Page 23 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

Her gaze slid across the chamber. Along the far wall, a hearth waited, stacked with unlit logs. He turned toward it, flint and stone in hand. She watched him crouch, the motion smooth, controlled. Sparks flared. A flame caught.

The surrealness of it struck her—watching an orc perform such a simple, human act. And yet there was nothing ordinary in the sight of him. His back rippled with strength beneath scar and sigil, his body moving with the fluid grace of something wild.

A direwolf, she thought, pulse quickening.A predator built for both speed and power, for silence and devastation.

He lingered there, waiting, watching as the kindling flared into flame, as the logs began to catch. The light deepened, shadows growing longer, darker, curling at his feet.

And they danced.

Eliza's breath caught and she forgot herself—forgot the ropes biting her wrists, the gag mark still raw against her mouth, forgot even her fear. Adrenaline surged, not from terror alone but from something sharper, stranger.

She was transfixed.

By the sight of the orc, by the flames flickering bright, by the sinister shadows that swayed and curled as if alive.

And then—he turned.

The firelight caught his eyes, making them burn like coals, dark and smoldering.

"Eliza."

Her name rolled from him, deep and rumbling, heavy as stone, filled with weight. The sound of it struck her like an arrow to the chest. She hadn't realized he even knew it—but of course he did. She was queen. Her name was carved into banners, into songs of war, into the curses of her enemies.

Yet on his tongue it felt different. More personal. More dangerous.

He walked toward her, each step unhurried, powerful, sinuous. The fire painted his body in shifting lines of gold and shadow, muscles rippling with a grace that unsettled her.

His intentions were unreadable.

Eliza stiffened, her pulse leaping, her breath catching in her throat.

"I'm going to untie you now," he said, his voice softer than she expected, though no less commanding. "You know it's futile to fight me, so don't. If you try anything foolish, you'll be bound again."

Wordlessly, she nodded.

He came closer, the heat of him radiating ahead of him, filling the space. And suddenly—too suddenly—he was there before her, close enough that the sight of him dominated her vision.

Her eyes flicked upward, and she was caught off guard by the view of his bare torso. The scars and runes she had glimpsed before were now inches away, illuminated by firelight, the ink curling across muscle, the pale lines of old wounds like markers of survival.

It was overwhelming. The sheer scale of him, the raw physicality, the faint scent of smoke and steel clinging to his skin. Her pulse hammered in her throat, heat crawling up her neck even as her mind screamed to look away.

But she couldn't.

He leaned over her, close enough that the heat of his body pressed against her, though he didn't quite touch her. His arms flexed as he worked quickly, deftly, untying the knots at her wrists. The ropes slackened and fell away, leaving her arms free at last.

Then he crouched down, silent, and with the same swift precision untied her ankles.

Eliza exhaled a shaky breath. She drew her arms forward, groaning softly as the ache surged through her shoulders. Pain lanced sharp and immediate, then ebbed as she rubbed her raw wrists, flexed her fingers, and rolled her ankles to ease the stiffness. The sensation of freedom was almost dizzying.

When she finally looked up, he was watching her.

A hundred questions leapt to her lips, crowding her throat, pressing to be spoken. Where have you brought me? What are you going to do with me? What is this place?

But she held them back.

Sometimes silence was better.

She straightened, forcing her breathing calm, her expression steady. She wanted him to see no panic, no weakness. She had to be in control—of her thoughts, her emotions, of every shred of composure she had left.