Page 27 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

By the hearth, a small wooden table stood, plain but sturdy, with two matching chairs set across from one another. He set the tray down with a deliberate care, then lifted his gaze to her.

He gestured toward it with a flick of his hand. "Come. Eat."

The command was simple, unadorned, yet it rang with the same weight as everything else he said—as though refusal had never once occurred to him as a possibility.

Eliza's stomach clenched at the scent wafting from the tray. Meat, bread, something spiced and warm. Her body ached for it, her mouth watering despite herself.

But still, she hesitated, rooted to the bed, her pride warring with hunger.

In the distance, faint but clear, birdsong threaded through the air. Dawn was breaking.

A full night had passed since he'd stolen her from Istrial. One night as captive, one night of her people likely in panic, searching for their missing queen. Her throat tightened at the thought of the chaos her absence must have caused.

She hadn't slept at all.

Weariness seeped deep into her bones, dragging at her limbs, dulling the edge of her thoughts. And yet beneath it, sharper than anything, was hunger. After the night's cold, after that mad run across the plains, her body screamed for food.

If she was to survive this ordeal—if her kingdom was to survive—she needed to maintain her strength. This strange truce between them, this uneasy peace, might be her only advantage. Better to understand his motives, to learn what she could about him, about the stronghold, about anything that might help her regain control once they returned to Istrial. Because they would return. He needed her alive, needed her cooperation. That gave her leverage, however slight.

Part of staying strong meant keeping herself alive, keeping her mind sharp. Nourishing herself. She could not allow weakness to creep in, not now.

Fine.

She rose, slow but steady, every movement deliberate, unwilling to let him see her eagerness. Crossing to the hearth, she lowered herself into the chair he indicated, her back straight, her chin lifted.

Rakhal took the seat opposite her.

The firelight painted his face in shifting gold and shadow, but his place at the table was bare. No plate. No food.

Eliza's eyes flicked to the tray, then back to him. A spark of unease curled in her chest.

He had brought food—for her.

Not for himself.

She sat straighter, forcing herself into the posture of a queen, aware of how he must be seeing her—bedraggled, exhausted, wrapped in his shirt like some wayward captive. If nothing else, she could maintain a regal air.

"What about you?" she asked, her voice carefully level. "Aren't you going to eat?"

He lowered himself into the opposite chair with deliberate grace, his every movement silent, controlled. Watching him, Eliza was reminded all over again of how deadly he truly was. Even without the shadows stirring at his feet, the sheer presence of him was enough to unnerve her.

"No," he said at last. His gaze flicked to the tray, then back to her, black and unblinking. He studied her hesitation, the tension coiled in her shoulders. "It isn't poisoned, if that's what you're thinking."

She swallowed, her mouth dry. He was right—there would be no point. Why poison her after going to all the trouble of stealing her away from her own chambers, from the heart of her city?

The warmth of the hearth pulsed against her skin, her eyes heavy-lidded, exhaustion creeping through her body. The smell of the food curled around her senses, rich and inviting, breaking down the last of her resistance.

Unable to fight anymore, Eliza reached for the spoon with trembling fingers.

She dipped it into the bowl and brought the stew to her lips.

The taste filled her mouth—savory, spiced, warm—and for the first time since this ordeal began, she realized just how starving she truly was.

The stew was rich and meaty, its flavors layered and unfamiliar—something spiced and earthy that she couldn't place, making the food of Maidan seem suddenly bland by comparison. The broth carried hints of smoke and herbs she'd never encountered, thicker than human stews, with chunks of dark meat that dissolved on her tongue. Beneath it all ran a current of warmth that seemed to radiate through her limbs, as though the orcs had found a way to capture fire itself in their cooking.

Suddenly, she forgot where she was. Forgot the ropes that had bound her, the terror of the night before, the way his blade had hovered at her throat. She simply ate, spoon after spoon, letting the taste and the heat wash through her starved body.

But the illusion could not last.