Page 18 of The Princess and the Orc

His mate had ridden out of the valley, away from him, away from the promise that had bound them together.

Finally, he shoved aside his grief, strapping on his weapons with mechanical precision. Whatever pain gnawed at his chest had to be buried. War did not wait for broken hearts. He stepped from the tent, shoulders squared, face unreadable, as he strode toward the assembled warriors. Korroth was already waiting, flanked by the elders, his scarred face twisted with amusement.

“No mate?” Korroth’s voice echoed with mockery. “The human abandon you already? A shame. I was looking forward to taking her from you when I claimed the throne.”

Drogath’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his claws curling against the leather-wrapped hilt. He forced his rage into a slow, simmering burn. The elders were watching, waiting for weakness, for proof that he was nothing more than a hot-blooded warrior unfit for rule. He would not give them that.

“I don’t see your army, cousin.” His voice was steady, cold as tempered steel.

Korroth gave a lazy shrug. “They’ll be here. Unlike your mate, running from you as we speak. I wonder how far she’ll go before she tells the humans what a monster you are.” His lips curled, his tusks glinting. “You may have lost before the battle even begins.”

Drogath’s gut twisted, but he refused to let the words strike deep. Instead, he turned to the gathered chiefs and elders, raising his voice over the murmur of the warriors.

“They will come,” he said, not just to them, but to himself. He had to believe it. “We ride now. We must take higher ground before the enemy solidifies their position.”

The response was immediate. The orcs slammed their fists over their hearts, their war cry splitting the air. They stomped their feet in unison, the force of it rattling the earth beneath them, shaking the dust from the rocks. The sound of a thousand warriors roaring for blood should have filled him with fire, should have made his heart thunder with purpose.

But his heart was hollow.

He had spent his life fighting for his people, for his father’s lost legacy, for the crown that had been stolen from him.

And yet, as he looked out over the sea of warriors ready to die for him, all he could think about was a lone figure on horseback, riding away.

ChapterEleven

Amalia rode blindly, allowing Shergar to follow the guard ahead of her, the rhythmic pounding of hooves the only sound in the eerie quiet. Another guard followed behind, a shadow at her back, while the third scouted ahead, his keen gaze sweeping the darkened landscape for threats. She barely registered their presence, lost in the storm of her own thoughts.

They worried about leaving the safety of the clan’s stronghold, even with war marching toward them. They feared being caught out in the open. Unprotected. Vulnerable. But she feared something far worse. Remaining in a place where she had been so cruelly deceived, used like a piece in a game she hadn't even known she was playing.

How could Drogath have lied to them all?

The question burned in her chest, sharp as a dagger. If he had only spoken to her father, explained the orcs' plight, her father would have listened. He would have understood. Drogath could have saved her, not trapped her with an oath that bound her to him, irrevocable and unbreakable. Her father would have granted Drogath anything if he had only asked. But now—now she was condemned to a half-life. Even if Drogath died in battle, she would never be free. No other man would marry her, not with the stain of a broken vow upon her. The throne would wither with her, barren and unclaimed.

Her hands clenched the reins.

And yet, the thought of belonging to someone else made her stomach twist with something far worse than anger.

Drogath had betrayed her. That was undeniable. But had he truly deceived her in everything? He had been fierce, yes, stern and commanding. But he had also been protective, shielding her from danger, defending her honor time and again. He had been careful with her, mindful of her comfort in ways she had never expected from a warlord.

Even when he had punished her, her face burned at the memory. He had not harmed her. And she had enjoyed it.

Mostly.

Her ladies-in-waiting had whispered of men who took no care with their wives, of nights filled with pain instead of pleasure. Not all women enjoyed the marital bed, they had said. Some endured it. Some feared it.

Drogath had made certain she enjoyed it.

More than that, he had given her something she hadn’t even realized she craved. Freedom. Power. She had not been just a princess in his arms. She had been a queen.

And then there was Frederich.

A chill ran through her. She had not wanted to believe the things her maid had said about the prince, about the frightened, tear-streaked maids who avoided his gaze, the whispers of his hands wandering where they did not belong. She had dismissed them at the time, too caught up in her own hopes for an advantageous marriage. But now, she wondered. Had Drogath saved her from more than just the brigands?

“Your Highness?”

Amalia blinked, realizing she had pulled Shergar to a stop without meaning to. The two guards flanked her, their eyes cautious.

“Do you need to rest?” Captain Crispin asked, his brow furrowed.

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