But then... what?
Her throat tightened.
The only one who knew she was here—the only one who had shielded her from the wrath of the stronghold—would be dead.
And she would be left alone.
Alone in the heart of Varak territory.
There was no way she could make it out unseen. Not through halls crawling with guards sworn to the orc king, not through gates thicker and higher than any fortress in Maidan. Not even if it were night, not even if she clung to every shadow she could find.
The dagger might kill him, but it would kill her, too.
She couldn't kill him.
Even if she crept forward, dagger in hand, pressed it to his throat—she would be putting herself in danger. He could stir at any moment, and then what?
Instead, she stood there for a long breath, studying him.
His face was so strangely still, so peaceful. Almost?—
No. She cut off the thought, biting the inside of her cheek. She wouldn't think that. Not about him.
But what had caused him to collapse here, on the floor of all places? Did orcs sleep like this, on cold stone? It seemed absurd. And hadn't he?—?
Her heart lurched. He had givenherhis bed.
That wasn't how a hostile captor usually treated a prisoner.
With her throat tight, she tiptoed backward, back toward the doorway. Better not to disturb him. She would wait and see what the day brought.
But then?—
Something tugged at her. A feeling she didn't want to name.
A sense that she should... repay him somehow.
He was the one who had spared her. Yes, it had been calculated. Yes, he had been sent to kill her in the first place. But he was also the one who had brought her food, who had ensured she had a warm bed and his own garment against the wind. The one who had lit the hearth before he left, who had kept her alive when he could so easily have ended it all.
Slowly, she turned back.
She went to the bed, pulled a thick fur pelt from the tangled linens, and carried it across the chamber in her arms.
Back to where he lay, the morning light glancing off the curve of his tusks, his body rising and falling with the steadiness of sleep.
And she leaned down, intending to drape the blanket over him.
She bent slowly, careful not to let the fur brush against the stone. With delicate hands she draped it over him, the thick pelt settling across his chest and shoulders, soft where his body was all hard planes and muscle.
The contrast struck her—the sheer, brutal power of him hidden beneath something so gentle.
She should despise him.
Her jaw tightened, remembering the blade at her throat, the shadows that had suffocated her cries. The terror of being stolen from her very bed. She should be consumed by anger. By fear.
And yet... she couldn't bring herself to hate him.
Not as she looked down at him like this, his face slack with sleep, the monstrous edges softened.
