Ambrose woke to the screeching of scrub jays. It was barely light, and the dawn mist blanketed the clearing with a blueish haze. The previous night’s fire was reduced to dregs of ash with a few wisps of smoke trailing away.
Ambrose’s hip and shoulder ached from lying on the hard ground. He sat up, and more blankets fell off than he’d had the night before. Kilgore must have thrown his own bedroll and rabbit fur blanket over him in the night. Ambrose flushed, touched by the gesture. It was more kindness than he expected from his own mother, and certainly more than he deserved after his foolishness with the wisps. He rubbed the luxurious fur between his fingers. He’d always pictured Kilgore as brave and determined, but never pictured him tender-hearted as well.
He crawled out from under the blanket and got to his feet, the morning chill quickly invigorating him. The tips of his long ears were numb with cold and he cupped a hand over his nose and mouth to warm himself with his breath.
Kilgore saddled their horses with a chunk of pork jerky dangling from his mouth. He chomped on the meat while he attached their packs. His breath puffed visibly from his nostrils, but he seemed unaffected by the cold.
“G’morning,” Ambrose said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Kilgore smirked at him. “Nice hair.”
Ambrose reached up to touch his head. His shoulder-length hair had become a tangled bird’s nest in the night. He started combing his fingers through, and Kilgore threw him a chunk of jerky. The adage “hunger is the best spice” proved true. The meat was hard as leather and took forever to chew, but his mouth watered for it.
Kilgore began buckling himself into his breastplate. “Let me help,” Ambrose said, eager to make himself useful. He’d learned how to do this for his father when he was still alive.
Ambrose cinched the straps and worked the buckles with practiced fingers. His breath caught in awe as Kilgore’s massive shadow fell over him. The top of Ambrose’s head didn’t quite reach the orc’s shoulder and he stood close enough for Ambrose to savor his warm masculine scent…
Ambrose counseled himself to be professional. He shouldn’t take advantage of the moment and touch Kilgore unnecessarily. But the idea proved too much temptation. He stroked a finger down the orc’s thick lateral muscles and shivered pleasantly at the feel of hard ridges hidden beneath Kilgore’s linen shirt. Ambrose thought he could get away with the caress unnoticed, hoping it would be mistaken for a slip of the finger, but Kilgore looked down as soon as he did it.
Ambrose flushed and kept his eyes focused on his task. “S-sorry.”
“For what?” Kilgore asked.
Ambrose shook his head to dismiss the topic. Maybe it was just a coincidence the orc looked down when he did. “Thank you for the blanket.”
Kilgore cleared his throat and shifted on his feet. “No problem,” he mumbled.
Ambrose stepped back to admire his work. The orc looked powerful in his armor, like a real hero.
“We’re a few hours’ ride from the falls,” Kilgore said. “The gyle will be there.”
Ambrose’s stomach clenched in fear, but he kept a straight face. “I’m ready.”
Kilgore caught Ambrose’s eye with an intense gaze. His eyes were a lovely, rich brown. “You can run. I won’t blame you. I’ll say you disappeared in the night.”
Ambrose’s heart fell. “You have so little faith in me?”
Kilgore shook his head. “You don’t have to die. You’ve got something to live for.”
Ambrose drew his brows together. “And you don’t?”
Kilgore held his gaze, steady and unflinching. Ambrose realized that was his answer.
“Stop trying to get rid of me,” Ambrose said. “It’s the King’s orders.”
Kilgore rolled his eyes a little at the mention of the King. Perhaps he really thought the King wanted him dead. Or he respected Irial’s authority more than her father’s.
“I’m going with you,” Ambrose insisted. He drew himself up to full height, but the effect felt lost when the orc towered well over a foot taller.
COLLAPSE 
