Page 32 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

"Don't worry about that. Ragnar will do the rest," she says, a sly smile on her face.

"What does that mean?"

"The final part of the ceremony. The cut on your hand binds you together as King and Queen. But you are not yet his Mate. Every warrior will watch the honored union."

My eyes widen in shock. Silga cocks her head. "It is nothing to be ashamed of. It is something of beauty."

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Of course not. Why?"

"I've just…I was picturing it here," I say, motioning to the furs. I'd pictured it, a hundred times over, wishing for Ragnar's strength, his possessive, powerful arms around me as I forgot everything.

"If you wish, I can tell Ragnar that you cannot. You're a human. People will understand."

"Are you going to be there?"

"Of course. Ragnar is a being of pure power, and you are beautiful. Witnessing the two of you will be art. Or do you wish me to avert my eyes?" Her brows furrow, trying to bridge the gap of customs.

I take in a huge breath. "No. If I am to be worthy of the allegiance of warriors, I must abide by your customs. I will do it."

Silga's proud grin tells me I made the right choice, even as the shudder runs up and down my spine.

Being with Ragnar alone is already too intense to handle. The way his tongue devours me, his huge, powerful hands gripping my body and groping me, the scent of the beastly man overwhelming my senses...

He's going to claim me as his, forever, while the hot, hungry eyes of the Orcs watch.

19

RAGNAR

Isit on my throne, Aira to my right, in a newly made throne sized for a human, built of pine in Tusk's workshop. Her paints are reds and golds, done by Silga, and there is a new marking around her neck, a necklace of silver painted blades. My fox has a bite to her. She has a striking regality to her, her shoulders back, head high. Aira is my Queen, and I am her King.

The two oxen slain in the attack are roasting over the fire, the smell of meat and fat filling the great hall. They were washed clean of the chemical fire that took their lives, and we will not waste their bodies.

I think back to the year before, the winter when the gnawing hunger filled our bellies, strong Orcs turned to skin and bone from the starvation. Never again. My tribe will feast, a feast that will never stop, and I will swell our numbers. Children's laughter will fill the village, as new families grow in the prosperity.

Four Orc cooks were tending to the roasting oxen, but they have left.

This ceremony is for the warriors only. To pledge allegiance and then to witness our bond together, the King and Queen united forever.

I look over at Aira, taking in her beauty, and all I can imagine is her belly swelling up with my child, her breasts full and laden with milk. It is the only thing I crave. The fires in the hall are built high, flames dancing over the heavy wooden table and igniting her paints, making her glow. Every inch of her body is perfection. If it was not for her sharp mind, I would be dead in Ashbourne's castle, a man on a suicide mission whose only thought was to save my mate.

It is a night for celebration, and mourning, for the four Orcs who died in the attack, and even for Gorak, who died by my hand. He was a traitor, but in his life, he fought well for me, and I gave him the funeral pyre. His bones will be laid to rest in the caves deep below by his father.

The only sound is the spit of fat dripping from the oxen into the fire, the crackle of wood. Extending from our thrones to the entrance of the great hall are my men and women, their axes and swords on their backs.

Forty of the Orc warriors of my tribe are standing in a long line in front of me. I clear my throat, and they begin.

One by one, they walk up to Aira and kneel. She extends the black ring, and they kiss it gently. They will accept our rule. On the table in front of me is the bounty I took from Ashbourne, gold gleaming in the light of the fire. Coins of gold and silver, emeralds and sapphires, a pile fit for a dragon that will secure the future of my tribe for eternity.

The final Orc in the line is the young one who raised his weapon to Aira. If it was not for her mercy, I would have taken his head from his neck. His arm is in a sling. He kneels quickly, kissing the ring, and looks up. "I'm sorry," he says.

"I accept," answers Aira in Orcish. There there are smiles on the faces of my warriors, and I swell with pride. She learned her first words of our language.

When the procession is over, I address my troops.

"We will trade with the Southern villages. We will have a herd of our own, that we do not depend on the seasonal movements of animals. Tusk. Come forward."

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