Page 6 of The Orc's Captive Bride
He’d spent thirty-five years learning to ignore his Beast’s impulses. This was no different.
Her squirming finally stilled and her hands, which had been beating against his back rested quietly against his skin. He adjusted his grip, shifting her slightly.Not for her comfort, he told himself, even as he gently squeezed her thigh. She gasped and her warm breath ghosted across his skin, sending a jolt of awareness straight through him.
“I will memorize your face for the trial,”she grumbled, her voice muffled against his back.“I will describe you in excruciating detail. ‘Your Honor, the defendant was approximately seven feet tall, with the complexion of an unripe avocado and the interpersonal skills of a brick.’”
He couldn’t understand the words, but he was quite sure she was trying to annoy him into putting her down. He was more likely to haul her around in front of him and silence her in a much more effective way.
The thought both horrified and pleased him, and he tightened his grip on her thigh, stilling her completely.
“Stop talking,” he growled. She stiffened, but she obeyed.
The air grew colder as they moved into the open plains. The wind whipped around them, flattening the grass and catching the hem of his tunic, threatening to expose more of her delicate body to the cool air. He could feel the goosebumps rising on her skin, a shiver that ran through her entire body and into his.
Without breaking stride, he shifted her weight so he could wrap his arm more securely around her legs, tucking the fabric of the tunic around her as best he could and using his other arm to blanket the lower part of her legs. It was a small gesture, but he felt the tension drain from her body almost immediately.
She was quiet for a long time after that, her head resting against his back as he walked. The rhythmic brush of the grasses against his legs, the constant susurrus of the wind, the distant cry of some unseen bird—it was a familiar melody, the soundtrack of his life on the move.
But the weight of her on his shoulder was new. The scent of her—a strange, clean smell that reminded him of rain and soap—was a constant distraction.
Focus on the mission,he told himself. It was what Lasseran would demand, but his Beast was having none of it.
Mate. Ours. Protect.
“She’s not ours,” he muttered under his breath, but then he descended a small hill and his camp materialized on the horizon—four small tents arranged around a cold fire pit, exactly as he’d left it. The human soldiers would be there.
His jaw tightened.
He frequently worked with humans—the Dusk Guards who patrolled the streets of Kel’Vara and Lasseran’s army were both composed of humans. But Lasseran also kept a rotating stable of mercenaries and soldiers willing to do the High King’s dirty work for enough coin. Most of them were unremarkable—smart enough to follow orders and too greedy or desperate to question what those orders meant.
These three were different.
Worse.
Brennik, the leader, wore his cruelty like armor. The scar bisecting his eyebrow was a trophy from a tavern brawl where he’d beaten a man to death over an insult. He’d bragged about it around the fire two nights ago, his voice thick with satisfaction.
The other two—Dann and Harrick—were younger, meaner, the kind of men who’d learned violence as children and never grown beyond it.
They feared him. They feared his strength, his skills, and his direct connection to the High King, but fear didn’t breed respect, only a resentment that simmered beneath every interaction like pus beneath a scab.
I should have left them at Kel’Vara.
But Lasseran had insisted. “The female will be frightened. She’ll respond better to her own kind,” the High King had said, his pale eyes cold and calculating.
He’d doubted it then and he doubted it even more now when they looked up at his approach. Brennik’s scarred face split into a grin that made Khorrek’s hand itch for his axe.
“Well, well.” Brennik’s voice carried across the distance, thick with amusement. “The Beast warrior returns with his prize.”
Dann laughed. “Doesn’t look too happy about it. Feisty little thing, isn’t she?”
Harrick said something crude about breaking spirits and warming beds that made Khorrek’s vision tint red at the edges.
He crossed into camp and set her carefully on her feet. She stumbled and grabbed his arm to steady herself, then jerked away like his skin had burned her.
Brennik’s grin widened and Khorrek automatically moved in front of her, shifting his weight so his body blocked the soldier’s view of her.
“The High King has ordered that she remain unharmed,” he said roughly, the words grinding against each other like stones in a rockslide.
“Of course, of course.” Brennik raised his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of touching the merchandise.”
