Page 41 of The Orc's Princess Bride
“Do make yourself comfortable, niece,” a silken voice said from the doorway. “The journey must have been… trying.”
Lasseran entered with the unhurried grace of a predator. He was not the monster her imagination had conjured. No twisted features or malevolent hunch. Instead, he was disturbingly handsome—tall and slender, with aristocratic features and silver-white hair that fell to his shoulders in a perfect cascade. His eyes, though, were empty pools of pale blue, devoid of warmth or humanity.
He circled her, his movements liquid and precise. “At last,” he said, his voice cultured and melodious. “The missing piece of my legacy.”
Jessamin kept her spine straight, her chin high. “I am not your legacy, Uncle.”
His lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes. “Such spirit. Your mother had it too, before she so inconveniently died bringing you into the world.” He poured himself a glass of wine, not offering her any. “But blood will tell, won’t it? And yours is exceptional—the culmination of centuries of careful breeding.”
“Is that how you see people? As breeding stock?”
“Some of them.” He circled her again, running an icy finger down her cheek. She clenched her fists at her side, willing herself not to flinch away. His scent surrounded her, a heavy floral scent with something rotten underneath. “Such a pretty little thing. You had such potential.”
“Had?”
“Yes,” he agreed, his finger tracing her jawline. “I had planned to breed you myself, to create a suitable heir.”
She couldn’t stop herself from shuddering and his smile grew.
“Unfortunately, I cannot risk the possibility that the wild orc’s filthy seed has quickened in your womb.” The finger slid down her throat to the swell of her breast and she shuddered again. “So, instead of giving life, your blood will fuel a different legacy.”
“You mean the blood ritual,” she whispered, and he nodded.
“Indeed. The orcs are such magnificent physical specimens, but so crude, so limited. Imagine what could be accomplished if their strength could be harnessed, controlled by superior minds.”
“You mean enslaved.”
“I mean perfected.” His voice hardened slightly. “And you, my dear, will be the key. The missing element in the ritual that will bind all of those with the Beast Curse to my will.”
The clinical way he spoke made her stomach turn. There was no hatred in his voice, only the detached interest of a man discussing the breeding of horses.
“And what makes you think I would ever help you?”
“Help?” He laughed, a sound like crystal shattering. “Your participation requires nothing more than your presence and your blood. Though I had hoped you might see the wisdom in a more… willing alliance.” He hooked his finger in the neckline of her dress, tugging thoughtfully. “With the proper training, you could be an asset beyond the ritual, assuming you survive, of course. I would even allow you to bear my child, once I am sure that the orc’s seed did not take root.”
She jerked away from his touch, nausea roiling in her stomach. “I’d rather die.”
The mask of civility cracked for a moment, revealing a flash of icy fury before smoothing over again.
“You’re so very sure of yourself, aren’t you? I don’t think you realize how truly alone you are.” He stepped closer, his scent overwhelming. “No one is coming for you, niece. Not Ulric. Not the Priest King. Not the gods themselves. You belong to me now.”
He studied her face, his eyes flickering with cold amusement. “You’re afraid. I can see it. Smell it. But there’s also… defiance. Did you really think that crude savage could protect you?”
“He will come for me,” she said fiercely. “And he will tear your black heart out.”
Her uncle chuckled, as if she’d said something amusing. He drained his wine, then leaned forward, his breath warm on her neck. “When the time is right, I’ll have Khorrek bring you to the temple. Until then, enjoy my hospitality.”
He paused at the door. “I’ll leave you to reflect on the wisdom of compliance.”
The door closed with a heavy finality, the lock engaging with a soft click.
She watched him leave, her heart pounding in her chest. As soon as the door closed behind him, her legs gave out and she sank onto the floor. Fear clawed at her throat, but she forced it down. Fear would not save her. Fear would not save Ulric or Norhaven.
She would not weep. She would not break.
Forcing herself off the floor, she began a methodical exploration of her prison. The windows, as expected, were sealed and even the glass was reinforced with a fine metal mesh that would not break. The door was solid oak, its lock complex and new.
She moved to the adjoining bathing chamber, noting the fine marble and silver fixtures. No weapons, but perhaps tools. She tucked a silver hairpin into her sleeve.
