Page 29 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

On the sink is a stone bowl of thick cream, and a long straight razor. Water streams down from the roof, and I grab soap, scrubbing desperately at my body until my skin turns pink, the paints slowly fading.

I'll slit his throat, but then his guards will find me, blood on my hands, and I'll be flayed alive. That is the fate of any peasant who revolts against their Lord. It would be quicker to use the blade against my own wrists. I remember the cut that Ragnar made on my hand, the sweetness of that pain. I'll think of that, when I end it all.

Tears fill my eyes. I don't know if the man I loved is alive or dead, and life is so empty. Alive, all I have to look forward to is a lifetime of captivity.

I can't make that life have meaning. But my death can.

I scrub every last inch of paint from my body and look at myself in the mirror. My golden hair framing my face, my eyes hard and staring at myself, not knowing if I have the strength to do what must be done, when I look at every inch of my body and see those red and orange paints in my mind's eye, each line that was carefully drawn on by Silga. A clever protector. That is what she drew on me, but I've put myself in a trap there's no getting out of.

I take the razor blade and slip it under the pillow, leaning back in the bed, the cold wind blowing through the windows and making my flesh goosebump. The blanket has turned to dust, the air clearing.

An hour has passed, darkness falls, and the door opens.

It's not Lord Ashbourne. It's two big, burly guards in his black colors. I try to get up from the bed, but they've grabbed me, their hands rough on my arms as they clamp iron handcuffs around me, tying both arms to the bedframes so that I am helpless. Next, they clasp my ankles without speaking, so that my legs are spread. I feel no shame in my nudity, fiery rage filling me as I kick, but it's no use. The guards leave without speaking, and Ashbourne walks in, closing the door softly behind him.

He looks me up and down, his gaze settling on my breasts, down to my slit, and back up to my eyes. I snarl at him, and he walks into the bathroom.

"Just as I thought. You are a savage," he says. "Now where did you hide it? Orcs are stupid brutes. Under the bed, perhaps?" He kneels down, running his hands again the wooden floor. He rises up. "Perhaps under the pillow?" He reaches under and comes back with the long, sharp razor.

"What were you planning to do with this?"

"Fuck you," I say, and he brings the razor blade to my throat. Panic fills me. All my bravery is lost as pure terror fills my being, reducing me to a trapped animal, a fox caught in an iron trap.

"What was your plan then? To slit my throat? To cut it open? Oh, it wouldn't take much. Just a little...flick of the wrist," he says, touching the blade against my neck. I freeze, not moving an inch, as he slides it against my skin, cutting me ever so slightly. He disrobes with one hand, and to my horror, his thin cock is fully hard, engorged at the feeling of power he gets from having the blade at my throat.

"Not so brave now, are we? Where's that filthy tongue of yours?" he snarls and presses his fingers into my mouth. I want to bite down, but I can't anger him, not any more, and my cheeks flush red with pain and fear as he takes my tongue and pulls it out. "Should I cut this filthy tongue of yours out?"

He lets go of my tongue, dropping the razor blade next to me. "Perhaps you will be more fun than I expected. I'm going to train you, Aira. I'm going to train you until the only thing you care about is my pleasure. I'm going to break you down, day by day, until you accept your place." He positions himself in front of me, ready to thrust, a cold, hard look in his eyes, when I see movement to the right.

Hands. Hands on the windowsill. Big, green hands, then Ragnar's unmistakable face, staring through the window. He pulls himself into the room silently. For a second, I think I am imagining it, when I smell his deep, masculine musk. There is soot on his body, sweat and burn marks on his arm, and the giant of an Orc steps in silently, his feet bare. He fills the entire window, muscles rippling on his bare chest, and I have never seen such hatred and cold focus in his eyes.

Lord Ashbourne turns his head, his brows furrowing, and Ragnar is on him. His hand is on his mouth, pulling him away from me, his other hand on his throat as he lifts him into the air.

Ashbourne gasps, panic in his eyes, as Ragnar slowly crushes his throat, his grip tightening. He looks at me, pleading in his eyes, blinking erratically, trying to say something, but only a muffled gasp comes out.

"Let him speak," I gasp out, my voice weak.

Ragnar's eyes are filled with fury. His grip clenches, then releases. "You scream, you're dead," he says, putting Ashbourne down. Ashbourne's legs buckle, and he nearly falls, but Ragnar holds him up.

"Wait, wait. We can make a deal," he pleads.

"There's no deal to be made."

"You got over the walls. I don't know how, but there was no..." Lord Ashbourne clears his throat. He's terrified, but his mind is working quickly. "No alarm. You think you can get back over with her on your back? Even if you kill me, you'll be seen."

"I'll take that risk."

"Wait. Wait. Just. Wait. You don't need to do this. My safe. I've got money. Lots of money. Gold, jewels, you can trade for enough food to keep your tribe fed for decades."

"If I can't get out of here with her on my back, I won't be able to get out with money. Tell me something useful, Ashbourne, or I'll kill you."

"I'll call my guards off. I will. You can leave, with her, and anything you want."

My breath has slowed. I was hyperventilating, my head swimming. "He's lying. Ragnar, the second we're out the window, he'll sound the alarm."

"Not if he's dead." Ragnar snarls out the word, and Lord Ashbourne's pale, skeletal face turns ghostly white.

"Where's the key to those locks?" Ragnar asks.

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