Page 37 of Scoring the Orc
Despite my confusion, my resistance begins to melt under the heat of his passion. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, responding to the intensity of his kiss with a surprising fervor. My hands, once limp at my sides, rise to clutch at his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. The world narrows down to the press of his lips, the firm grip of his hands, and the tumultuous emotions spiraling through me.
Jurto finally breaks the kiss, but he doesn't let go. His breath is ragged, and his eyes burn into mine with a fierce possessiveness that should frighten me—but doesn’t. "You are mine," he rumbles deeply, his voice thick with conviction. "I protect what is mine."
His words wrap around me like a cloak, heavy with implications. The possessiveness should rankle, should ignite my defiance. Yet, in this moment, surrounded by his overpowering presence, I find a strange comfort in his declaration. It's as if his claim provides a shield against the chaos of our world, a chaotic world that threatens to sweep me away at any moment.
He keeps me close, one arm around my waist, as if afraid that I might slip away if he loosened his grip even slightly. I lean into him, my head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. It pulses strong and sure under my ear, syncing for a fleeting moment with my own rapid heartbeat.
As I pull away and search Jurto's face, the harsh lines and the dark shadows under his eyes tell a story of sleepless nights and worrisome days. His urgency, I now see, isn't just about possession or pride—it's driven by a genuine care for me. The realization sends a warm, confusing ripple through my chest. Could Jurto, with his fierce demeanor and hardened shell, truly harbor feelings for someone like me? The thought is as intimidating as it is exhilarating.
His eyes, usually so commanding and unreadable, now flicker with a vulnerability he seldom shows. They trace my features as if memorizing them, as if he is seeing me for the first time. The intensity of his gaze stirs a hope within me that I scarcely dare to nurture, a fragile bud pushing up through a crack in a wall of stone.
"Jurto..." My voice is a whisper, laden with unspoken questions. "Why are you doing this? Why me? You could have any orc woman. Any one of them."
He exhales slowly, his breath stirring strands of my hair. "Because, Emilia," he starts, his voice low and earnest. "You see me for who I am. And that exhilarates me more than any zyrphix match."
His admission hangs in the air between us, bold and revealing. My heart skips, then steadies, as his words sink in. To be seen—to truly be seen by someone—is both a treasure and a terror. And here, in the dim light of the room, with his arms still around me, I feel treasured.
Jurto's eyes soften, and a slight smile tugs at the corners of his mouth—a rare, unguarded smile that brightens his entire face. It's a smile that speaks of relief, of a shared secret finally acknowledged.
He’s willing to fight for what we have. Thoughts of the future don’t seem as bleak anymore.
24
JURTO
“Keep up the fucking pace, Krodash!” I roar, nearly tearing one of the training dummies apart as I see Krodash fumble another possession. “If I see you do that again, you’re running forty laps around the field!”
“What the fuck, Jurto?” Hrogun remarks, picking at his tusks as he observes from the sidelines. “You’re going to kill the damn kid.”
“He’s become a different beast,” Varg says, plopping down on the bench beside him. Rogar drinks from his water skin beside them. “Did you see the way he spoke to poor Borka earlier? I thought he was going to kill him right then and there.”
“Are you gossiping about me right now?” I snarl, shooting glares in their general direction. “This next match is important to me. I won’t tolerate failure in any shape or form. If we fail, I want a new damn team behind me.”
“Calm it, Jurto,” Hrogun says, sending me a warning look. “You don’t mean that shit, so don’t say it.”
The anger permates me completely. I’m quick to anger, quick to criticize, and it’s all because of fucking Gargash.
The sun barely peeks over the horizon, but we’re already on the field, sweat mingling with the morning dew. “Again!” I bark at Krodash, who’s panting like a cornered beast. His last run was sloppy, unworthy of the Bloodcrushers. Beside him, Kraag and Kyleb reset their stances, bracing for another grueling drill.
Varg and Rogar, after enjoying a brief break, haul the heavy training shields and position themselves as opposing players. I watch, unsatisfied, as Karg attempts to maneuver past them, his steps lacking the sharpness I demand. “Faster, Karg! Move like the damn wind or don’t move at all!” My voice slices through the morning air, a whip that drives them harder.
Hrogun, ever the voice of reason, tries to interject. “Jurto, they’re breaking?—”
“They’ll learn to break the Stonebreakers. And if they don’t, they’ll have to crawl off the damn field with broken limbs!” I snap, cutting him off. The name Gargash seethes in my mind, fueling my fury. It's not just another match—it's the match. The one where Emilia could be taken from me. I won’t show up with anything less than a legion ready to dominate.
We push through the drills, each repetition more intense than the last. I spot Borka faltering, his large frame shuddering with exhaustion. “On your feet, Borka! Show me you deserve to stay on the team!” His response is a gritty, determined nod, and he surges forward, tackling Rogar with renewed vigor.
The hours bleed into each other, the sun climbing high as we grind through each play. By midday, the field is a battlefield, each corner of the practice field trampled under relentless orcish feet. Krodash drops to one knee, gasping, and I’m on him like a shadow. “You think Gargash’s Stonebreakers will give you a moment to rest? This is nothing compared to what’s coming!”
I pull him up, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, my grip as hard as my expectations. “We are the Bloodcrushers, and we do not yield!” This rallying cry pulls a chorus of grunts and nods from the team, their fatigue momentarily forgotten in the surge of shared resolve.
Krodash crumples again, his broad shoulders sagging, knees hitting the dirt with a dull thud. I'm on him in an instant, my boot connecting with his side in a sharp, unforgiving kick. "Get up!" My voice booms across the field, a harsh echo against the quieting dusk. "Weakness on this field is a blade at our throats in the arena!"
The others freeze, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. Never before have I pushed them this hard, never have I let the leash slip this tight. Rogar's eyes narrow, a spark of defiance flickers, but he holds his tongue, his jaw clenched tight.
Varg steps forward slightly, his usual grin wiped clean off his rugged face, replaced by concern. "Jurto, this is not?—"
"Silence!" I snap, turning my glare on him. The word slices through the air, cutting off any further objections. My gaze sweeps over them all—Kraag, Borka, Kyleb, Karg—each one of them showing signs of strain beneath the weight of my expectations.