Page 46 of The Orc's Princess Bride
Behind him, she could make out the shape of another orc, sword drawn.
Lasseran’s laughter died. “The beast comes for his mate,” he said, his voice cold with contempt. “How predictable.”
Ulric’s burning gaze found hers across the chamber. In that single look was everything—rage, relief, love, promise. Then his eyes shifted to Lasseran, and the raw hatred there made her shiver.
“Get away from my wife,” he growled, the words barely human.
Lasseran smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Your wife? Oh, I think you’ll find she belongs to me by blood and by right. And soon, beast-king, you will belong to me as well.”
Ulric snarled and stepped forward, raising his blade. The guards moved to intercept him, but they seemed hesitant, intimidated by the sheer ferocity emanating from the orc king.
She gripped her pathetic dagger tighter. She would not be a passive spectator to her own rescue. She was a queen—his queen—and she would fight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The sight of a defiant Jessamin, a rusted dagger clutched in her small hand, her face smudged with tears but her eyes blazing with a warrior’s fire, sent a surge of fierce, savage pride through Ulric, so powerful it momentarily eclipsed his rage. She looked every inch a queen—his queen. Tolbrayth’s map had led him here but he hadn’t needed it. He’d felt her terror and desperation through the bond that had grown between them.
When a wall had blocked his way to her, he’d unleashed his Beast and smashed through it. He’d never wanted her to see him like this but she wasn’t afraid. Instead she looked almost… proud. He could feel her relief, and her love, shining through their bond.
But then Lasseran dared to make a claim on her and his Beast took over once more. The power flooded his veins like liquid fire, sharpening his senses, hardening his muscles, fueling his strength, and he didn’t fight it—he used it.
The first guard died before he even registered Ulric’s movement. The second managed to raise his sword before Ulric’s blade cleaved through armor and bone. The third and fourth attackedtogether, and he dispatched them with a single sweeping arc that left them crumpled on the stone floor.
Wulf burst through the breach behind him, fighting with brutal efficiency, his movements economical and deadly.
“To the queen!” he yelled, cutting down another guard who lunged at him.
A flash of movement caught his eye—Khorrek, the orc commander, positioning himself between Ulric and Jessamin. He could see the conflict on the other orc’s face, but his blade was raised and he would not let anything stand between them.
“She is my mate!” he roared as he charged, his voice more beast than man.
Something shifted in Khorrek’s face—a crack in the facade of loyalty that had been beaten into him. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked across the chaos of battle. He saw the moment Khorrek’s resolve faltered, the instant when years of conditioning shattered against the instinct of their kind.
Khorrek’s blade lowered a fraction of an inch—a subtle, deliberate act of defiance.
It was all he needed. He slammed into the orc commander with the full force of his Beast, driving him back into the wall. Khorrek’s head cracked against the stone, and he slid to the floor, unconscious but alive.
He reached Jessamin in three long strides. His hand, sticky with blood but as gentle as it had been in their most intimate moments, grasped her arm and pulled her behind him, his body a shield between her and the remaining guards.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his eyes never leaving the threats before them.
“No,” she said, her voice steadier than he’d dared hope. “You came.”
“Always,” he growled, the single word a vow.
Across the chamber, Lasseran stood by the altar, his perfect features twisted in fury. The ritual interrupted, his carefully laid plans in ruins. Guards lay dead or dying around him, and the three remaining guards looked uncertain, their eyes darting between their king and the blood-soaked orc warriors.
He advanced on the High King, his blade dripping crimson onto the polished stone floor.
“This ends now,” he growled, his voice a low, deadly promise.
To his surprise, Lasseran’s fury melted away. A smile spread across his face—not the practiced, charming mask he showed the world, but something colder, more genuine in its malice.
“End?” Lasseran laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “Oh, I think you’ll find this is merely a beginning.” His hand moved to his ceremonial robe. “You see, beast-king, I’ve studied your kind for decades. I know your strengths—and your weaknesses.”
He tensed, ready to lunge forward, but something in Lasseran’s confidence held him back.
“Your curse makes you strong, yes. Nearly invulnerable to conventional weapons.” The High King’s smile widened. “But there are older, darker things in this world than your curse.”
