The first thing Tarran noticed was the throbbing in his skull, sharp and insistent, like someone had taken a hammer to the inside of his head. He groaned, deep and guttural, pressing a hand to his temple as if he could will the ache away. The second thing he noticed was warmth—soft, human warmth—pressed against his chest. His brow furrowed, and for a moment, he lay there, unmoving, the details of the night before slipping through the cracks in his memory like water through his fingers.

The room smelled different from his usual haunts—faintly floral, with a lingering sweetness that cut through the usual musk of ale and sweat. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was unfamiliar. His nose twitched instinctively, trying to place it, when the realization hit him. This isn't my room.

His eyes shot open, bleary and unfocused, adjusting to the dim morning light spilling through the small, square window. He was on a human-sized bed, far too small for his massive frame. One arm was draped over a smaller figure, their back snug against his chest. Tarran's breath hitched as he froze, his gaze traveling down the curve of a shoulder, bare skin, soft hair brushing against his nose.

Who the hell is this?

The memories came in waves, each one more painful than the last, like the hangover was dragging them back kicking and screaming. Zarvyn's voice, cold and resolute, echoing in his mind. The way Zarvyn had walked away, leaving Tarran staring at the empty space where he used to stand, fury and grief twisting inside him until it was too much to bear.

The next memory hit just as hard. Cracking open a barrel of ale back at the Orvak stronghold, drinking himself into a stupor while the other warriors avoided him. Then stumbling down the mountainside, his greataxe slung haphazardly across his back, into the human village at the base of the cliffs, a reckless, drunken idiot looking for anything to distract himself.

His chest tightened as the rest of the night filtered in, hazy but undeniable. The tavern. The humans staring at him, half with fear, half with intrigue. The teasing tone of his own voice, slurring out compliments and half-baked flirtations. And then—her.

His eyes fell back to the figure beside him, and the details began to sharpen. The gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The faint bruises and bite marks at the base of her neck, ones he'd clearly left in his drunken passion. The realization settled in his gut like a stone.

What the fuck have I done?

Tarran sat up slowly, his movements careful, as though any sudden motion might shatter him. His head pounded with the effort, but he ignored it, running a hand through his short black hair. His tusks ached from gritting his teeth too hard, and his mouth was dry, the metallic tang of stale ale clinging to his tongue.

He glanced down at her again, his sharp brown eyes scanning her features, her soft human curves. She looked peaceful, like she belonged here, like she wasn't lying next to an orc who had no business being anywhere near her village, let alone her bed.

She's going to wake up and hate me, he thought bitterly, the weight of his recklessness crushing down on him. His hand hovered over her shoulder for a moment before he pulled it back, unsure of whether he wanted to wake her or slip out before she could.

The soft sound of her breathing filled the silence, and Tarran's chest tightened. A small part of him wanted to stay like this just a little longer, to pretend for one fleeting moment that he hadn't made a complete mess of his life.

But the truth lingered, sharp and unrelenting. The mountain of consequences that waited for him outside this room. His clan. Dravor. The humans in the village. Her.

And then the faintest scent reached his nose, one that sent a chill down his spine. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there—the faint, unmistakable scent of her body. More memories flashed through his mind, her moans, the way she had looked up at him with his cock in her mouth. Tarran could feel his body reacting to the memory.

His stomach dropped. No. No, no, no...

Tarran stood abruptly, his massive frame casting a shadow over the bed as he scrambled to collect his trousers from the floor. He moved with the kind of panicked precision that betrayed his usual confidence, his hands fumbling with the ties as his thoughts spiraled.

You really fucked up this time Tarran, he thought, his jaw clenching. You really fucking did.