Page 55 of Wed to the Orc Captive

We reached Vrathgar’s door.

“Annora,” the young one said, handing my jar back, “I can be an idiot sometimes, but I care about my brother, whatever he says. If you need help…” he wavered.

“I will ask,” I said. “I’m not too proud to ask.” I tried for a joke. “I’d rather ask you than pull a knife on your chieftess again.”

He huffed out a laugh, looked relieved. “Whatever your husband thinks, he’s not alone here. Even if he may wish it.” He cleared his throat. “Anyhow. Thanks for putting up with him, nayah? We love the old codger.”

He started walking away, but curiosity stabbed me. “How old is he?” I shouted.

He called back over his shoulder, “Twenty-four!”

Twenty-four. We were almost the same age.

I took a steadying breath, and pushed through the door.

Vrathgar pulled a blanket over his lap, the mess of bloodstained bandages around his thigh.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’ll knock next time.”

He grunted, went back to unwrapping the wound.

“Did you want help?” I said.

“Got it.”

I was just nodding, like a simpleton. “I got the water.” Was there a hook to hang this, or should I sit it on the floor?

“Were you alright?” he said. His voice was still clipped, short.

“Yes, I was fine.” A little flare of testing, rebellion, uncoiled in my stomach. “Your friend helped me.”

“Tyralk?” He undid another knot. “I hope not Khal.”

“No. Sephar?”

His head snapped up, nostrils flaring. My instinct had been right. “Sephar?” he spat the words. “What did he try? Did you speak to him?”

“Not about anything important⁠—"

“What did he ask you?” he demanded. His wound was forgotten, his relative state of undress was forgotten, interrogating me.

I tried not to get my back up. “Just, was I alright, did I need anything, nothing.”

“It’s never nothing, not with that lying snake.” He was so angry, and I was the one dealing with his “cousin,” I was the one getting accosted by women in rivers, and he growled, “if he comes near you again, you walk away, do you hear me? Don’t give him an inch, slithering into ears, that foul⁠—"

And somehow that was a step too far. “I wouldn’t have met him at all except he defended me from a paramour of yours, actually⁠—"

“Defended you?”

“Yes, defended, because apparently there are forces at work that no one has been interested in telling me about: who is Rissa?”

He looked like I’d slapped him, the same rage, the same disbelief. For a second I measured the space to the door, thought about if I’d run. “Rissa?” he said, his voice suddenly velvet-y calm, and that was more frightening.

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Yes, Rissa,” I said, hoping the tremor in my voice sounded as angry as I felt. “The reason the young women hate me. The reason they’re mocking me at the stream. Your…lover, I assume? Rissa.”

“Sephar told you this, yes? Of course he would.”

“This is not about Sephar.”