Page 4 of The Orc's Princess Bride
But they weren’t monsters. They were creatures perfectly adapted to this harsh land—powerful, resilient, and utterly loyal once their trust was earned.
Like the king himself.
What if she could earn that trust? What if she could learn to ride a Norhaven warhorse? The idea was probably madness. The warhorses were notoriously difficult to handle, bred for battle and bonded to their orc riders through years of training.
But if she succeeded… if she could prove herself capable of mastering something so quintessentially Norhaven… perhaps Ulric would begin to see her as more than a fragile southern flower in need of constant protection.
Tomorrow she would make her request. She was almost positive he would refuse—it was a direct challenge to his perception of her as something breakable—but if he did, she would find another way. Because she was not merely a political bride to be locked away in a gilded cage. She was Jessamin, daughter of the Priest King of Almohad, and Queen of Norhaven.
And it was time both she and her husband remembered it.
CHAPTER THREE
Ulric bent over the map table, his finger tracing the patrol routes along Norhaven’s eastern border. The scouts had reported increased activity there—subtle movements that might be nothing or might be everything. In the dim light of his study, shadows played across the parchment, obscuring details he desperately needed to see.
He rubbed his eyes, exhaustion settling deep in his bones. The candles had burned low, wax pooling on the iron holders. How long had he been at this? Hours, certainly.
His mind refused to focus, drifting instead to Jessamin’s face when he’d left her chambers the previous day. The hurt in those blue eyes, carefully masked behind royal composure. The proud tilt of her chin that couldn’t quite hide the wound he’d inflicted.
“Damn it all,” he muttered, shoving away from the table.
He’d been cruel. Efficient and cold, as a king should be when security was compromised. He’d interrogated her like a suspect rather than speaking to her as his queen. His wife.
The memory of her quiet dignity made his chest ache. She hadn’t argued or protested, just answered his questions with a perfect, empty courtesy that had been worse than any defiance.
He paced the length of his study, boots heavy on the stone floor. The security measures he’d outlined were necessary. He couldn’t risk another attempt on her life. The poisoning had nearly?—
He slammed his fist against the wall, the pain barely registering. The memory of small body, so pale and still, flashed through his mind again. It haunted him that she had come so close to death, that his strength would not have saved her.
Never again.He would build walls around her if necessary. Station guards at every door, vet every person who came near her. She would be safe, even if she hated him for it.
She would be even safer by your side, an insidious little voice whispered in his head, and for one brief moment he allowed himself to consider it. Her sweet little body tucked against his every night, her smiling face greeting him every morning, her calm presence in the seemingly endless meetings and audiences that were a necessary part of his duties. He had no doubt she would fulfill her duties as queen with grace and dedication, and he’d already learned that her perspective was valuable.
But that would require trusting her. Opening his heart to her. And he’d seen what that had done to his father. His parents had not married because of love but because of political necessity—there had to be a successor to the throne—but his father had allowed himself to love his mother. His mother had not reciprocated. As soon as she had given birth to him, she considered her duty fulfilled and devoted herself to other… pleasures.
She’d been a beautiful female and in a kingdom so short of females, not many males would refuse her. He couldn’t remember how old he was the first time he discovered her in bed with someone other than his father, but he’d been too young to understand the level of her betrayal. That innocence hadn’t lasted long. He’d grown up watching his mother’s affairs slowly destroy his father.
He’d been almost relieved when she died, hoping that his father might finally be at peace. But the king had never recovered from her death and he’d been killed in battle only a year later. The grief had weakened him. He’d been slow to avoid a blow that should have been easily deflected, and Ulric had watched the light fade from his father’s eyes, his chest heavy with sorrow and guilt.
He refused to allow the same thing to happen to him, and he knew with overwhelming certainty that Jessamin could destroy him if he allowed himself to care for her. He refused to admit that he already did—that he had since the first time their eyes had met and he’d felt the connection between them.
Mate,his beast growled but he refused to acknowledge. He was in control, not his Beast.
A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened, composing his features into the impassive mask expected of Norhaven’s king.
“Enter.”
The door swung open, and Jessamin paused in the doorway. She wore a simple gown of deep emerald that clung enticingly to her lush curves, and her honey-gold hair was braided in the Norhaven style she’d adopted since she arrived. Her posturewas perfect, shoulders squared, head high, every inch a queen despite her small statue. Fuck, she was beautiful.
“My king,” she said calmly. “I require a moment of your time.”
He gestured for her to enter, trying to ignore the way his pulse quickened at her presence. “Of course.”
She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her with quiet deliberation. Her gaze swept over the maps and documents scattered across his table, taking in the evidence of his long day’s work, before returning to his face.
“I have come to make a formal request,” she said.
Something in her tone—a thread of determination beneath the courtly phrasing—put him instantly on alert.
