Page 8 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

My mind is racing.How am I going to get out of here?

“Did you get it in battle with Lord Ashbourne's men?"

Despite being completely relaxed, his hand darts up so fast I can barely see the movement, the waters splashing as his fingers wrap around my wrist like iron bands. "You will not press me for details," he says through gritted teeth, standing up from the bathwater and releasing me. Water cascades down his body, dripping between his abs, the Orc Chieftain gleaming as he steps out of the tub. His green eyes are fixed on me with an intensity I cannot bear.

Will this be enough to warrant another punishment? Alone, in his cavern home with none of his soldiers watching, there would be nothing to stop his brutal desires from consuming me.

"The waters are hot enough for you. I will send a woman to prepare you for the banquet."

He strides away, to the mass of furs where he sleeps. In the wall, there are shelves carved directly into the stone, smoother than what any human could have created. Ragnar pulls a loincloth on himself violently, but it can't contain his fully erect manhood, which snakes down his leg. He does not look at me. He stares at the shelves, as if trying to forget I exist, but his nostrils flare.

Is it true that the Orcs can taste a human's emotions?

Can he smell the tortured, shameful way my body is reacting to him? It makes my cheeks flush red in humiliation as he grabs a black cloak, throwing it over his shoulders.

Finally, he takes a crown. It is black, a stone circle that rests above his ears. He breathes out, his cock softening, and the dying light of the evening bathes his body. He no longer looks like a beast.

He looks like a king.

Then he stalks out of the room, leaving me standing with the soap in my hand.

The door slams behind him, and it is as though I am released from a spell. I hate myself more than ever. I hate myself for the way my body reacted when he put me over his lap and spanked me, the way I served him like a docile pet. My cheeks flush red in shame. Even pretending at being a cowed captive makes me burn inside, because despite acting, there is something inside me that yearns for him primally, a tortured desire I can't control or shake off.

I have to flee the stronghold tonight. When the Orcs let their guard down, drunk off their celebration, I will make my escape. I'll find a way to ply him with grog. One of his soldiers—I don't know the name—but the one who hates me argued with him. Would there be a way to pit them against each other, to try to get them into a drinking contest? If he passes out drunk...I'll have a window. A window to slip out of this place in the darkness of night.

My heart pounds as I imagine him catching me. Stalking me in the night, his huge footsteps getting closer, when his hand wraps around me and pulls me to his body and...

There is a knock at the door.

"Yes?"

"The Chieftain sent me. May I come in?"

It's strange being asked, when I'm a captive. The voice is more feminine and soft than Ragnar's.

An Orc woman walks in wearing a simple loincloth, unashamed that her nearly flat chest is exposed, the four nipples hard buds on her chest. Her body is adorned with blue and green paints in various patterns, including spirals and images of hawks with fierce eyes and outstretched wings. Her dark hair is fashioned into two neatly braided plaits that stretch down to her waist.

She bows her head to me. "I am here to help you prepare for the feast tonight. The Chieftain commanded it."

"Thank you," I manage. I've never had anyone serving me before except this morning when I was primped and preened by a group of women working for Lord Ashbourne, and it makes me feel awkward. I sat like a statue on the chair, not daring to move as they did things with my eyebrows and lips to turn me into another person. "What is your name?"

Her voice is soft as she replies. "I am Silga."

"Silga. I'm Aira. What do you mean, prepare for the feast?"

"Well, a wedding dress isn't exactly the right style for a banquet," she says, and there's a gleam in her green eyes, as I realize she's trying to make light of the stressful situation to relax me. "You must be painted." She has a satchel with her, which she opens. "And we need to get that muck off your face."

I rub at my eyes. Muck. That's exactly how I felt when I was done up like a doll this morning.

I look at the gorgeous patterns that cover her body. "Your paint is beautiful. What does it mean?"

She smiles. Her face is smaller than Ragnar's, her neck less thick, but she's still taller and more muscular than me. "I train hawks that hunt for us," she says, running her hands over the bird above her heart. "I have some skill in plant medicine, but I am no expert," she says, pointing to her thigh, where there is a small sprouting plant done in green. "Would you discard your clothes, that I may bathe you?"

I shake my head. "I can bathe myself."

She hesitates. "I have been told that humans are embarrassed to be in their natural state. Is it true?"

I blush. "Yeah, I guess."

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