Page 52 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

Eliza snatched it from his big, rough hands. At least, she tried. Rakhal held it in an iron grip, his powerful arm outstretched.

"What?" she demanded.

"If I'm to be your consort, I should learn to do things like this."

She held firm, her expression like stone, but inside, her soul trembled a little. There should not be a part of her that wanted this. "I have maids for that sort of thing, although I usually comb my hair myself."

"I insist," he said stubbornly, infuriatingly, locking her in a battle of wills. "Or would you rather arrive at Istrial looking disheveled?"

Bastard.

She could have taken the bait, could have played into his little power game.

She could have held out and allowed her hair to stay wild and tangled.

But she could also use the situation to her advantage. "I'll allow it… If you grant me a concession in return."

"A bargain?" Rakhal's eyes darkened. "I'll consider it. Tell me what it is you want."

Her eyes narrowed, her pulse a taut thread beneath her skin. She couldn't risk asking for too much. If she reached too far, he would shut her down, and she'd be left with nothing but the sting of indignity—and his hands in her hair regardless.

But a thought struck her, quick and sharp.

"Three questions," she said. Her voice was cool, deliberate. "I get to ask three questions, and you will answer honestly."

Rakhal's grip on the comb did not slacken, though his gaze sharpened, shadows whispering faintly at his feet as though they, too, were considering her demand.

"Questions," he repeated, slowly, as though tasting the word. "That is your concession?"

"Yes." She lifted her chin. "Nothing more. Nothing less. Three truths. That is all I ask."

A long silence stretched between them. She felt the weight of his scrutiny, the dangerous patience of a predator deciding whether to allow its prey to circle closer—or to strike.

Finally, the corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile, not quite mockery, something darker. "You could ask me anything. About my people. About your fate. About me." His voice dipped lower. "Are you certain you want the answers?"

Her stomach knotted, but she refused to flinch. "That is the bargain. Do you agree, or do we waste more time standing here like fools?"

His gaze lingered on her, unreadable. Then, slowly, deliberately, he placed the comb in her hand. His fingers brushed hers, rough against her skin, a contact that lingered longer than necessary.

"Three questions," Rakhal said at last. His voice was a promise and a warning both. "Ask wisely."

"Why this?" she pressed, her voice taut. "You're a prince, with power, with influence enough to command armies. You could have killed me. You could have broken me, discarded me, taken another of your own kind to stand at your side. Yet instead, you choose this. Me. A human. You choose to march into my territory, away from your people, away from your throne. Why?"

The air thickened between them. His hand hovered, the comb suspended inches from her hair, as though the question itself had rooted him to stone.

Slowly, he lowered his arm, the bone teeth grazing at last through a lock of her hair, careful, deliberate. His breath stirred the nape of her neck when he answered.

He went quiet for a moment, brushing her hair with slow, steady strokes, the comb's teeth whispering through the strands. Expertly, he teased out the knots, patient and sure, as if he'd done this before.

"It wasn't planned," he said at last, his voice low, unguarded. "It wasn't a scheme, nor was it strategy. The choice came then and there, in your chambers. I saw the way you fought, even with nothing left to wield but your will. I saw the future laid bare before me—a fork in the road. I saw a hundred different possibilities. That's when the notion came to me… that this could all end. So I chose one."

The comb slid through her hair again, deliberate, unhurried.

"Seeing you like that, as you faced my blade… something spoke to me," he continued, almost as though confessing to himself. "I can't explain it. I saw the way you looked at me. I remembered you on the battlefield, your defiance, your fire. In that moment, I felt it was wrong to kill you. My being recoiled against it. I've never felt that so strongly before."

Quiet surprise flickered through her. His words carried no guile, no hidden edge. He seemed to have no trouble telling her this, laying it bare without subterfuge or pretence.

Is this the orc directness he spoke of?