He was watching her.
All the while, the shadow-orc sat across from her, silent, his presence a looming weight across the table. His black eyes didn't waver, didn't soften. He watched her with the same stillness he carried into battle, as though cataloguing every move she made, every twitch of her hand, every flicker across her face.
It was intimidating. Terrifying. A reminder she could not escape what he was capable of—how easily he had stolen her from her tower, how near she had come to death at his hand.
And yet…
This. The fire's glow, the solid chair beneath her, the food warming her from within—this strange, alien comfort—was not something she had expected from him. Not at all.
"When you've eaten, you will rest," he said at last. His chin inclined toward the massive bed, its thick wooden frame and rustic linen sheets standing stark in the firelight. "I will be gone for some time, but you will be safe here. There is nobody in the stronghold who would dare enter my chambers. I don't think I need to warn you not to step outside."
Eliza stilled, the meaning sinking in instantly.
Aside from him, no one knew she was here—not yet. And other orcs… there was no telling what they might do to a human, let alone to her. Without saying it outright, he had branded her a prisoner.
"You can't keep me locked in here forever," she retorted, forcing her voice sharp. "Especially if we are to be wed. My people will expect ceremony. Answers. Certainty. There are protocols and formality to be followed—if you want them to accept the union."
Even as she said it, doubt whispered in the back of her mind. Was this mad plan even possible? Most Maidan would be outraged at the very thought of their queen marrying into the enemy. The absurdity of it pulled a short, bitter laugh from her throat.
Rakhal's gaze sharpened, dark and unblinking. "What?"
She let the corners of her mouth twist. "Perhaps you're mad."
He didn't rise to the bait. He simply shrugged, a ripple of shoulders and silence, as if her words carried no weight at all.
She finished the food in silence. The fire crackled, birds trilled faintly outside, and despite the brightening of morning she felt weariness dragging at her bones. Her eyes landed on the mug he'd set aside, steam curling from it in fragrant tendrils.
"What's this?" she asked.
"Lykal tea," he answered. "A herbal drink, commonly enjoyed by my people. It has mild relaxing properties. It will help you to sleep."
Eliza lifted it warily, sniffed, then took a sip. The taste was bitter, yet undercut with unexpected sweetness. Strange, soothing. Addictive. She prayed it wasn't poison, as he had promised.
And suddenly, the bed looked unbearably inviting.
"Is that your bed?" she asked before she could stop herself.
"Yes," he said, matter-of-fact, but the word sent an unexpected thrill down her spine.
"And you would allow me to rest in it?"
"Yes."
For some reason, the silence between them no longer felt quite as fraught or hostile. She was beginning to get a sense of him, perhaps: a man of few words, but each one deliberate. Everything he did seemed to have a purpose.
She couldn't allow herself to mistake that for kindness. But neither was he harsh—not intentionally.
"Where will you be, when I'm asleep?"
His face sharpened, eyes turning to polished black gemstones, hard and cutting. "I'll be ending the war."
Chapter
Thirteen
He left her behind—satiated, weary, and, against all reason, surprisingly alluring.
As he strode down the empty corridor, his thoughts lingered where they should not. He remembered the way she had sat at the table, firelight gilding her hair, shadows dancing across her face. He had told himself he was only watching her, ensuring she ate, ensuring she obeyed.
