Page 21 of The Princess and the Orc

Frederich’s grip on Amalia tightened. “Oh, he won’t be coming.”

Basinger smiled. “A convenient accident. Tragic, really. That leaves only his grieving daughter to inherit the throne.” His gaze flicked toward her, calculating. “And a new king to guide her.”

A chill shot through Amalia’s bones.

Her father was gone?

No. It couldn’t be. He was supposed to be rallying the army, supposed to be safe. Her vision blurred, fury and anguish tangling into something sharp, something unbreakable.

“My husband is Drogath!” she shouted, her voice raw with emotion.

Frederich only sneered. “Not for long. As soon as you’re a widow, you and I will be married. Then we’ll see how long the marriage lasts.”

The implication sent ice through her veins.

Before she could respond, a soldier sprinted toward them, his breath ragged. “Your Highness, the orcs. They’re waiting for us.”

Frederich’s smirk widened. “Of course they are.” He pulled Amalia tighter against him, the shift pressing the hilt of his dagger against her bound hands. “But they’ll surrender the moment they see who I have.”

Kicking his horse into motion, he led his men forward. The army parted before him, soldiers shifting uneasily as they caught sight of their captive princess. Basinger fell in beside him, his own smile thin, pleased.

The column moved through the valley, toward the narrow mouth of the pass where the orcs lay in wait. The moment they reached the front line, Frederich yanked his horse to a halt.

Then cold steel kissed Amalia’s throat.

She froze.

Frederich’s voice rang out, cutting through the stillness.

“Orc!” he bellowed. “I have your mate. If you want her to live, show yourself.”

The battlefield held its breath.

Amalia’s pulse hammered, but she refused to tremble. She knew Drogath would come for her.

And the moment he did, there would be hell to pay.

* * *

Drogath's blood ran cold as he watched Frederich parade Amalia before his army. She sat rigid in front of him on his horse, her wrists bound, her face pale but composed. Pride and rage warred in Drogath's chest, pride at her courage, rage at seeing his mate in enemy hands. Behind Frederich, Councillor Basinger sat astride his own mount, looking smugly satisfied. The betrayal clearly cut Amalia deeply. Drogath could see it in the way she wouldn't look at her father's councillor.

“Surrender your army,” Frederich called out, one arm wrapped possessively around Amalia's waist, “and I might let your pretty whore live!”

Drogath noted that the prince said nothing about letting the orcs live, not that he expected they would survive the day if they yielded the field. No, the prince would rampage through his people, slaughtering all who stood before him.

“Don't surrender,” Amalia called out, her voice carrying clearly across the battlefield. Frederich yanked her hair in warning, making her gasp, tears springing to her eyes. But she remained steadfast, fixing him with an even gaze.

Drogath took a step forward, his hands raised in apparent surrender. “Let her go, and we can discuss terms.”

“Drop your weapon first,” Frederich demanded.

Slowly, deliberately, Drogath lowered his battle axe to the ground. He could hear the murmurs of confusion from his warriors behind him, but he kept his eyes fixed on Amalia's. There was something in her expression.

She caught his gaze and made a subtle movement with her bound hands. Understanding flashed between them. His mate wasn't as helpless as she appeared.

“Kneel,” Frederich commanded, clearly relishing his moment of triumph.

Drogath began to lower himself, watching as Frederich's attention focused on his submission. The moment the man's grip on Amalia loosened, she brought her fists up over her shoulder and into his throat with all her strength. As he wheezed and loosened his hold further, she threw herself from the horse.

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