Page 3 of The Orc's Captive Bride
He said something else, this time with a different inflection. A question, maybe?
She shook her head. “Still not getting it. We’re going to need a Rosetta Stone. Or charades. I’m excellent at charades. Why don’t we start with names? I’m Thea.”
He hesitated, then repeated it, mangling the ‘th’ sound into something closer to ‘Tea’ but getting close enough that she nodded.
“Yes. Thea. That’s me. Dr. Thea Monroe, actually, but let’s start simple. And you are?”
He hesitated again, then said something that sounded like “Khor-rek” with a roll in the middle that her English-trained tongue could never replicate.
Relief flooded through her with surprising intensity. He had given her his name. They had established communication.
“Khorrek,” she repeated, doing her best to replicate the sound. From the look on his face, she wasn’t entirely successful but he didn’t correct her. Instead he reached down and grabbed the hem of his leather tunic.
Oh god, what is he?—
He pulled the tunic over his head in one smooth motion, revealing a torso that looked like it had been designed to make anatomists weep with joy, each muscle defined to the point of absurdity. But he also revealed more scars, some silver, some darker than his green skin, each one telling a story she couldn’t read but spoke of pain.
Then he stepped forward and dropped the tunic over her head.
She stood frozen as the leather settled around her shoulders, still warm from his body. It fell to her mid-thigh, far too large and smelling of leather and smoke and something else—something earthy and wild.
She looked up and found him watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher. Something flickered in those gold eyes—desire, perhaps, or satisfaction—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by something almost business-like. He was looking at her like a problem that needed to be managed.
She clutched the warm leather to her chest, a meager shield. “Thank you.”
He didn’t acknowledge her gratitude. Instead he pointed at her, then pointed off into the distance, towards the south, and made a walking motion with two of his fingers. Not exactly dragging her off, but…
“You want me to go with you?”
Absolutely not.
Not only was he a stranger with questionable motives, despite the fact that he’d given her clothing, but she’d arrived in this world at this place. Logic dictated that her best chance for leaving it again was to remain here.
The problem was communicating that minor detail to someone who spoke a language that sounded like rocks being ground together in a cement mixer.
“Look,” she said, spreading her hands in what she hoped was a placating gesture. “I appreciate the wardrobe donation. Really. Five stars for customer service. But I’m not going anywhere with you until I understand what the hell is happening.”
His expression didn’t change, but his gaze hardened. He didn’t raise a weapon. He didn’t even make a threatening gesture. He simply looked at her, and the cold certainty in his eyes was more terrifying than any sword. He was telling her, without words, that it was not a negotiation.
It was an order.
Her mind, that glorious, analytical instrument that had served her so well, tried to process this. It offered up a dozen scenarios, each one more bleak than the last. She was an asset. A prize.A package to be delivered. She was a valuable, and fragile, commodity.
He said something else in that grinding-stone language. The tone was… patient. Like he was explaining something obvious to a particularly slow child.
“I don’t understand you,” she said slowly, enunciating each word as if that would somehow bridge the language barrier. “I. Don’t. Understand.”
More grinding-stone syllables. His patience was clearly wearing thin.
He gestured again, more emphatically. Pointed at her. Pointed at himself. Pointed at the horizon.
Come with me.
The message was clear even without shared language. And just as clearly, he expected obedience.
“No,” she said, shaking her head to emphasize her refusal. Surely that had to be recognizable across linguistic boundaries.
His jaw tightened. She saw something flicker in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or impatience. His hand moved to the massive sword hanging at his hip, and her heart lurched into her throat.
