Page 4 of The Orc King's Bride

I shake my head, my mind replaying the bloody scene outside the kingdom’s walls where Sloane was apprehended. “She is just a tiny thing. Yet she is also cunning and fights like the fiercest of warriors.”

“This is hard to believe,” Renowlf says. “Did she use some sort of high-tech, off-world weapon?”

“No. Just a single dagger.”

“And she is under house arrest rather than in your dungeon? There must be more to this story.” Renowlf's eyes narrow. “What are you not telling us, Dex?”

I hesitate, struggling to voice the words that could change everything.

Finally, I confess. “My cockspikes have emerged for her, Ren. I do not know whether to punish the human spitfire for her crimes…or take her to my bed.”

Chapter 4

Sloane

I’m reelingfrom the encounter with King Dexari. The way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me, the way his presence filled the room, making it hard to breathe…I’ve never experienced anything like it before.

My damp panties are proof that my hormones want to take the wheel. Not surprising since our sexual chemistry is off the charts. But my gut is screaming that the orc king is dangerous in ways I can’t afford to ignore.

The sound of a key turning in the lock again followed by a knock on the door jolts me out of my thoughts, and I instinctively tense. Is Dexari back already? Doubtful, since he didn’t knock last time.

When the door opens, an older orc female steps into the room, carrying a tray of food. Her drab robe, covering her from neck to feet, looks like something my granny would wear.

She greets me with a respectful nod. “Mistress Sloane.”

I blink in surprise at the title. Mistress? I’ve been called many things—slave, wretch, lowling, human—but that's a new one.Wary, I eye the orc as she sets the tray down on the dining table. She has a sturdy build and a no-nonsense air about her. Her gray-streaked black hair is pulled back in a tight knot, and her eyes are sharp but not unkind.

“I am Mornah, King Dexari’s maid.”

She gives me a quick, appraising look, as if trying to gauge my character. Then, to my surprise, she offers a small, encouraging smile. It’s a simple gesture that surprises me. Kindness is not something I've come to expect since my abduction, especially not from strangers.

Part of me wants to keep my guard up, to not trust anyone in this strange new world. Another part of me longs for an ally, someone who can fill me in on the ins and outs of life here. “Hi, Mornah. I’m Sloane, King Dexari’s prisoner.”

Mornah chuckles, a warm, rolling sound. “The guards warned me about your sharp tongue—and your skill with a blade.”

Grinning, I raise my hands in mock surrender. “You’re safe with me. Look, no knives.”

“I apologize for the late delivery of your morning meal. The king asked me to bring it to you myself, and other duties held me up. It will not happen again.”

“Don’t apologize, Mornah.” Her regret seems genuine, which makes me angry on her behalf. “You’re a slave, just like me. Bringing me breakfast is just another burden on your already busy day.”

“Slave?” She shakes her head. “Ichooseto serve King Dexari, Mistress, just like I choose to serve you at his request.”

She’s not his slave? Interesting. “I didn’t mean to offend you. In my experience, I just assumed…well, never mind. Thank you for bringing my breakfast. I appreciate it.”

Mornah waves off my thanks as she moves toward the wardrobe. “After you eat, perhaps you would like to change into something more suitable for palace life.”

She opens the wardrobe to reveal several long robes similar to what she’s wearing, although the fabrics aren’t drab like hers but bright and colorful. They also look softer and more flowing than her utilitarian style. They’re pretty, I suppose, if you’re into that sort of thing. Which I’m totally not.

“I’ve never been much of a girly-girl, and those dresses look a little…heavy for my taste. Maybe you could find me a clean pair of pants and a tunic to wear.”

“It is customary for females to dress in robes when in the palace,” Mornah explains, her tone gentle but firm. “Especially in the presence of the king.”

The thought of putting on one of those flowing robes irritates me. It’s not just about the style—it’s about what it represents.

Submission to the orc king.

I cross my arms defensively, planting my feet firmly on the ground. “I’m good with what I’m wearing.”

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