The orc nodded, slow and deliberate. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes—acknowledgment, perhaps even a grudging respect. "Your cousin sounds like my brother," he said quietly. "All fire, no foresight." Then his expression hardened once more into that mask of cold detachment.
Then he turned from her.
Cold. Unaffected.
He walked away, his massive frame receding into shadow, his stride unhurried, deliberate, as though her words hadn't touched him at all. He left her—just left her—sitting there with the echo of her own voice ringing in her ears, her threats already fading into memory.
Fury swelled in her chest. She wanted to shout, to curse him, to throw her rage like fire at his back. She wanted to leap up and chase after him, demand he listen, demand he acknowledge her.
But she didn't.
She forced herself still, jaw tight, hands curled into fists in her lap. She would not give him that satisfaction. She would not let him see that he could provoke her so easily.
The heavy door closed behind him, leaving her alone.
Silence pressed in, broken only by the crackling of the hearth. The warmth seeped gradually into the chamber, chasing the chill from the air, and she drew in a deep breath, steadying herself.
It was then that she realized?—
His shirt was still wrapped around her shoulders.
The coarse fabric held his warmth, and with it, his scent. Earth and smoke. Steel and leather. Something darker, something distinctly male that filled her senses until her pulse stuttered wildly.
She clenched the fabric tighter, cursing herself for noticing.
She drew in a slow breath, clutching the fabric tighter around her. The fire popped in the hearth, scattering sparks that winked against the stone before fading into ash.
A chill of determination hardened in her chest.
She would not be passive. She would not be used, not by him, not by anyone.
Silently, she vowed to use everything she had—her mind, her words, her crown, even the strange awareness she felt toward him—to find a crack in this male's cold, unyielding shell.
For her survival.
For the survival of her people.
To make certain that everything she had fought for, everything she had endured, did not collapse into chaos and ash.
Chapter
Twelve
He was back.
The heavy door opened without warning, and the sight of him in the firelit chamber made Eliza's stomach knot.
He was dressed differently now. Gone was the stealth gear, the black shirt and leather trousers that had seemed part of his very skin. In its place, he wore a robe of deep maroon velvet, simple but luxurious, falling open over loose black trousers. He was barefoot, his steps silent across the stone, his long black hair unbound, spilling freely over his shoulders.
It was infuriating how effortlessly striking he looked.
Beautiful, even.
Eliza crushed the thought as soon as it came. She would not think of him that way.
In his hands, he carried a tray. The scent reached her before the sight of it—savory, rich, a whisper of warmth that made her stomach twist painfully in response.
Food.
