Page 30 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

"In the robe. On the bed."

Ragnar pushes Ashbourne to the ground. "You move an inch, I'll take your head off."

He rushes to the robe, opening it. He finds the black ring that lets me understand the Orcs, as well as they iron key. He uses the key to unlock the clasps around my wrists and legs, sliding the ring back on my finger gently. I rub where the hard iron scraped me, and I want Ragnar to hold me, to hug me, but we're not safe. Not yet.

We're trapped in the top of the citadel. Ragnar evaded the patrols and scaled the walls, but he won't be able to do it with me on his back. He's damned us both by coming here.

Ragnar turns to me. "He's right. The only thing I cared about was getting to you. I don't have a way out." His voice is low, rumbly, his lips drawing back to show his sharp teeth.

I take the razor blade in my hand. "I do."

"Using that on me will only get you both killed," says Lord Ashbourne. He's sitting, but the panic is gone from him. He looks weak, and old, but his head is up. His throat is red from Ragnar's fingers, but he knows we have no way of getting out of the fortress alive.

"Cover his mouth," I say. Ragnar moves like a bolt, his huge frame liquid as he wraps his hand around Lord Ashbourne's mouth. Ashbourne tries to scream, but nothing comes out but a gurgle. "He's not going to like what I'm about to say."

I stand, holding the razor blade in my steady hand. "I'm going to carve your name into his chest."

"What will it do?" asks Ragnar.

I grit my teeth. "The only thing Ashbourne fears is looking weak. The King will not allow a Lord marked by an Orc to rule. He'll lose his position. His power. Oh, he can yell and alert his guards when we leave. But before we die, we'll tell them to look at his chest. Maybe he'll hide it for some time, but people talk. Sooner or later, the King will learn that he's not fit to rule."

Lord Ashbourne is trying to shake his head, his eyes panicked, but Ragnar holds him tight, easily.

"I'll do it. You're not a brute, Aira. Let me do this," he says, and draws his blade. From that hilt, the blue-black lightning blade extends, a dull hum as the gem in the hilt seems to drink in the dying light of the burning fire.

Ragnar carves his name in Lord Ashbourne's chest in huge letters, the blade cauterizing the wound instantly, until from his nipple to his belly button, he has the word clearly visible, the skin red and burnt. He can't shriek with Ragnar's hand on his mouth, and he sweats, passing out.

Ragnar waits, patient, until Ashbourne blinks awake to the horror of his life.

"If you go to war with us, if you even send one more patrol, I'll send a messenger to the King himself and tell him you've got my name on you. He'll know you are too weak to be a Lord in his command."

Lord Ashbourne's eyes go cold with hate, but he knows he is broken. "Damn you. Damn you and your little whore," he says, weakly, and Ragnar closes his hand into a fist, ready to slam it into his face.

"No. He's broken. He won't go against us, you know it, Ragnar."

"Now open the safe."

Ashbourne stands, unsteady. He walks to a painting of a man on horseback and pulls the painting open, showing a steel safe. His hand shakes as he puts in the combination, and it opens.

The glow of the fire illuminates the mound of gold and jewels.

"Bag," says Ragnar.

"In the bottom drawer," says Ashbourne weakly, rubbing his hand on his bare skin, wincing as he touches the letter R that is huge on his chest. I open the bottom drawer and take out a large sack, which Ragnar fills with bounty.

"Call your men to a meeting. All of them. Every last guard. I was nearly seen coming in, and I won't be seen going out. You'd be able to kill us, Ashbourne, by raising the alarm—but before we die, I'll let everyone know that you bear my name on your body."

Lord Ashbourne shivers. Then his eyes get wet, his lips quivering in fear. "I'll call them," he says, and I know he won't betray us, not when it would make him look so weak and foolish he could never be allowed to reign.

"Put on your robe, Ashbourne," I say, my voice cold. The old man is broken, like a corpse that doesn't know it's dead yet, all the color lost in his skin. He pulls on the robe with shaky fingers, closing it, hiding the shameful letters on his chest. “The village tribute. It will be halved. As long as you rule, it will be halved,” I say. “And if it’s not, we’ll send a messenger to the King.”

“Okay.” One word, subdued, all the fight gone from him.

Then he opens the door, and walks out, closing it behind him. He walks like an old man.

I watch from the window, waiting, the tension growing in my chest, dread pooling as I imagine him sacrificing everything just to take us down, but then a guard runs up the stairs of the outer walls, barking out orders.

Just like that, every guard follows him down the steps and into the castle. They look confused, but they shrug, not caring that much, just following orders.

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