Page 11 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

This one will be the great winter, when our planet is out of alignment with the sun, plunged into darkness for years.

And Aira will be the key to survival.

Gorak belches to my right, motioning a servant woman for more ale, and downing it. Ulric is to my left, not touching drink, watching the warriors carefully. He always has the pulse of my troops. Now, they are buoyant.

"I say we use the worm as bait. Say we're doing a ransom, draw them into the mountain pass. Then we drop boulders on them from above and take the food for our own, and his castle, too. You know the proud old bastard will want to come to get his prize bitch back."

I bellow out, too loud, "Do not call her that! She is a guest in our village!" Glances are cast my way before the conversation resumes, with one of the warriors producing a wooden flute to play an upbeat melody as the others join in with a drinking song. I take a hearty bite of meat, crunching on the bone and savoring all of it; food is getting harder to come by these days. The soldiers working for Ashbourn have been blocking off our supplies and depleting the game animals in the area. In response, I sent more villagers out to fish at the streams, but even the dried mountain trout can't compare to elk for size and quantity.

Think not of that. Soon, the stores will be bursting with meat.

Eyes go back to the cave behind me, towards my home, and I turn my head.

Aira. She walks in front of Silga, looking like a queen. Her firm, plump breasts are so unlike the taut figures of Orc women, the paints adorning her in bright fiery reds and yellows that match her sunfire hair. Aira keeps her chin up, no longer playing meekly as she was in my cave home, her hands heaven on my sore muscles as she massaged me. All eyes are drawn to her beauty, and I know that though all the Orc warriors hate humans deeply, others will be affected by her fierce beauty as I am. I have to take a deep breath to contain my possessiveness; she is mine alone, existing only for me...

And yet, somehow, I must give her up.

Fully painted, she looks more stunning than ever before—the patterns telling the stories of her life, a clever hunter and fisher who evades the watchful eyes of other hunters, and a protector who guards those weaker than her. She glances to the seat next to me, but I cannot be away from her, not even for a moment. I sit back in my chair, and pat the space between my legs.

Her eyes widen in shock. "Chieftain, I was told I would have the place of honor," she whispers, probably thinking that no one can hear her, not knowing the keen ears of Orcs. Warriors are looking over at me suspiciously. They have never doubted me before, not since I saved the lives of every man, woman and child in our village, not since I modernized our strategies, no longer wasting warriors in full out attacks. They trust me without question in battle...

Rage boils in me with the knowledge that our time together is fleeting, and I cannot look away from her, not for a moment. I raise a brow at her, and she knows that I can grab her and put her between my legs, so without blinking or hesitating, she nestles herself between my legs in front of me, and I wrap my arm around her, pulling her tight against my body. God, but she smells good, the sweet smell of a human woman mixed with the earthy scent of her paints, and I pull her tight against my body, savoring the sensation of her smooth flesh. It's a cruel deception. Soon we'll be apart, and I am only torturing myself with what I cannot have.

"You go too far, Ragnar," snarls Gorak. "You paint a worm up like an Orc and put her on your throne as if she is your queen?"

"I am chieftain. I do as I wish. Is today the day, Gorak? I count you among my most honored warriors. Is today the day you try to become chieftain?" I let my voice rise in volume, bellowing it out so it echoes in the great hall. The wooden flute stops. Serving women stand stock-still like statues with tankards in their hands.

Gorak glances down to the hilt of my blade. It is nothing more than a hilt with a blue-black gemstone in it, and yet he knows how the obsidian blade appears out of nowhere from my thoughts alone, coated in swirling lightning that can cut through Orc-flesh as if he was human.

"No. I follow you always, Ragnar."

"Good! More mead for my warrior!" I yell out, and a man rushes over to fill his mug. Gorak stares straight forward, not smiling as he drinks deep.

6

AIRA

Ishift against the stone seat, the throne of the Orc Chieftain. My feet dangle from it, and he pulls me tight against his body, so that I can feel that huge bulge of his cock pressing against me. It throbs, growing, as he reaches forward to the table and gets a piece of dried fruit, dipping it in honey.

To my shock, in front of all of his warriors, he brings it to my mouth. My cheeks flush red with humiliation and anger as I reluctantly part my lips, letting him press the succulent fruit past my teeth. The taste is sweet and divine, but the shame is overpowering.

He flaunts me before his troops, a broken captive enslaved to his will, a pretty little bird who eats from his hand. Did he recount how he put me over his lap and slapped my backside until I writhed with pain, nearly crying from his discipline? Did he boast that I bathed him in his home, serving him like a good little pet?

Or did he tell them how my pussy got soaking wet when he had me over his lap?

"How is the fruit, Aira?"

"Delicious," I say after chewing and swallowing, closing my eyes to draw out every last flavor and to help ignore the harsh gazes of other Orcs. Fresh fruit is a luxury. I know that if I travel into the city I can trade a handful of apples for enough porridge to sustain me and my brother for a week, but you wish you had the apples when you're chewing on the mealy slop the next day.

It is good, but I suppress a groan as he grabs a piece of red meat with his bare fingers. I don't dare tell him that I can eat myself, because I don't want to give him any excuse to punish me, especially not in front of this crowd. He brings it to my lips, and I try to bite it, but he pulls it away.

"It's hot. Careful," he says, and I don't know if he's trying to humiliate me more or really doesn't want me to burn my tongue. I blow on it and take a bite. God, but it's rich and delicious.

"That's amazing," I say, my mouth watering for more. I’m being polite like my life depends on it. My life is spared—but my dignity won’t be, if he decides to spank me again.

"Mountain goat. The prime cut, the tender meat."

"I'll take the stringy muscles any day," booms out a young Orc, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with his black hair in a mohawk.

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