Chapter Thirteen
Farigoth
The fright in Andre’s eyes hit Farigoth worse than the hardest punch Serckor had thrown. Everyone was supposed to fear an orc—everyone except his mate.
Andre had flinched away from Farigoth’s bloodied hand. He’d ridden off in a panic.
It sliced Farigoth open. Fighting against every instinct, he refrained from pursuing Andre. He yearned to have his mate back but didn’t want to scare him further. Things were bad enough.
The orcs looked appalled. Some averted their eyes; others busied themselves rounding up the escaped horses. A few turned away, whispering amongst themselves.
Farigoth had prevented the usurper from taking his life and position.
Normally, his victory would be reason for celebration.
It wasn’t because Farigoth had dishonored the orcs’ moral code in the worst possible way, second only to defilement—he’d failed his mate.
Upset him. Frightened him. Driven him away.
It was an unacceptable disgrace.
A mate’s sexual needs were paramount, and Farigoth had taken care of those, but Andre’s physical and emotional well-being were equally important, and Farigoth had shamefully neglected the latter.
His authority and leadership might not be in question, but whether he could take care of his mate was.
And if a chief proved unable to do that, the mate could be claimed by others.
The thought had Farigoth on the verge of exploding with rage and jealousy. He had to rectify the situation no matter what.
A hundred paces away lay Serckor’s battered body, blood seeping into the earth.
Primal intuition had told him to kill Serckor.
He couldn’t have let him live. And yet, the sight of his corpse shamed him.
Killing Serckor had upset Andre, and his approaching Andre had made it worse. It served him right that Andre had run.
Farigoth stared at his blood-stained hands. He had to make things right.
He found a white sheet and covered Serckor’s remains, futilely trying to restore the scene’s dignity.
“Burn his body on a pyre so he may go home to the gods,” Farigoth told the guards. They hesitated, only daring to approach the body once Farigoth had stepped away. He reeked of violence.
Farigoth walked to the river, the orcs giving him a wide berth, avoiding his gaze. He washed in the cold water, scrubbing the blood off his skin.
Andre’s face, white with horror, was burned into Farigoth’s mind. He had wanted him to be merciful. Would it have been so bad if he’d shown compassion? He’d never done that. One time wouldn’t have hurt his reputation, would it?
Regardless, it was dangerous to leave an opponent alive; he knew that better than anyone.
Farigoth thought of his father. He’d been the most important person in his life, and he’d lost him young.
After his death, Farigoth had found his heart closed.
Life had taught him a harsh lesson on the dangers of kindness and mercy.
But despite his hardening, he had still yearned for a mate.
It was a drive rooted deeply in every orc. No urge was stronger.
It had taken him a long time to understand that he wasn’t meeting Andre’s needs. Humans were delicate creatures, and their emotions had to be taken into account. Farigoth had been a giant oaf. He’d only just realized that if he wanted to make Andre happy, he had to open up—and he would.
But that wasn’t all. Andre had reacted badly to him killing Serckor.
Would he have to change how he ruled the tribe?
He couldn’t lose Andre. That was the one thing Farigoth was not prepared for.
He had to get him back. If it meant he had to exercise clemency going forward, that was a small price to pay to please his mate. Even if it was risky.
He did his best to subdue the worry gnawing at him. Andre had taken off at breakneck speed and gained a significant head start, but his unmistakable scent would lead Farigoth to him. He gathered a search party, determined to find Andre before nightfall. The woods were not safe for a lone man.