry away the small stones from the base. “The ground does not wish to give up her bounty.”

“Here.” Vartok crouched beside me and flipped his cloak out of his way to reach toward the small of his back.

I didn’t know what to expect when he handed me a sheath I didn’t recognize, but for certes ‘twas not my mother’s knife. I gasped when I pulled it from its new leather home .

“Oh, Vartok,” I breathed, staring down at it. “You…you fixed it.”

He shifted awkwardly. “I wasnae certain ye’d be comfortable with a new handle, or if ye wanted me to just fix the auld one?—”

“’Tis beautiful.” I ran my fingers along the leather binding. “It fits my hand perfectly. And these beads…”

There was a row of iron beads strung along the bottom loop of the leather to form a sort of guard at the base of the hilt. I knew iron was the most difficult material to work with, and the fact he’d used it on my knife…

I met his eyes, my own shining with tears of joy. “They will remind me of you.”

“Good,” he said gruffly, then reached for the back of my head and pulled me to him for a quick kiss. “’Twas the point. So I can be with ye, even when I’m no’.”

Grinning, I pressed my forehead to his and whispered, “That is beautiful.”

“ Ye are beautiful. And strong, just as the knife is. Ye’ve been broken before, but?—”

“But you helped to fix me,” I whispered, knowing it was true. Not just Vartok’s lessons, but the way he taught me to find freedom, to find peace.

His gaze burned green. “I love ye, Myra.”

I fell on my arse.

Seriously. I jerked backward, still holding the knife, and since we were both crouching, I fell backward, hitting the ground with a loud oof .

But I didn’t tear my wide-eyed gaze from him.

“Nay, you do not,” I blurted.

Vartok snorted and turned back to the sea holly, sliding his own knife from its sheath in his boot to dig at the rocky soil.

I lunged for him, determined to get him to admit he was teasing me.

“Vartok, you cannot love me.” I grabbed his arm. “I am—you are just my teacher, aye?” My voice was high-pitched in panic. “You have never seen me the way you see the other women in the village?—”

“And why do ye think that is, love?” he growled, not looking at me.

I slowly stood.

Love.

Pet.

Dkaar .

He’d called me all those things. Was it possible they all meant the same thing?

I gripped my mother’s knife, the handle fitting my hand perfectly, and stared down at his back.

“What does dkaar mean, Vartok?” I whispered.

He didn’t answer for so long I assumed he wasn’t going to. Or mayhap he hadn’t heard me. He’d moved on to the third plant, his movements methodical.

“Vartok—” I began again, determined to make him answer.

“Beloved,” he snapped, not looking up. “ Dkaar means beloved .”

And he’d been calling me that for ages.

My knees went weak, and I stumbled toward the clutch of nearby boulders to support myself.

Beloved .

He’d called me love and beloved and I’d assumed…

“Nay,” I whispered. “I was just your student…I was the one who came to you…”

Proving orc senses stronger than mine, Vartok thrust himself to his feet and spun about, his expression a mask of anger and torment.

“And do ye ken how grateful I was for that chance? ‘Twas the first time ye’d let me into yer life, Myra. I was willing to take anything I could get at that point.”

Take anything …what? I shook my head, my eyes wide.

“You never treated me like…”

“ Fook ,” he muttered, turned away and dragging his free hand through his braids, setting the beads jangling. “Of course I didnae.”

Determined to get him to admit he was teasing me, I thrust myself to my feet, the hand holding my knife shaking.

“Vartok! You agreed to be my tutor! You—you cannot love me! You do not even finish inside me!”

“What?” he growled, his green gaze snapping back to mine.

It must be anger, causing his eyes to glow like that, aye ?