Page 91 of The Savage Vow
Even if it killed her.
Morning came without warmth.There were no windows in the dungeon, no sunrise spilling across stone to soften the horror of where they were. Only a faint shift in torchlight from the corridor and a subtle thinning of shadows that told her the world outside had begun again.
Orlena had barely slept.
The stone ledge that served as a bed had left her back aching and her hips sore. At some point in the night she had given up trying to lie down at all. Instead, she had slid down the damp wall until she’d sat curled against it with her arms wrapped around herself. All she could do was listen.
To the water dripping somewhere close.
The faint crackle of fire burning in the torches.
Nargol pacing.
Her eyes burned. She opened them fully and leaned her head back on the cold stone. The air smelled worse in the morning. It was stale and sour. When the guards had brought food sometime in the night, they’d shoved bowls of gray slop through the bars without a word. It had smelled vaguely of boiled grain and old fat.
She hadn’t touched it.
Only the water.
Surprisingly, it had been clean. The cup had trembled in her hands as she’d drunk. The dungeon was not meant for comfort. It was meant to break. Her gaze shifted across the narrow strip of stone to the neighboring cell. Nargol sat on the ledge opposite her.
Rigid and watching.
Orlena didn’t think Nargol had slept at all. Most of the night she had paced, like a caged beast. Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes, when the guards passed, she had stopped at the bars and glared into the corridor, her lips pulled back to show off her tusks. She’d growled at them. Low and dangerous. The guards had laughed nervously and moved along faster.
Now she sat, with her arms still bound behind her. Her head was bowed. Even in the stillness, she radiated tension like a bow drawn and held at full pull.
This was not the orc whose hands had made her melt.
This was not the woman whose mouth had whispered devotion against her skin.
This was a warrior.
And yet?—
Orlena trusted her more than she had ever trusted anyone.
“Nargol,” she called out softly.
The name barely echoed before Nargol’s head lifted. Her gaze found Orlena instantly. She stood and crossed the cell in two silent strides. The hardness of her face struck Orlena first. Her jaw was tight. Her eyes darker than usual, almost black in the dim torchlight. A bruise had bloomed on her green skin where a guard had struck her the night before.
She looked savage.
Untamed.
Beautiful.
Her expression softened the moment she stood in front of Orlena.
Orlena pushed herself up from the wall and padded across the short space of her cell. She wished—goddess, how she wished—they had been thrown into a cell together. Even if it meant less space. Even if it meant less air.
Orlena needed to lean fully into Nargol. She wanted to feel her strength. Her warmth. Feel the soft caress of her breath across her skin.
But the iron bars separated them. At least they could be close enough to see every detail of each other.
But yet far enough to break her heart.
They had not bound Orlena’s hands. For that small mercy, she was grateful. She reached through the bars and rested her palm on Nargol’s face. Her skin was warm despite the cold air.
