He let go of her jaw.
And she yielded—because she had to admit it, if only to herself. She was caught under his spell. And this—this being in thrall to another—was something she was unused to.Unprepared for. And yet she couldn't deny it, even though every part of her screamed that she shouldn't.
It was only for now.
Here, in this private sanctuary. Away from prying eyes, away from her court, away from the games and the intrigue and the endless, crushing pressure.
Just… for now.
His fingers slipped through her hair, strands nearly dry beneath the sun's warm touch. She felt warm too. Too warm. The heat uncoiled low in her belly, winding deeper, seeping into the very core of her, sliding between her thighs.
Languorous. Trapped. Tempted to let go.
No. She clung to the thought like a blade's edge. Soon this spell would be broken. Soon, everything would change.
But for now…
To her surprise, his fingers shifted, dividing her hair into sections. And then, deftly, expertly, he began to braid. Not a clumsy knot, not some fumbling gesture, but the sure, skilled work of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
"Among my people," he said quietly, "braiding is an intimate act. Reserved for family. For mates. For those bound by blood or oath." His hands moved with confidence, drawing the braids taut, weaving one, then the other, from the crown of her scalp down. "The pattern tells a story. This one," his fingers tightened slightly on a particular section, "speaks of strength. Of royalty." His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper against her ear. "Of belonging."
She understood then. This was not merely practical—this was ritual. By braiding her hair in the style of his people, he was marking her. Claiming her in a way that would be instantly recognizable to any orc who saw her.
She couldn't see what it looked like. But she felt it. The rhythm. The steadiness. The strange, quiet care threaded into every motion.
"When you return," he said softly, breaking through the haze that had settled over her, "they will see a queen. And the authority you wield will have a different power behind it."
Her trance shattered. She drew a breath, steadying herself against the tug of his braids.
"And what of you?" she asked, her voice edged with steel. "What power do you hold in the orc kingdom? How can I trust you'll keep your father—and your brother—in check?"
The braiding stilled, his hands resting against her hair as though the question had struck deeper than she intended. Then he resumed, calm, measured, each motion deliberate.
"The shadows obey me," he said simply. His fingers paused in their braiding, and she felt it then—the subtle shift in the air, the darkening that wasn't merely absence of light but presence of something else. Something alive, aware. The shadows around his feet stirred like liquid, twisting toward her without touching, then retreating. "Not just mine. All shadows. Everywhere."
She caught his meaning instantly. Even in Istrial. Even in her castle. Even in rooms where no orc had ever set foot.
"My father fears what I can do," he continued, resuming his braiding with the same steady rhythm. "Kardoc resents it. The clan elders respect it. None of them fully understand it." His voice lowered to a whisper. "With you by my side in Maidan, there would be nowhere they could strike without my knowing. No plot I couldn't uncover. No threat I couldn't eliminate."
And then he finished her braids, tying off the ends with threads she hadn't seen him produce, leaving that stark truth hanging in the air—strangely powerful, edged with menace, yet carrying a strength that was almost… reassurance.
"By the way," he added, a hint of amusement warming his tone, "that was well beyond your allotted three questions. I'm beginning to think humans don't count the same way orcs do."
Eliza let his unexpected amusement wash over her, partly disbelieving, her thoughts swimming.
For if he were to be bound to her…
What kind of power would they have… together?
Chapter
Twenty-One
The palanquin swayed, steady but swift, borne on the shoulders of powerful orcs striding in perfect rhythm across the plains. The sun sank low behind them, gilding the horizon in molten fire, painting the sky in burning hues that seemed to set the world aflame.
Eliza sat within, on the plain wooden seat, her velvet gown heavy across her knees, her bare feet tucked beneath the hem. Her hair remained bound in the taut braids he had woven, each twist a subtle reminder, each plait a mark of his claim. No chains bound her wrists, no collar circled her throat—yet every detail of her appearance whispered the same truth: she was under his dominion.
She would change that.
