Page 18 of Wed to the Orc Captive

His hand stroked over my cheek, my shoulder, and I didn’t shudder. I think I showed no signs, as his arm encircled my waist.

“It’s late,” he murmured. “We should wait, until we’re clear of the V’radi.” A river, I remembered. He named a river. One of Bogdana’s roads ran near it.

Waiting sounded pleasant. I was not eager to reenact our wedding night. But I thought about the trouble it was to travel with me, the trouble he went to to keep free of those orcs, the “Gol Droth.” I thought about how much I needed his goodwill. Tame the monster by lying with it. “I…could be quick,” I whispered, and he chuckled, against my back.

“You’re going to be quick? What are you going to do?”

My mind went empty.

“Try to rest, insatiable wife,” he said. “I will not deny you for long.” His breaths evened against my neck, my ear. So quickly, he slept.

This meant he was exhausted, didn’t it? Because men didn’t say no when they weren’t exhausted, not if they found you attractive, and he didn’t find me repulsive, because I would know, I would have been able to tell that night before. Regardless of whatever selfish decision this was, gratitude started to bloom inside me, followed by the hot flush of revulsion.

Because wasn’t this what women did? Grabbing at whatever bare threads of humanity we found, creating delusions that we mattered to the people who used us? It started with gratitude that someone wasn’t exactly as brutal as he could have been, that he slept when he was tired, and soon you were explaining to your children why the monster that hurt them meant well, why he didn’t mean it, why you had to be quiet, why, why, why, the benefit of the doubt until he or you were dead.

There was no time to think of this. I needed to sleep to escape, to possibly kill this man, to survive. I needed sleep, if I was going to run and climb and struggle like this, over and over, till I forced my way into a place where I could stand. I needed sleep to stop seeing their faces on my eyelids, my stupid, dying father, Todderick, the orcs by the pool, the golden eyes of this prowling hunter I’d given my body to. I needed to find sleep as easily as he did, because hadn’t I run as hard? Rage spiked in me, and I forced down the sob that threatened to shake out. This was not the time to feel. This was not the time to grieve or be angry or afraid or anything else. This was not the time for what-ifs or if-evers. I breathed, deep and even, forced my ragged lungs to rise in time with the hulking man behind and around me. I made myself focus on the one comfort in this lean-to under a bluff: that the body against mine was not Todderick’s, that I’d chosen, that I’d escaped: this was the orc’s hand on my ribs, the orc’s thigh against my ass, the orc, the orc, the orc.

In the relative peace of my spite, I slept.

TOKENS

Iwoke up to golden eyes above mine, yiped and scrambled back, hitting the earth wall.

“Good morning to you too.” My husband looked amused. Tendrils of hair fell around his face.

Soft, golden light filtered in through the branches.

I sat up, carefully this time. “I slept too late.”

“Well, we ran too hard.”

I thought to leap up, to make a show of dedication to the road, but I’d have to climb over him, and he seemed relaxed, lounging there on one arm. He reached for me, and I flinched⁠—

“What is this?” He lifted Bogdana's pouch between his fingers. “You always carry it.”

My heart was pounding. “A good luck charm. From my mentor.”

“Your chieftain with the white hair? She seemed like one of the better ones.” He still examined the sachet. I wished I had the gumption to snatch it back.

“She’s a healer.” I swallowed.

“I didn’t know humans gave such things.”

“I had people who cared about me too.” The words had come out too fast, and he froze.

He put down my pouch. His eyes had shuttered. “I’ve put you on your guard. You think I’m insulting you, every time I speak.”

I wanted to say, “Aren’t you?” but horror was still ice in my stomach. I’d already offended him, while we were running for our lives— my life— and I’d offended him, like a foolish harridan.

He reached to his chest, and lifted one of the effigies on that dark webbing of twine. “My brother Khal’s father made this for me,” he said. “It's a badger. He used to say I was like a badger dragged from its den, all fury and claws.” The tiny, pale bead was made from a soft wood, intricately carved, the little snout turned up, the little paws. He spoke again, and he was doing a voice, a deeper accented Common. “‘But this is supposed to be your den. We're supposed to be your badgers. Why are you biting?’” The side of his mouth was curled up. He lifted another carving, and another. “A bear, for Khal. Peaceful till provoked. And a fox, for Tyralk.” A red stain shone on that one. “He’s an idiot. You’ll meet him.” His fingers lingered on the beads. Most of the necklace’s web was covered in claws, but I saw several long, predatory teeth.

“Are all the tokens you carry gifts?” I asked, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“No,” he said. “Most of this I took for myself.” His hand clenched, and he dropped it. “We decide what we carry.” That didn’t sound like an invitation for questions. I stayed quiet, and he said, stiffly, “We are not so very different.”

No, not different at all. Because he carried a few dozen trophies of lives he’d taken, and I only carried the means to take his.

He stood. “We should get moving.”