Fire Claim

"Take me," she whispered, breath hot on his ear.

Not out of fear.

Out of fire.

He didn't think. He moved.

His hands grabbed her shoulders and spun her around with a rawness that bypassed thought. His mouth crashed onto hers in a kiss that was more bite than invitation, more declaration than question. She didn't resist—she met him with a growl deep in her throat, kissing him back, hard. The rough earth beneath them scraped at their skin, but neither noticed. There were no furs to soften their fall—only moss, dirt, and the feverish press of flesh on stone. Their bodies were already stripped of anything that wasn't skin and hunger, and their need made the world around them irrelevant.

She wore only crude, rudimentary garments that did little to shield her from the elements. The fabric was coarse, already fraying at the seams, and it gave way easily under his grip. His shirt clung to one arm, torn hastily and flung aside in the storm of their hunger. Fingers yanked, pulled, gripped—not to undress, but to expose. Each piece of cloth was torn away in a frenzy of need, discarded without thought, forgotten before it hit the dirt.

He grabbed her waist and turned her roughly, his hand sliding down between her thighs. She gasped, but then twisted free and shoved him down onto the mossy ground. Her fingers tugged his pants down and stared at what she uncovered. "So big… so strong," she murmured, and for a moment her eyes shimmered with awe.

Leopold grinned. The voice in his mind growled with pleasure. Show her who her man is. Show her what we are. Yesss... make her yours, rut into her like the beast you are. She wants it—needs it. She's your little savage bitch now.

He surged upward, grabbing her hips and forcing her back down. She welcomed it. Her hands braced on his chest, her eyes gleaming with challenge and heat. When he pinned her wrists and kissed her again, this time rough and demanding, she moaned beneath him.

They didn't speak. Their bodies said everything—claiming, yielding, needing. The storm between them was fire and blood, hunger and reverence. He entered her in a single, powerful thrust, and she cried out—a sound that blended pain with worship. She moved with him, around him, against him, her body slick and ready.

They fought and fucked under stars, beneath the twisted canopy. He flipped her, she clawed his back. She bit his shoulder; he growled into her neck. There was no room for doubt or shame, only sensation. They took from each other without apology, and gave without hesitation.

When they finally came—together—it was a moment not of climax, but of conquest. Of binding. Of fusion.

They collapsed, tangled and filthy, on the raw ground. There were no blankets. No comfort. Just heat. Just them.

"That," Gor'ka whispered, breathless, lips brushing his jaw, "was war and worship both."

He didn't answer. Just held her tighter.

Leopold stared into the fire, the dancing embers echoing the violence still coursing through him. His breath came slow, but the memory of the interrogation burned hotter than the flames. He saw the orc's face—bloodied, blackened, one eye lost to ash and heat. His own hands had done that.

The man he used to be—the quiet one, the one who shied away from confrontation, who laughed nervously at conflict—would've been horrified.

But now? Now the voice inside him called it necessary. Justified. Even righteous.

He would've done worse to us.

Yes. That was true.

He would've taken her.

That thought settled like a stone in his gut.

So he told himself it was protection. He told himself it was strategy.

But deep down, part of him had enjoyed it.

And that, more than the screams, more than the blood, terrified him most of all.

"I tortured him," Leopold said at last. "Held his face in the ash until he screamed."

Gor'ka was quiet. "He would have done worse to us."

He nodded. "Still… I liked it."

Good, the voice was satisfied. You protected your mate. That's all that matters.

"I don't want to be a monster," he said.

You're not. You're becoming. Finally.

He glanced at Gor'ka. She traced circles on his chest with her finger. "You believe that?"

She looked up. "I believe in power. And I believe in you."

He stared into the fire.

"We need a plan," he said finally. "The others—their camp—we can't charge in blind."

"I say we kill them. Quick. Loud."

"No. We draw them out."

She frowned. "How?"

He sat up, mind churning. "We need a distraction," he said. "Something they won't expect."

Gor'ka crouched beside the fire, arms crossed. "I could go in. Loud. Let them see me."

"No," Leopold said quickly. "Too dangerous."

She gave him a look. "You think I can't handle danger?"

"I know you can. That's the problem. You'll rush in, and they'll—" He paused. "They'll try to surround you. Take you down before I can move."

A silence stretched between them.

"Unless," she said, a glint in her eye, "you wait for them to come to me."

Leopold frowned. "A bait tactic?"

Gor'ka nodded slowly. "I let them see me. Wounded. Alone. One of them will try to catch me. Maybe more."

"And you lead them away?"

"To you," she said simply.

Leopold hesitated. The thought of her walking into their sights stirred something primal and protective. "They'll see through it."

She smiled. "Maybe. But they'll chase anyway. You know they will."

He exhaled. "I don't like it."

"You don't have to. You just have to trust me."

His jaw clenched, but he gave a tight nod. "Fine. But when they follow—no mercy."

"No prisoners," she agreed.

They moved then, preparing in silence. She tested her blades. He mapped out a position near the clearing. The wind had shifted slightly—good for sound, good for ambush.

She leaned into him one last time, just before she stepped into the dark. "I'll bring them to you, Grakh'tul."

Tomorrow, there would be blood.

And this time, he would not run.