Page 22 of The Orc's Protection
“Your friend is—”
“Yes,” I say. “She is.”
A beat of silence, and then I actually look at him. Gone is the security uniform. Instead, he wears what must be traditional orc attire: a deep green tunic, fully closed and tailored to his frame, the heavy fabric embroidered along the collar and sleeves with intricate geometric patterns. It fits closely enough to leave nothing to the imagination—broad chest, powerful shoulders, a narrow waist made more pronounced by the wide leather belt cinched low on his hips.
Dark trousers fall straight over heavy boots, and wide silver ceremonial bands circle his forearms. Beneath them, just visible at the wrist, something else: four narrow bands of darker metal, almost black, each one stamped with small precise markings. Not decorative. Something older than that, and more deliberate. I want to ask about them and don’t. The overall effect is… formidable. Not armored, exactly—but unmistakably designed for a body built for strength and endurance.
A short cape is draped over one shoulder, secured with an ornate metal clasp. The fabric is richly textured in shades of green and brown, with symbols I don’t recognize woven into the border. He’s nothing like the careful, contained figure from the school hallways. He’s someone stepping fully into himself.
“Good evening,” he says, his voice deeper than usual. His gaze travels from my face down to my dress and back up again, lingering just long enough to send warmth curling through my stomach. “You look… well chosen.”
I laugh, despite my nerves. “High praise indeed.”
His gaze settles on me the way it does when something pleases him and he hasn’t decided whether to show it. “I mean, you look beautiful. The color honors the seasonal transition we celebrate tonight.”
“Oh!” I brighten, pleased by the unintended appropriateness of my choice. “That was completely accidental, but I’m glad it works.”
He doesn’t look away; the quiet intensity of it is enough to quicken my pulse. “Very much so.” His voice is so deep it rumbles.
I have the absurd thought that if we stand here another second, I might forget how to breathe.
He hesitates, then reaches into a pocket inside his tunic. The pause itself draws my attention; Vraag is not a man who hesitates without reason. When he draws his hand back, he’s holding a small object that glints softly in the porch light.
“Before we go,” he says, slower now, more careful. “I want to offer something, if you wish to accept it.”
A faint tension curls low in my stomach, the kind that comes when something ordinary tilts unexpectedly toward significance.
He opens his palm. Resting there is a simple piece of jewelry: a smooth, dark stone carved with subtle angular markings, suspended from a braided leather cord. It’s unadorned, almost severe—but the moment I see it, I’m acutely aware that it isn’t casual.
“At clan gatherings,” he continues, his voice measured, “outsiders may feel… unanchored. Wearing a clan token marks you as wanting to be here, someone interested in our ways.”
My pulse kicks. Not alarm… awareness. A sharpening, like my senses have quietly come online.
He gazes at me steadily. “It is not required. If you would rather not, I will take no offense.”
Something about the way he says that—plain, unequivocal—loosens a knot I hadn’t realized had formed in my chest. He isn’t assuming. He isn’t deciding for me. He’s waiting. I’ve spent a long time being wary of men who don’t wait. The fact that he does shouldn’t matter this much. It does anyway.
I take the token from his hand, surprised by its weight. The stone is warm, as if it’s already absorbed heat from his skin. The leather smells faintly of cedar and smoke—not overpowering, just present.
“And this marks me as… what, exactly?” I ask, though my voice comes out softer than I intend.
“As a guest,” he says carefully. “Under my responsibility for the evening.”
Responsibility. The word settles somewhere deep, landing with unexpected steadiness. Not possession. Not control. Care.
I glance up at him, searching his face for expectation—and find none. Only restraint. Only quiet attention.
A strange, fluttering mix of nerves and warmth spreads through me as I lift the cord and slip it over my head. When the stone settles against my skin, it’s immediately solid, grounding, unmistakably there.
The sensation surprises me. It’s almost… reassuring.
His breath leaves him slowly, as if he’s been holding it. Not satisfaction—relief.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
In the car, as he drives, I steal glances at his profile. Without the stiff posture he maintains at school, there’s something more natural about his movements, as if he’s more comfortable in his own skin surrounded by the trappings of his culture. We’re talking—about the gathering, about what to expect, about the clan structure—when the orange glow of a warning light appears on the dashboard.
Vraag sees it immediately. He’s already signaling.
