Page 9 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

She looks me up and down, then nods. "It makes sense. Your skin is so soft, it could not protect you from anything. But do not fear. Here, you are under the Chieftain's protection. Nothing can hurt you, and I have been sent to get you ready. Would you allow me to complete my task?"

Unlike the other Orcs, she seems sweet and honest, and I feel no anger in her eyes when she looks at me. The rest of them despise humans.

I remove the heavy fur coverings, folding them neatly and placing them in the carved cubbies near Ragnar's other garments, all finely made loincloths, cloaks and sets of leathery clothes that must be armor. His musky scent still permeates his clothing. I should hate that smell, the stink of him, but the masculine scent of the Orc Chieftain is maddeningly good. It's the power of him. How if he was to keep you safe, no one would dare touch you, or even glance at you.

But he doesn't want to keep me safe.

He wants to trade me for the safety of the people he cares about. His people. I am just an outsider, to be shown off as a trophy of victory at a banquet celebrating his plan.

I struggle with getting the wedding dress off, until Silga comes behind me to help unzip it before removing it from my body. It had taken a team of people just to get me into it.

I breathe out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank goodness," I mutter. "I...I was meant to be wedded to Lord Ashbourne today. I'm glad it's delayed, even if it isn't for long." It's easy to open up around Silga. There was no one I could talk to in the village, and I felt so alone when I was being carted to my destiny.

Her eyes turn dark. "That man is a devil. Forget him, for now," she says, then leads me to the bathtub. She takes the shovel to scoop fresh stones from the fire, adding them to the basin under the tub. The water is delightful and warm, but I can't help but remember that Ragnar was in these waters just moments ago. Back in the village, a bath is a rare luxury. In the huge tub, I have crouch so I don't get submerged completely.

She carefully lathers soap over my body, her touch gentle yet precise, and as she washes me clean of all the day's grime and grit, I can feel my muscles relaxing. The warm water is soothing on my skin, and it's like all the tension I was carrying just melts away. She takes care to cleanse every inch of my face, telling me to keep my eyes shut as she removes the makeup that had begun to feel suffocating. It was a mask, painting me up as a doll for Lord Ashbourne's whims, and I am glad to be myself again.

When she has finished washing me, she braids my hair into two plaits, like hers, but much shorter. "Tell me, Aira, who are you?" It sounds like a deeper question than it is.

"What do you mean?"

"You will be painted now. I must know your stories."

She helps me out of the tub and drags two chairs to the fire. Then she takes a massive towel from the carved shelf and dries me off, despite my protests that I can do it myself. I sit down on the cushioned chair and stare into the burning embers of the fire, remembering my life.

The fear when my parents died, seeing my little brother so young and defenseless. How I grew up fast knowing I would have to provide for him, because no one else in the village could spare any resources. The terror when I first poached in Lord Ashbourne's forests, patiently fishing while listening for any sound of an approaching patrol. Burnes, poor old Burnes, who has to farm with one hand after Lord Ashbourne's men caught him just strolling through the forbidden forests. He didn't even have a hunting bow or fishing rod, and they made an example of him.

And the way I felt when I snuck home two large fish, roasting them over our hearth, the way my little brother's eyes were saucers, how he tore into the first food we'd had in days.

That is who I am.

"I was sixteen when my parents died. They both got the same fever. Aldrin was twelve."

"Your brother?"

"Yeah. My brother. He's seventeen now, and thinks he is a man. But he would have starved if I didn't poach on Ashbourne's land," I say, opening up for the first time. Even with my friends back in the village, I'd always keep my lips sealed tight about how tough life was, and if I had to borrow provisions from them to get through a particularly rough time, I'd pay it back double.

While I speak, Silga mixes pots of dusty sand with water, stirring them.

"Would you put on your cloth?" she asks, pointing next to me. There is a small leather loincloth, and my eyes widen.

"That's what I am wearing?"

"Yes, of course," she replies, not looking up from her paints. I shrug the towel off, hanging it on the back of a chair, and pick up the loincloth skeptically. I wrap it around my waist. It's softer than I expected, well-made material woven...

But there's no top. My breasts are on display, and I don't have the flattish, four-nippled chest of a female Orc. Compared to the wiry, lean strength of a female Orc, I look more like a fertility goddess than one of their kind. It's the exact look I want to avoid, considering that my fate will be a breeding mare for a cruel lord once the Orc sells me off.

"I need something to cover my top," I say, scanning Ragnar's wardrobe cupboards carved into the stone and imagining pulling on a cloak. If I dared take one of his garments without his permission, I can only imagine his response, and I shift uncomfortably.

"You will have paint. Sit."

I steel myself, and sit on the chair. To my chagrin, Silga has placed a pillow on it. Are there still the Orc's handprints on my ass, marking me humiliatingly?

Silga stands behind me with her paints, pushing me forward gently so that she has access to my back. The brush is cool on my back, and I'm curious what she is painting, but before I can ask, she speaks.

"We used to hunt those forests, before we were driven into the mountains. I thought all of your kind had access to them."

"No. Just Lord Ashbourne. Is that why your kind hates us?"

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