Chapter Three
Andre
Over the coming days, Lord Aranin pushed north at a relentless pace.
In the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the White Mountains promised safety and refuge.
More villages and nobles joined the train.
At night, the camp was the size of a town, children running between tents pitched in the mud, game roasting over campfires.
Andre knew many of the people roaming the tent city: Agnes, a former shepherdess and mother of three, Miss Bennett, a potter, Lawrence, Castlehill’s young blacksmith.
“We’re about to slip out of the orcs’ reach,” Lord Aranin said to Lord Dalton when Andre delivered dinner into his lordship’s marquee, serving them plates filled with the best cuts of meat.
“Snow is near. Crossing into it will put us in the perfect position for negotiations. I’ve sent one herald to the orc camp and another to the king.
I want to parley with the authority of the Crown. ”
“You have a plan,” Lord Dalton said, not bothering to make it a question. He knew his cousin well.
“I have a plan.”
Before long, they received word that the orcs were willing to talk. King William sent a missive saying he was going to join the negotiations. Messengers ran between their camp and the orcs’, arranging a meeting.
Lord Aranin agreed to receive an orc delegation and charged Andre with the preparations.
Negotiations were to take place in an enormous, high-ceilinged marquee, Castlehill’s banner flying proudly from its peak.
Not for the first time, Andre wondered what Lord Aranin was going to offer the orcs.
He had to have something to be so confident.
The lord’s brother, Master Henry, and his husband, King Malorn of the Autumn Court, were going to join the talks.
As close allies of Lord Aranin but with no stakes in the conflict, they’d been invited to strengthen his position rather than participate in the talks.
Andre avoided looking at the pair, for he had once walked in on them in a…
compromising position. Not wanting to cause embarrassment—or get on the Autumn King’s bad side—Andre had never spoken a word of the incident.
To this day, he’d rather not look the men in the eye.
He knew what it was like to be caught in an intimate moment and wanted no trouble.
When the time for the talks came, the nobles gathered inside the lamp-lit marquee, King Malorn and Master Henry taking their place on one of the elevated love seats at the head of the tent, the other one reserved for King William and his husband, King Iver of the Winter Court.
The nobility sat on low chairs to the sides, Lord Aranin sharing his love seat with Raziel, whose watchful eyes roamed the marquee, scanning for danger.
He’d been the lord’s personal guard before becoming his husband, and his protective instinct was ever active.
Andre was glad his lord had found such a dedicated spouse.
Before Raziel came into his life, Lord Aranin had tasked Andre with finding him a new man every night—strong, heavy farmers and butchers that would service his lordship throughout the night, his pleasured cries ringing through Castlehill’s halls.
Andre had vetted the men, a little envious but too well-mannered to make use of them once the lord was done with them.
Then Raziel arrived as part of an elven delegation, and the requests for men stopped.
Andre couldn’t blame Lord Aranin. As an elf, Raziel possessed superhuman strength and endurance, no doubt providing him with bone-deep satisfaction.
If only someone would take Andre like that, with long, powerful— No.
He couldn’t think of that, not when the orcs were about to arrive.
A nervous energy buzzed through the marquee. Andre was hovering near Lord Aranin, awaiting orders, when outside, a commotion arose. Shouted warnings mixed with panicked rustling and heavy footsteps.
The tent flap swung aside, and a messenger rushed in, her curls mussed by the wind.
“Your Majesties,” she addressed the kings and bowed. “He has come to see you. Farigoth the Ravager.”
Heat slammed into Andre. He’d prepared to assist Lord Aranin in receiving a couple of ordinary orcs.
He’d expected a delegation, not the chief.
It would be unusual for a king or noble to meet his enemies at their camp.
But human rules didn’t apply to orcs, a species far stronger than them, stronger than even the fae.
Farigoth the Ravager.
Andre’s knees went weak. Thundering footfalls approached. The ground shook as the scent of war, blood and untamed power wafted into the marquee. Even the kings had nothing on the raw might closing in.
King William, color draining from his face, clutched his husband’s hand.
Lord Aranin sat up straighter. Andre’s heart galloped in his chest. He was unprepared to face the orc chief who’d not only invaded his homeland but also his most private thoughts.
There was no one in the world more powerful than Farigoth.
Humans feared him. Fae ran from him. Orcs bowed to him.
Against his will, Andre responded to the oncoming presence. Warmth crept into his cheeks. In a room full of nobles and royalty, he could hardly shrug out of his jacket and use it to cover himself.
He held himself still, trying to blend in with the marquee’s tarpaulin, whose color was, thank God, a close match to the taupe ensemble he wore.
The women standing guard outside the marquee moved the flap aside, creating as large an opening as possible. That dark, masculine scent intensified, robbing Andre of his sanity.
Farigoth almost uprooted the tent as he entered, the guards rushing to secure the poles. The marquee’s ceiling did not seem so high now that the top of Farigoth’s head brushed it.
Andre had seen orcs. He’d not seen an orc like this.
Farigoth had to be topping eight feet. To say his chest was expansive would be an understatement.
His muscles bulged in ways Andre had not known muscles could bulge.
Every hard inch of him was chiseled to perfection.
Thick, black hair crowned his head, dark eyebrows shadowing a stormy gaze.
A ring pierced his nose like a bull’s. Though a bull weighed nothing compared to him. He’d kill a bull with one punch.
Frighteningly large tusks protruded upward from the corners of Farigoth’s mouth above a fierce, square jaw.
A scar ran from his brow to his cheek, and more marred the olive-green skin of his bare chest and arms. There was so much skin.
The armor he wore was decorative—fur-lined leg guards, studded leather bracers and a metal shoulder guard, fragments of a skull—Andre, shocked, couldn’t tell which species—worked into it.
Apart from that, and an insubstantial loincloth hanging from his weapon belt, Farigoth was naked.
His eyes roamed the tent, stopping when they landed on Andre. Their gazes locked.
Andre’s breath caught, and he averted his eyes in submission. He’d never been near such an imposing male. It took all his willpower to maintain a professional facade when he wanted to throw himself at Farigoth’s feet and bare his throat. He shook with fear and lust.
As though none of it affected him, Lord Aranin greeted Farigoth. The rushing in Andre’s ears drowned out his words. The lord made a welcoming gesture toward the large seat opposite the kings, luxurious furs heaped onto it, dark, expensive rugs lain at its feet.
When Farigoth sat, Andre, in a flash of dizziness at the breach of protocol, realized that the kings’ seats had not been elevated enough. The kings were not eye-level with Farigoth, who, even sitting, towered over everyone in the marquee.
Lord Aranin, calm and unconcerned, made introductions, taking his time to explain titles and positions to Farigoth. The orc made eye contact with each lord and lady. Under his attention, they shrank into their seats.
When Lord Aranin introduced Andre, Farigoth’s gaze raked over him. A drop of sweat ran down Andre’s temple. The orc chief turned his blood to lava. It was kind of Lord Aranin to introduce his steward to a foreign leader, but when Andre’s cock gave a longing twitch, he wished he hadn’t.
Andre’s shoulders sagged with relief when King William took over the conversation, drawing attention away from him.
He greeted Farigoth with ceremonial words, welcoming him to Vale.
A servant presented gifts—gems, salt and ore.
The gesture acknowledged that the orcs held a considerable portion of Valian territory.
King William wasn’t in control. Lord Aranin had lost his land. Valian leaders were on their back foot.
Which made it all the worse when Farigoth’s face twisted in displeasure at the gifts. His nostrils flared.
“This is your hospitality?” Farigoth’s deep voice boomed through the marquee.
The lords and ladies flinched, hastily glancing at each other. Clearly, an offense to orc culture had been committed. The awareness that if Farigoth wanted to kill them all, he could do so before the knights reached the marquee, blossomed.
Lord Aranin was the first to recover. “Please forgive our ignorance. We meant no disrespect. What would be required to appropriately welcome you and express our hospitality?”
Farigoth turned toward Lord Aranin—and Andre. “The use of an unattached man.” The nobles gasped. Farigoth’s lips curved as he made a show of taking in the couples around him—every man had a husband or wife by his side. Then, eyes blazing with something undecipherable, he indicated Andre. “Him.”
Andre was going to faint.
As if making some great concession to Valian culture, Farigoth added, “I won’t ravish him in front of you.”
Images of Farigoth doing exactly that flashed through Andre’s mind.
Lord Aranin turned to Andre, a question in his eyes. He was allowing him a choice.