Page 27 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

Because I can’t be the reason all those Orcs die.

"Gorak. Tell Ragnar I don't want him to come to me. That he was a mistake. I don't love him. I don't want him. We're not meant to be together."

Gorak's lips curl back, showing white fangs. "There is only one way to become Chieftain, little worm. If Ragnar has breath in his body, he will come to you, even if it damns us all. There are many warriors who do not approve of his foolish lust for you, worm. He does not survive the night." He takes pleasure in telling me that he'll kill Ragnar, pleasure in destroying the one hope I have.

"No!"

"Oh yes," he says, and gives me a kick with his strong, booted foot. I stumble down the mountainside, falling, my body rolling until I rest in the tundra in front of a huge boulder.

Two men on horseback with long lances gallop towards me, circling me, hard eyes staring down. I look up at the mountain, and see the back of Gorak, his green flesh red and mottled where he was burned, as he sprints back up the mountain.

"Who the fuck are you?" snarls one of the soldiers.

"Aira. I am promised to Lord Ashbourne," I say, as the rest of the troops approach. The army is over three hundred strong, all wearing the colors of Ashbourne, the blackness with the twin red eyes staring out from their hearts. All those eyes seem to be staring at me without pity.

There is a carriage, drawn by no horses, powered by the infernal technology that only those blessed by the King have access to. The door opens, and Lord Ashbourne descends, stiff in black armor, flanked by two guards. My leg is sore from the fall, and I stay on the ground as he stands over me.

"Lord Ashbourne. Please, you've got what you wanted. The Orc Chieftain gives me up, as a peace offering."

His cold gaze stares over the paints on my body. I try to pull my fur coat over myself, but he reaches down with the butt of a rifle, opening it, so that my naked, painted body is displayed. "You've turned savage, bitch. You're worthless to me. Today is the day I rid myself of the Orcs."

Panic fills me.

I look at the men with the King's insignia. They are clad in purple, gleaming armor, their heads covered by helmets. I can see only their eyes through polished glass in their helmets, and they have long, thin rifles and blades at their belts that gleam with black energy.

"The Chieftain won't fight anymore. He's backed down, and he's given me back to you, to show his submission. Please. They will never go against the King again." I plead to them, the true power.

"Ignore her. We press on," states Ashbourne, his voice cold, his gaze upwards.

The King's men look at each other, then one speaks in a low voice into his wrist. He has some sort of watch, but it is black and gleaming. A communication device? Do they have a way to speak with the Capital from this distance?

The leader of the King's men, who has a crown insignia on his breastplate, steps closer to the Lord Ashbourne. "The King accepts. We will not waste any more resources on this problem."

"No! I was promised!"

The leader's eyes narrow. "You told us the Orcs were primitive savages, an easy rebellion to crush. We've lost two of our drones based on your bad intel. Do you understand that each one is worth more than your head? You'll be paying for this mistake for a long time, Lord Ashbourne."

I've never seen anyone dare to speak to the Lord like this. His face is a rictus of anger and humiliation, and his eyes turn to me, cold and hard.

"Kill the savage," he snarls to one of his guards. The man looks down at me, hesitating, not wanting to execute a woman. With a hard swallow, his grip tightens around his sword as his face turns pale.

"No," says the leader of the King's men. "You went to the village and took her as your bride, by the laws of our King. She will be married to you by the end of the week."

It's the first punishment to Lord Ashbourne, the first punishment for costing the King dearly in the attack. Ashbourne turns, fuming, and stalks into his carriage, leaving me on the ground alone.

This is to be my fate.

To be the hated bride of a man who I caused humiliation to, while the one I love is cut down by traitors in his own home.

17

AIRA

Ishiver in Lord Ashbourne's bed. There's a bruise on my leg, a deep purple that mixes with the red and orange paints, making the fox face on my thigh ugly, like the corpse of an animal caught in a trap and forgotten. He pulled the ring from my finger roughly, twisting it hard, pocketing it in his black robes.

He is in the bathroom, and I can see him in front of the sink, washing his face with ice-cold water. He changed from his armor, into black robes. His posture is rigid, standing tall and thin, his short cropped grey hair on his skeletal skull.

His room is neat and spartan, as cold and impersonal as the Lord himself. I'm on his bed, but I dare not even wrap the covers around me. He stripped me of my fur robe, and I didn't fight back as he took it and threw it into the fire. The brackish stink of smoke fills the room, and his nostrils twitch in distaste, as if the smell is coming from me. There is no warmth in this place despite the fire, no laughter, no vitality. It is a hollow shell of a room, just like Lord Ashbourne himself.

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