Page 5 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

The Orcs argued in their language earlier, after the Chieftain spanked me. One of them, with a scar on his neck and cold green eyes, hates me. I never did anything to him, but he hates me, while the other, a big broad fellow, doesn't seem to think much of me at all.

As I'm jogged up the mountain pass, bouncing against his powerful body, he starts to stride over packed snow and I shiver against him. The three men seem to zig and zag at random, sometimes walking straight through the mountain trails, other times taking detours over rocks and boulders that add time to the trip. When we’re on the exposed face of the mountain, the biting wind chills me to the bone.

I clench my jaw, trying not to show any weakness, hating the feeling of being helpless and out of control, but it's impossible. My every movement is controlled by him, and I'm jolted up and down with every footfall.

How many women has this Orc Chieftain taken up to his mountain home? How many has he ravished up there, in the snowy peaks where no one comes to help you?

I am not like that man. I would not take a woman I did not earn.

That is what he said. I don't know if I believe him. His muscled chest is hard against my legs as I'm over his shoulder, and he doesn't seem to feel cold, but I'm freezing. I can't stop my teeth from chattering, and he sets me down.

"Worms. They can't take the cold," laughs the one who hates me, his lips curled back in a sneer. He speaks in the Common tongue - poorly - so that I can understand his insult.

"I'm fine. I don't need anything," I say, keeping my chin up, but my voice quakes as a cold wind blows through the trail, and I can't speak without shivering. He set me down on a rocky patch, icy against my bare feet, and I step from one foot to the other. The impractical heels fell off while he was carrying me, and I relish the memory of driving one of them into his chest.

I hope it hurts.

If the Orc Chieftain cares that I am freezing, he doesn't show it. A cold wind blows, and I hug my arms to myself, my teeth chattering. There’s nothing around us but inhospitable wilderness, snow covered trails leading up to the ominous peak.

Ragnar walks off the trail, to a boulder nearly as tall as I am. He puts both hands on it, his fingers thick as tree roots gripping the surface, and heaves forward. Sinews ripple across his forearms like coiled serpents, the veins in his biceps throbbing as a guttural grunt escapes his lips. His legs are flexed, huge as tree trunks, all his might pressing forward and inch by inch, the boulder surrenders, yielding to his power and revealing a concealed cavity beneath.

He reaches in and pulls out a huge fur coat, made for an Orc.

So these Orcs aren't as primitive as I thought. This one is a shrewd leader, with hidden stores on the mountain, probably for Orcs escaping patrols.

I'm eager for the coat, but it's bad news—I'd rather he was an idiot beast than a cunning strategist.

I swallow hard, wondering if he'll make me beg for it, or take something else in return. He knows that I'm only valuable to the Lord Ashbourne as a virgin, and he must know of the humiliating inspections, or he'd have taken me as his already, but there's nothing stopping him from making me earn that coat with my mouth. I imagine him grabbing me by the hair, forcing my knees into the packed, cold snow and pressing that huge, warm, throbbing thing down my throat, how he'd grunt and groan until he found his release.

Instead, he walks up to me, draping the huge fur over my shoulders. It was a bear, some time ago.

"Thank you," I say, surprised, and I remember what Lord Ashbourne told me, when he spared my brother.

“Good girl. You will find that I can be quite generous, if you serve your duties well."

I pull the coat close around me.

"I need you alive for the trade," barks out Ragnar, his voice hard. The Orc who hates me chuckles. So that's what this is. Nothing more than keeping the Lord Ashbourne's property safe until he can ransom me.

I hate him endlessly. I hate the cold for making me look weak, for my own failure to hide my shivering, for the thick fur around my body that I did not have the strength to refuse.

Ragnar barks out an order, and the two other Orcs rush forward, while he walks behind me. We must be close. Despite the heavy fur covering my body, I can feel his hungry gaze on me. He knows what my ass looks like, and he's seen his handprint on it. My cheeks flush red with humiliation and something else, when I remember that huge, thick cock of his throbbing against my helpless body, the way he was able to pin me down so effortlessly.

He didn't even try. He could have done anything to me. The thought of those thick lips wrapped around my aching nipples, or those fingers parting my thighs and exposing my private place, or even his hands around my throat, closing, closing, closing... I swallow, my hands trembling, struggling with the shameful desire. Why, why, why! Why do I crave the Orc so badly, and why does my hatred add such an intoxicating edge to my desire?

Each step against the cold ground makes the weak part of me wish he’d pick me up and carry me, and I force it down, embracing the stinging chill against my sure footsteps.

We turn a corner. The other two Orcs are gone. There is a thin passage between the rock face, and Ragnar points, telling me to continue. I do, going sideways through the small passageway, until I get to the end and see the Orc village itself, hidden in a mountain valley.

It is nothing like I expected. I thought this species was nothing more than primitive brutes, and now I know the truth.

The homes are built into the valley side themselves, constructed of bricks of stone that are so well placed together I can barely see the edges. There is a river flowing through the middle of the village, with a stone bridge crossing over it. Children, who would be nearly as tall as me, are playing in the snow as if the cold doesn’t affect them, throwing snowballs and wrestling, others making giant snowmen – no, snoworcs. I watch in shock as a teenager in nothing more than a loincloth dives into the stream, cutting through it and jumping out the other side, while two Orc women yell at him, waving fishing rods angrily. The Orc women wear the same loincloth style as the men, but their bodies are painted with intricate designs, each unique. It must takes hours. One has a swirling spiral of red, perhaps done with some kind of clay or ink found nearby, over the entirety of her back.

Stone hewn steps go up the mountainside to a huge cavern lit by torches, lined with furs on the walls. From my vantage point, I can see long wooden tables, where Orcs are drinking from stone tankards. I could hear nothing before going through the mountain pass, but now the sounds of raucous enjoyment hit me like a wall, when it goes silent.

Everyone turns to look at their Orc Chieftain…

And the human he has with him.

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