Page 36 of Orc's Veil

TWENTY-ONE

EIRENE

The chains are cold against my wrists.

Iron, ancient, inscribed with warding runes that glow faint blue in the darkness. Varkhul found them in the storage cellar beneath my cottage—relics from the boundary witches who came before me, tools designed to protect the keeper from the very forces she guards against.

He’s not using them to execute me. He’s using them to save me.

Somehow, that makes it worse.

“The Sovereign can reach you through the Veil.” His voice is rough as he secures the final clasp around my left wrist, binding me to the central stone. “You said it yourself—you’re part of the boundary now. A living anchor. If the Sovereign forces a breach while you sleep, these wards keep you anchored here. They won’t reach your mind—but they can’t reach your body through warded iron.”

“And prevent me from moving.” I test the chains, feel them hold firm. The runes pulse in response, warm against my skin, humming with magic older than the current boundary. “You’re imprisoning me to protect me.”

“I’m buying time.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he checks the clasps, as his massive hands move over the iron with careful precision. “Draveth arrives in two days. The Sovereign is pushing at the boundary every hour. If it gets into your head while you’re vulnerable—if it twists you against your will?—”

“It wins.” I finish the thought for him. “I become the door it wants. The breach that never closes.”

“Yes.” Now he looks at me. The intensity in his gaze steals my breath—a focus so complete it strips away everything else, the mark pulsing on his chest the only thing behind it. “I won’t let that happen.”

The chains rattle as I shift position, trying to find comfort against the cold stone. There is none. The central monolith rises behind me, twice my height, carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly. I’ve spent eight years bleeding at its base. Now I’m chained to it like a sacrifice waiting to be claimed.

“I never thought I’d be someone’s prisoner.” The words come out before I can stop them. “Not after all this. Not here.”

Varkhul goes still. I see the conflict cross his features—the understanding that what he’s doing, however well-intentioned, is still a cage.

“It’s temporary.” His voice has softened, lost some of its commanding edge. “Once we deal with the Sovereign. Once Draveth is?—”

“Dead?” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re going to kill another executioner? One of your brothers in the order?”

“If I have to.” No hesitation. No doubt. “I’ve chosen my side, Eirene. Draveth will be standing on the other one.”

The certainty in his voice makes my chest ache. He’s thrown away everything—his position, his reputation, his entire identity—for a woman he barely knows. A woman the mark chose for him, without either of our consent.

“What do you want?” I barely recognize my own voice. “From me. From this. What do you actually want, Varkhul?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

His hand finally makes contact—fingertips brushing my jaw, tracing the line of my cheekbone with a gentleness that seems impossible from hands that have killed so many. The touch sends heat flooding through me, pooling low in my belly, making the chains rattle as my body involuntarily arches toward him.

His thumb traces my cheekbone, slow and deliberate. An answer without words.

My throat tightens. The chains feel heavier, the stone colder, the darkness pressing in from all sides. And yet?—

And yet his hand is so close. And his gaze is all heat and want. And the mark on my wrist is singing with warmth that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with want.

“I want to understand.” The words come out low, each one deliberate, as though they cost him something to say. “You’ve spent eight years bleeding for strangers. Stealing memories so people can live. The order calls you a traitor, but you’re the only reason the Veil hasn’t fallen.”

“Understanding isn’t wanting.”

“No.” His thumb traces my lower lip, and I forget how to breathe. “It isn’t.”

The air between us has gone thick, charged with the same energy that crackles before a storm. The marks are pulsing in unison—his on his chest, mine on my wrist—and I can feel his heartbeat as clearly as my own. Fast. Unsteady. Hungry.

“I want—” He stops. Swallows. His hand drops from my face, and the loss of contact is almost painful. “I want things I haveno right to want. Things that will get us both killed if I’m not careful.”

“Then be careful.” I don’t know why I’m pushing. Don’t know why I need to hear him say it, need to see the wanting in his eyes match the fire burning in my chest. “Or don’t. But stop pretending this is just about protection.”