Page 145 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

He stopped. Not because the words had finished, but because breath had. The Shadow shifted in his chest, not to argue—only to nod:Yes. That is true.

Eliza’s hand found his knee. She didn’t stroke it as comfort; she set it there like a weight, a point of grounding. “My turn,” she said. “If confessions are to be counted.”

He braced.

“I chose you,” she said. “Not because you were safe. Because you weren’t. Because you were the only man I’d ever seen take the blade from his brother’s throat and then have the audacity to make a law that would remind himself of it every day. Because you were dangerous and you put your danger to work. I never wanted a husband who would set a table and be content that it didn’t catch fire. I wanted a man who would build a city that didn’t need to. I knew what the Shadow could make of you. I stayed anyway. This isn’t love as saintliness.” She leaned closer, her breath touching his jaw, her voice softening. “It’s rebellion. Against what vengeance tells us is inevitable.”

The words loosened his ribs. Something inside him, braced for punishment or absolution, exhaled instead. He reached for her cheek with fingers that had learned to be careful.

She came the last inch. The first kiss was a question—slow, deliberate, the kind that waits to be answered. The second carried an answer, and the third erased the distance between them. The taste of smoke lingered on her lips; the warmth of the fire found their faces and stayed.

They undressed the way weary travelers put down armor—one piece, one breath at a time. No urgency, no performance, only the quiet astonishment of being allowed to touch and still remain whole. His hands traced the slope of her shoulder, the curve where breath meets bone; her fingers explored his scars as if reading a language older than speech. When he hesitated, she guided; when he trembled, she steadied him with a palm at the back of his neck, grounding him in the rhythm of her own heartbeat.

They found each other in the way warmth finds cold—gradual, inevitable. Every exhale between them felt like forgiveness trying to remember its first word. The world shrank to breath and skin and the soft catch of her sigh when his hand moved lower, to the hollow just above her hip, to the line that had never belonged to anyone but her.

When he finally entered her, it was not conquest but recognition. The fire crackled in counterpoint, and outside, the forest held its breath. He moved within her like a man relearning language—every motion deliberate, reverent. The Shadow came close, curious, then lay down beside them like a great animal soothed at last.

When the tremor passed through them both, it was quiet, almost shy. Their bodies learned stillness together. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, tasting salt and smoke. She turnedher face against his neck and breathed as though she could memorize the scent of safety.

After, there was no need to fill the air. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, the pulse beneath his skin. He thought to apologize, to annotate, to promise something impossible. She put a finger to his lips, not to silence, but to remind.

“You’re here,” she murmured. “You.” Her hand slid down to catch his left hand—the one with the old cut through the lifeline. She threaded their fingers and held. “That’s the miracle I wanted.”

He laughed softly, the sound of a man surprised at being allowed to be small. “If the world ends tonight,” he said, “let it end gentle.”

She kissed his shoulder, sealing the promise. The fire settled into coals, making a sound like contentment. The forest listened and, finding the rhythm acceptable, allowed the night to deepen without sending omens.

They slept as people do when the bed is moss and no roofs ask for taxes. He woke once in the blue hour and found her curled into him. He put his mouth to her hair and inhaled smoke, woman, and the faint iron memory of the ring, far away under stones, asleep. He closed his eyes and learned how to be forgiven without being excused.

Chapter

Seventy-Six

Dawn threaded pale gold through the canopy.

The fire had burned down to a quiet glow under ash. Rakhal slept on his back, one arm over his eyes as if not yet ready to face the light.

Eliza rose carefully, leaving his breath undisturbed. The grass was cool; mist brushed her ankles before drifting away.

She walked to the beech at the edge of the clearing. Its trunk was thick and smooth, the bark cool beneath her palm. She felt the slow movement of life inside it, steady as sap. The air smelled of wet earth, smoke, and morning.

When she turned, Rakhal was awake—sitting up, hair mussed, mouth soft with sleep. His bare chest caught the first light, scars and faint red veins of the Shadow showing through pale gold skin. The power inside him had quieted. It still lived there, but it listened now.

He stood when she came near, barefoot, unarmored—the man, not the legend.

“You went wandering,” he said.

“To see if the world still existed.”

“And?”

“It does. But it’s decided to keep its voice down.”

He smiled, slow and uncertain. “I can keep it now,” he said, meaning himself. “Not by control. By holding it steady.”

“I know.” She stepped closer until her breath touched his jaw.

They stood beneath the beech—no banners, no priests, no ring. Roots twisted under their feet; leaves shifted above them. The world beyond the trees waited to be invited back.