Page 13 of The Princess and the Orc

Barbarian. The word made her think of their nights together, of how those massive hands could be so gentle, how he'd brought her pleasure again and again while never taking his own. How he'd whispered poetry in his native tongue against her skin, teaching her the words between kisses.

Though he wasn’t always gentle. He was commanding and always in control. She never thought that would be so attractive. She’d never liked someone giving orders. She was the princess. She gave the orders and others followed them. But he took control of her effortlessly and made her beg for more. Something he hadn’t been willing to give, not yet.

And why hadn’t they consummated the mating? He said they were already mates. Was he waiting for the human ceremony despite professing not to care about it? It was maddening. Much like this conversation she was listening to.

“Perhaps she's ensorcelled,” a third voice suggested. “I heard orcs know dark magics.”

“Or perhaps,” Amalia said loudly, stepping around the pillar, “I chose him because he has shown more honor, intelligence, and genuine nobility than any of you gossiping vipers.”

The ladies, Lady Rosewood, Lady Blackthorn, and Countess Devereux, paled at her appearance. They dropped into hasty curtsies, stammering apologies, but Amalia wasn't finished.

“Drogath has never spoken ill of anyone behind their backs. He treats every person in this castle with respect, from the highest noble to the lowest servant. He's helped improve our defenses, negotiated fair trade agreements, and our marriage has brought peace to our borders.” Her voice rang with conviction. “If that's what you call barbaric, then perhaps we need more barbarians and fewer ‘civilized’ nobles.”

She turned on her heel, leaving them gaping in her wake. But she had barely taken a few steps before a sharp, mocking voice cut through the crowd.

“So the little princess enjoys laying with monsters now.”

The hall went eerily silent. The speaker, Lord Edrich of House Vale, smirked from his seat near the high table, his goblet sloshing slightly as he leaned back. “Tell us, Princess, has he taken you yet? Or is the beast still pretending at civility?” Laughter rippled through his little circle of men, though a few looked uneasy.

Before Amalia could react, Drogath was there.

He moved with a warrior’s speed, closing the distance between them in an instant. The air in the great hall thickened with tension as he lifted the older man effortlessly, despite his larger girth. Drogath’s dark eyes burned with barely restrained fury.

“You dare insult my mate,” Drogath growled, his deep voice sending a shiver through the room.

Edrich’s face turned red, but he forced a smirk, as if he thought he was in control, as if someone would come to his aid. No one moved to assist. “Do you wish to challenge me, beast?”

“If you speak of my mate in such a way again, I will not hesitate. I will not pause. I will destroy you,” Drogath rumbled. His massive hands flexed around the man’s throat, his muscles coiled like a predator waiting to strike. “You insult her, you insult me. And that, Lord Edrich, is something I do not allow.”

The silence stretched. Edrich’s bravado faltered. He looked toward the other nobles for support, but no one spoke. Drogath's reputation in battle was well known. No one in this hall could stand against him.

Amalia’s heart pounded, her breath caught between outrage and something far more dangerous, something warm and flattered and wickedly pleased.

“My lord,” she said softly, stepping beside Drogath and placing a hand on his arm. His muscles were like steel beneath her touch, still thrumming with the urge to kill.

She tilted her chin, her voice carrying through the hall. “He’s not worth it.”

Drogath growled low in his throat, still eyeing Edrich as if deciding whether to crush his throat, anyway.

She pressed her palm against his chest, meeting his gaze with something softer. “Instead,” she murmured, just for him, “let me make it worth your time.”

His attention snapped fully to her. His eyes darkened, the heat in them eclipsing his fury.

“Take me to our bedchambers,” she whispered, loud enough for those closest to hear.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Drogath’s face. Dropping Edrich, who fell to his knees, choking and sputtering, he swept Amalia into his arms, cradling her as if she weighed nothing.

Gasps and murmurs followed them as he strode toward the great doors.

“As my mate commands,” he rumbled, voice rich with promise.

She curled her arms around his neck, her lips brushing his ear. “And this time, no more waiting.”

He let out a deep, pleased growl, his grip tightening around her.

As the doors shut behind them, the last thing she heard was Lady Rosewood’s scandalized “Well, I never!” and Lady Blackthorn’s grudgingly admiring “Lucky girl.”

Lucky, indeed.

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