Chapter Seven
Farigoth
Farigoth pushed the air out of his nostrils as he closed the door behind him. Fighting for control, he balled his hands into fists. He’d barely withstood the lure of his new mate and almost made the cardinal error of bedding him again before it was time.
Farigoth groaned. The way Andre had lain spread out for him on the altar, inviting him to ravish him.
Andre had smelled of eager, willing submission.
It had taken Farigoth tremendous self-control not to mount him the moment he stepped into the pit.
Hour upon hour, he had battled the urge to remove the plug and force himself into the narrow paradise of Andre’s delicate hole.
By the gods, Farigoth had been tempted to pluck the fruit before it was ripe, but he’d restrained himself, knowing he’d hurt Andre if he mated him before he was ready, his hole stretched wide enough for Farigoth to invade.
Even fully dilated, Farigoth hadn’t been sure if Andre was able to take him.
He was so small. Farigoth’s heart had been beating out of his chest as he entered his precious mate for the first time, feeling the incredible tightness closing around his aching cock.
He found sweet release as Andre came on his length, inviting him to spill inside his gloriously narrow channel.
Orcs the world over would’ve died to be inside this jewel once.
And now, Andre was his. Farigoth could almost come again just by thinking of it.
He envied the plug that was slowly pulsing inside his mate’s snug hole.
He’d have to be careful. Andre had nearly seduced him into bed when distance was paramount for the good of their bond. His new mate had tugged at something in Farigoth he hadn’t known was there. A new and unfamiliar softness. Farigoth didn’t know what to make of it.
There was a danger that humans craved things that Farigoth’s hardened, battle-forged nature could not deliver.
When it came to matters of the heart, Farigoth felt woefully inadequate.
He had no experience with the tender care humans required for their emotional well-being.
What if he did something wrong or scared Andre?
It was Farigoth’s duty to care for him, but the problem with blind spots was that you couldn’t see them.
Chewing on the thought, Farigoth assured himself that plenty of guards, handpicked and mated, were stationed not only outside the bedchamber’s doors but also throughout the corridor. His mate’s sleep was not to be disturbed.
Then duty called.
Farigoth spent the morning in audience, sitting on his throne of skulls and fur in the great hall. The austere Turian marble had been redecorated by the tribe—bone chains spiraled up the columns, pelts and leather served as seats on the floor, totems hung from the walls.
Here, orcs came to Farigoth with their concerns. He’d been in Vale for months, the occasional messenger bringing news from Turia, but the orcs who’d stayed behind had been left to their own devices. With Farigoth’s return, there were judgments to pass and disputes to settle.
After he’d seen a dozen supplicants, a scout tasked with patrolling the Great River approached. His early return was a surprise. Reaching the stairs to the throne, he prostrated and pressed his brow to the floor.
“My Chief,” he said, rising into a kneeling position, “I bring word from the Great River. The humans have sent us another contingent of men.”
The orcs seated in rows along the length of the hall perked up, their attention fixed on the scout. Most of them were unmated and restlessly hankering for a mate. Once the ten thousand arrived, many orcs would, for the first time, find sweet relief between the thighs of men.
The scout swallowed, shifting uncomfortably on his knees—how odd for someone about to deliver good news. “They’ve sent another fifty men.”
“Fifty?!” Serckor, a hulking orc with spiked hair, jumped to his feet. He roared in frustration, and so did the rest of the horde, following his lead.
Farigoth gritted his teeth. Serckor was a troublemaker.
“How are there only fifty? They’re meant to send thousands!” Serckor bellowed at the scout, as though it were his fault. Serckor spun around to face Farigoth, snarling. “The humans are spitting on our accord! We’ve retreated across the Great River, and they’re trying to fob us off with crumbs!”
The horde howled in agreement, baring their teeth.
Serckor was right—the humans had promised more than they were delivering. After the mere one hundred men received in the beginning, Farigoth had hoped the next delivery would be larger, not smaller. That blond lord had said that finding ten thousand men would take time, but fifty weren’t enough.
Regardless, Farigoth had to control the horde. He rose to his feet. The orcs froze.
“The humans,” Farigoth said, his voice carrying to the end of the long hall, “will deliver more men. This is but the beginning. Right now, men fear us. They must learn that only pleasure will be found in the arms of orcs. Then, there will be many.” The humans might’ve been slow in delivering, but they weren’t liars.
The orcs, anxiously glancing up at Farigoth, sank back onto their seats. Serckor remained standing in defiance but didn’t dare to oppose him.
Still, dissent could become dangerous in a heartbeat.
Farigoth snarled, causing Serckor to lower his eyes and sit.
Good. He’d understood, the brief reminder of his place enough to drive the fight out of him.
Farigoth would remember his rebelliousness.
If Serckor caused trouble again, there’d be consequences.