Page 4 of Orc Chained
Mother’s tits, he’s become a revenge dandy.
“Let me go.”
I slide my free hand toward the slit in my trousers where I have a blade strapped to my thigh. I have no idea how this is going to go.
From behind, another hand grabs that wrist.
“None of that,” a new voice drawls, masculine amusement prickling the back of my neck as a hard chest bumps my back. “It’s been two decades. We need to catch up before the shit starts flying. Why don’t you sit and have a pint, ankle biter? ”
Ankle biter. I loathe that nickname and they know it.
I twist to glare at the male behind me. He stares at me with half-amused, half-hostile slate-colored eyes, braids falling over one side of his face, the other side of his head clean shaven and inked. Of course Hatthar’s not wearing a shirt because why make it harder to admire his muscles?
Fiuthen and Hatthar.
Two of them.
Of all the fucked odds.
TWO
Red coats my vision.“Get your hand off me, Hatthar!”
Hatthar pulls up a chair, drops into it while dragging me onto his lap.
“It’s been a while. Missed you, but your arms are still puny.” He squeezes my bicep and nuzzles my temple, tusks grazing my cheek. He inhales. “You’re—ah, shit. Bad timing, ankle biter.”
I’m distracted now because the others arrive. Noise in the tavern dips. We’re the show.
Lathhan, settling silently into a chair as he watches me, lean and graceful with his Aeddannari grandsire three gens back. His hair is still long and blue-black, his pale green skin a few shades too dark for him to be called a halfling.
Iloni, who yanks her chair out like it offended her and rests her elbows on the table, her bright dark eyes predatory. Like her brother’s eyes. She’s filled out her beaded leather vest, a typical busty Uthilsen female with toned arms and shoulders, her hair a wild mess of beaded braids. She’sstained her lips a deep red, like dried blood. It looks like she feasted on someone’s throat and saved the remnants for a snack.
“Hey,” she says, voice bored despite her eyes. She used to practice sounding like that.
Lathhan glances away, his silent greeting done. He doesn't talk unless he’s plotting a rival’s downfall—he’s the one who taught me to be watchful of quiet males.
They’ll come out of nowhere.
My heart is racing, and I rub my palms on my trousers. My leather waspie seems too tight now. There’s one more who hasn’t shown up yet. The worst one. The one I’m dreading to see.
“I’m here to pick up a meal, and be on my way,” I say, breaking the now tense silence. “I don’t want any trouble.”
Hatthar settles me against his chest. “Nope. Rath’s home soon. I’m not telling him we had you and then let you escape again.” He starts toying with my hair. “You’re wearing beaded braids now.”
“I earned them,” I say, insulted by the implication I’d beaded my braids but not killed to earn the right. “I’m Uthilsen, even if I’m not clan.”
“Who?” Iloni asks.
Pressing my lips, I don’t answer. I’d killed because I’d had to, not for sport. A birthing female has no other protection but her midwife sometimes, and a lot of Human males think childbed is the perfect time to either get rid of an unwanted problem or sell it.
I’d gotten away with those deaths because being half-Orc, I’m stronger than the average Human. I won’t be able to defend myself so wellagainst these four if they decide to stash me somewhere to wait for Rath.
“Well, I’m glad you came to your senses and returned,” Fiuthen says, watching me with his keen gaze. There’s gold at his wrists and on his fingers too. “The Cities are no place for?—”
He pauses, but I know what he’s not saying. For a runt. For a timid girl. For a tuskless girl. My lips curve down as I glare at him.
“He missed you.” Fiuthen signals to a server and raises his voice. “A bottle. None of the swill you give travelers.”
