Chapter 111: The Inventory of the Plains
Hot water sluiced over Elian’s shoulders, washing the chill of the tenth day down the cedar drain grates. He blinked the steam from his eyelashes and dragged a hand down his face. When he opened his eyes, he faced the reality of the Plains Orc standing inches from his knees.
Stripped of her boiled leather and woven grass-cord, Torra lost no intimidation. Without armor, she looked like something the deep steppes had built and refused to soften. She stood near seven feet. Her greenish-brown skin mapped a history of survival. Faded tribal ink spiraled down her thick arms and across her collarbones, broken by the silver ridges of old blade-scars.
She had none of the corseted fragility Oakhaven tailors sold as refinement. Her torso was built for power—a solid core of ribbed muscle flowing into wide hips. Her heavy breasts swayed with her breath, dark aureoles pebbled in the damp heat. Water traced the valley between them, ran over the scarred muscle of her stomach, and vanished into the dark hair between her thighs.
Her thighs flexed as she adjusted her stance, dense with the kind of strength earned by miles, hunger, and hard ground.
She knew he was holding his breath.
"You're staring, clerk," Torra rumbled. She crossed her arms. The tips of her lower tusks caught the lantern light as her mouth curved into a smirk.
Elian swallowed. "I am taking an accurate inventory of the premises."
Torra barked a laugh. The sound bounced off the wet stone walls. "Inventory. Is that what human men call it when their eyes go glassy?"
Before Elian could form a ledger-approved response, Torra reached out. She gripped his shoulder with enough force to make him wince and spun him around on the cedar stool.
"My turn."
She picked up the stiff-bristled scrub brush, worked a thick lather from the lye soap, and drove the block of bristles between his shoulder blades.
Elian gasped. His spine went rigid. "Torra—"
"Quiet, clerk. You have the posture of a dying crow," Torra criticized. She bore down. There was nothing restorative about it. She scrubbed him like rust off a breastplate. "You hunch. You spend the day curled over your books, tallying numbers, and your back knots like cheap rope."
"I am an administrator, not a gladiator," Elian grunted. He gripped the edge of the stool to keep from sliding onto the wet floorstones.
"You are soft," Torra corrected. She dug her knuckles into the base of his neck.
Elian let out a strangled groan. The pressure bordered on agony, but as her fingers kneaded the cramped muscle, an involuntary relief washed through him.
"You build a fortress that holds back a storm," Torra said, her voice vibrating behind his ear. "But you leave your own frame weak. What happens when a merchant refuses your toll, and your wolves are hunting? Do you throw an inkpot at him?"
"I leverage his debt against his guild standing," Elian shot back. He winced as she dragged the brush down his ribs. "And I have Bruna."
Torra snorted. She tossed the brush into the wooden bucket with a clatter, then grabbed Elian by the biceps. Her hands swallowed his arms. She squeezed, testing the density of his muscle, then let go with a disappointed huff.
"Scrawny," she diagnosed. "But the bones are thick. You aren't fragile. Just underutilized."
She delivered a flat, stinging slap to the center of his bare back. Elian jolted forward.
"Stand up," she ordered. "Take the rest of that wool off. You look ridiculous wearing trousers in a bathhouse."
Elian stood. His skin flushed pink from the scalding water and the friction of the brush. He hesitated a fraction of a second before unbuckling his belt and shedding his boots and trousers. He was the provider of the Oaken Hearth. He had stared down mercenary captains and organized dwarven labor strikes. He could stand naked in his own hot spring.
He turned to face her.
Torra evaluated him. Her green eyes tracked the lean, functional lines of his body, lingering on his groin before rising to meet his gaze. She gave a slow nod.
"You'll do."
The compliment was dismissive, yet the heat radiating from her made his pulse hammer.
Torra reached out. Her hand wrapped around the back of his neck. Her grip was warm. Immovable, too. Possessive enough to make his pulse kick. She steered him away from the wash station and toward the edge of the main soaking pool.
"In," she commanded.
Elian stepped down into the steaming water of the stone-lined spring. Heat swallowed him to the chest. It sank into his abused, freshly scrubbed muscles with a heavy lethargy.
Torra stepped in behind him. She displaced a surge of water. A wave lapped over the coping stones and splashed onto the drain grates.
She waded into the center of the pool and sank down with a rumbling sigh that vibrated through the water. She leaned back against the smooth edge, spreading her arms along the coping. The water level rested just beneath her collarbones, allowing the dark crests of her breasts to breach the surface through the mist.
She looked at Elian, who stood a regulated three feet away.
She raised one scarred brow.
"Clerk," Torra said, her tusks flashing in a wicked smile. "Are you going to stand there calculating the volume of the water, or are you going to cross this pool and prove you have a spine under all those rules?"
Elian took a slow breath. The ledger rested safely upstairs. The yard was secure. The choice was his, and the Orcish outrider waiting in the water knew it.
Elian waded through the steaming pool, closing the distance.