Page 22 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

She heard his breath, low and rasping in the dark. Felt the stillness of him, solid as stone. But there was something else, too. Something she hadn't expected.

Weariness.

He sat unmoving, but she could feel it in the cadence of his breathing, in the heaviness of the sigh he had loosed. All that movement, all that magic, that impossible escape—it must have cost him.

He wasn't invincible. Not infallible.

He was mortal. Surely, he had to be.

She didn't dare speak. Not yet. Her lips stayed pressed together, her jaw tight, her ears straining for every sound.

Footsteps.

For the first time, they weren't muffled, weren't swallowed by shadow. They were normal—solid scuffs of boots against stone, the sound of a body moving through space. She heard the soft rush of breath, another sigh, even a faint puff of what might have been exasperation.

So he could sound human, after all.

Then—another noise. Sharp. Distinct. Flint against stone.

A spark leapt, brief and bright in the darkness. Then came the flare of flame as it caught.

A lantern flickered to life, its faint glow spreading slowly, pushing the shadows back, peeling the dark from the chamber one cautious inch at a time.

The room emerged around her, dim and muted, painted in amber light.

And she looked up.

The lantern's glow caught him, cloaking him in soft golden light.

An orc. Massive, looming, every inch of him radiating power. He still wore that damned mask, steel-dark, etched with strange patterns, lending him an air both mysterious and sinister. Above it, his eyes were black now—deep, fathomless pools, stripped of the glow of magic, but no less unsettling for their darkness.

His hair gleamed in the light—long, silken, bound at the nape of his neck in a warrior's knot. His ears were pointed, piercedwith multiple earrings that glinted faintly, the traditional marks of his people. His features were hard, unyielding, the suggestion of tusks jutting faintly beneath the mask.

And his form…

Immense. Sculpted. Every line of him spoke of strength, honed to precision, a body carved into intimidation itself. Scars crossed his skin, brutal reminders of battles survived. And ink—sigils etched deep—marked him further, weaving across muscle and sinew, symbols of shadow and of time, of whatever ordeals had forged him into this weapon that now stood before her.

If she hadn't been so terrified of him, she might have thought him?—

Magnificent.

The word slid into her mind unbidden. Her heart lurched, pounding wildly, climbing into her throat. She swallowed thickly, willing it down, stilling the thought before it could take hold.

No.

Not that.

In a mild panic—at finding his form so distracting—Eliza wrenched her gaze away and looked around the room.

It was spartan but grand, the kind of chamber meant for strength, not comfort. High ceilings loomed above, the walls of rough-hewn sandstone bare and unadorned. At the center stood a massive bed with a frame of thick wood—the very one he had deposited her into.

Her heart thudded faster.

What if he?—?

No.

She crushed the thought before it could take root. She couldn't afford to give in to fear. Not now. She had to keep sharp, keep her wits.