Page 51 of The Orc's Captive Bride
“It’s called a shara fruit,” he said roughly. “It only grows in the southern provinces.”
“Oh.” She quickly pulled her hand back. “Thank you.”
The air between them crackled with unspoken things. Things he shouldn’t want. Things he couldn’t have.
“Where did you grow up?” she asked again, stubbornly refusing to let the moment die.
“The training grounds,” he said finally. “Outside Kel’Vara.”
She frowned. “But… where were you born? Did you have parents?”
“I don’t know.”
Her fork clattered onto her plate. “You don’t know where you were born? Or who your parents were?”
“No.”
“How… why not?”
His grip tightened on his cup, but she’d already heard part of the tale from Vorlag. “Vorlag told you that one aspect of the Curse is that orcs have fewer children, and most of them are male. That means that they had to seek mates outside of Norhaven. The High King used to allow them to serve in his armies so they had opportunities to meet females from the other kingdoms.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Allow?”
“They were savage, unpredictable.” Or so he’d always been told. “But they—we—are also strong. Lasseran’s father didn’t trust them so he began his own… breeding program. He wanted his own army of Beast Warriors.”
“What happened to the women who gave birth to this army?”
“They couldn’t be allowed to keep the children. It was too dangerous.” Again something he’d always been told. “We were raised from birth to serve.”
“Trained to be useful,” she said, echoing Lasseran’s words.
“Yes.” He forced himself to meet her eyes. “The High King believes in controlling his assets completely.”
“You’re not an asset,” she said quietly. “You’re a person.”
“The High King would disagree.”
“The High King is a monster.”
His hand clenched around his fork. “Careful.”
“Why? He’s not here. And you already know what I think of him.” She leaned forward slightly. “Tell me you don’t see it. Tell me you look at him and see something other than calculated cruelty wrapped in silk and smiles.”
He couldn’t. Because she was right.
But saying so—admitting it, even to himself—felt like treason. And he had been raised to believe that treason was death.
“Eat your breakfast,” he said instead. “You need your strength for the translation work.”
Her eyes narrowed, but she let it drop. “Fine. Deflect. But we’re coming back to this conversation.”
“You’re assuming we’ll have another conversation.”
“We’re having one now, aren’t we?” She smiled, small and determined. “I’m wearing you down, Khorrek. Admit it.”
Yes.
But he’d never say it aloud.
