Mated to the Orc General

Chapter 1

At least they'd put straw on the bottom of my cell. Damp straw, but warmer than the damp stone floor. I pulled at my bindings, heavy iron manacles tight against my wrists. The skin beneath them burned raw.

Some spy I'd turned out to be. The guards had caught me before I had even reached the Orc Keep's gates.

I could always dislocate my thumb. That's what Mark had said to do. He'd described it in detail. Grab at the meat, twist, scream, pull. He'd made me practice on corpses until the motion became mechanical.

I grabbed at the meat. Whimpered. Let go.

Maybe I could climb out the window.

I looked up and up and—

Screeech!

I scrambled back towards the wall, chains around my ankles clanking and scraping.

The cell door swung inward. Two orcs filled the doorway, tusks gleaming in the torchlight. The smaller one, and by smaller I meant only seven feet tall instead of eight, jerked his head at me.

"Up."

I stayed where I was. The larger one, though... My pulse skipped. Not just fear. He was magnificent, if terror could be magnificent. All corded muscle and controlled power, moving with a predator's grace that his size shouldn't allow.

He stepped forward. His hand wrapped around my upper arm, fingers meeting thumb with room to spare.

The heat of his palm burned straight to my core.

Unwanted. Unexpected. He hauled me vertical.

My knees buckled. He held me steady, and I caught his scent: leather and iron and male musk that made my thighs clench.

What was wrong with me? Here I was looking death in the tusks, and my body was reacting in ways no human should react to an orc. Maybe I'd cracked. Which was a cursed shame considering nobody had even started torturing me yet.

The orc's grip was firm but controlled. He wasn't hurting me, even though he could. The deliberate restraint unsettled me more than brutality would have.

"The king wants you." His voice rumbled deep, accent rolling the words. The sound vibrated through me. "You walk or we drag."

I locked my knees, too aware of where his hand still gripped me. "I can walk."

He released me, fingers trailing along my arm. Not my imagination.

They flanked me through stone corridors that twisted upward. The guard who'd touched me stayed close. I felt heat radiating from his body. Each time I stumbled on uneven stones, his hand shot out to steady me.

"You're injured," he said, noticing how I favored my left ankle.

"Your guards weren't gentle."

He made a sound that might have been disapproval. On the next landing, he stopped. "Let me see."

"What?"

"Your ankle. Let me see."

I stared at him. "Why do you care?"

"You can't walk properly. Slow us down." But his tone said otherwise.

He knelt. This massive orc warrior knelt at my foot, and his hands moved over my swollen ankle through the torn leather of my boot. His thumb brushed exposed skin, and I bit back a gasp.

"Sprained, not broken," he said. "But hurts."

"I've had worse."

His eyes flicked up to mine, copper depths unreadable. "I'm sure you have."

He stood, and before I could protest, he'd swept me up into his arms. My body pressed against his chest, and I felt every ridge of muscle through his leather armor.

"I can walk—"

"You can struggle. Slow us down, or you accept help. Choose."

I wanted to fight, to demand he put me down. But being carried meant not putting weight on my ankle. And being held against him meant... No. Not going there.

"Fine."

We soon made our way to what, considering the giant statues of warriors with gilded tusks on either end and the jeweled door handles, could only be the throne room. As we approached, the orc lowered me to my feet, making sure I was steady before releasing me. His hands lingered on my waist.

"You wait. Stand straight," he said, breath hot against my ear. "Show no weakness. King respects strength."

Why was he helping me? Or was his help some kind of trick?

Before I could puzzle it out, he stepped back and moved to the doors.

The loss of his support sent fire shooting up from my ankle.

I locked my jaw against a whimper, shifting my weight to my good leg.

The guards who'd flanked us took position on either side of me, close enough to grab if I ran, far enough that I couldn't use them for support.

My helpful captor exchanged words with the door guards in rapid Orcish. 'Tell King Gromar the prisoner is here,' he said, switching to Common for my benefit. One guard's eyes widened, glancing at me with something between fear and curiosity.

He then knocked in a pattern that sounded like thunder in the corridor. The massive doors opened inward, and he strode through without looking back. Gone was the orc who'd knelt to examine my ankle. This was pure warrior.

The doors swung shut behind him with a resonant boom.

I stood there, confused. The guards flanking me didn't move.

One of them muttered something in Orcish that made the other snort, not quite a laugh, but close.

We waited. My ankle throbbed in time with my heartbeat, each pulse sending fresh waves of pain up my leg.

I heard voices from beyond the doors, formal declarations in orcish, then a bark of laughter.

Finally, the doors opened again, and the guards at my sides prodded me forward.

Each step was agony. My ankle had stiffened during the wait, and now every movement sent sharp pain lancing up my leg.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper, forcing myself to walk as close to normally as I could manage.

Show no weakness.

His words. His warning. But why warn me at all?

The throne room stretched wide and high, built for creatures larger than humans. At the far end, on a throne carved from a single massive boulder, sat the Orc King.

But my attention snagged on the orc standing beside the throne.

It was him. My unexpectedly helpful guard. But now I could see him properly in the torchlight, and my mouth went dry.

Where King Gromar was thick, this one was carved.

Muscle wrapped his frame like armor, visible even through the leather and metal he wore.

His skin was deep green, like forest shadows.

Both tusks intact, curving up from his lower jaw.

I wondered what they'd feel like scraping against my inner thighs.

Stop.

Black hair pulled back in intricate braids emphasized the sharp angles of his face. And those eyes, the color of burning copper, locked on me like I was prey he wanted to devour.

"You know why you're not dead, little spy?" the king asked.

I forced myself to focus on him, not on the warrior whose stare was making me wet. "Lucky me."

The king laughed. "You were carrying this." He held up my message cylinder. "Diplomatic papers. Very official. Very... interesting."

My gut twisted. Those papers were supposed to be my cover. Mark had promised—

"So tell me," King Gromar continued, "are you diplomat or spy?"

"Does it matter?"

The warrior beside the throne shifted. Just a small movement, but it drew my eye. Interest flickered across his face. Or approval. Or hunger.

"It matters," the king said, "because I have use for a diplomat. A spy dies slow."

The threat was obvious. I thought of Mark, safe in his comfortable office, sending orphans like me to die for crown and country. He'd taken me from the streets when I was seven, trained me, shaped me into a weapon. But he'd never risked himself.

"Diplomat," I said. "Sent to negotiate."

"Mmm." The king studied me. Then his gaze shifted to the warrior. "What think you, General Vorak? Truth or lie?"

General. Of course he was their general. That explained the controlled power, the way other orcs had moved aside for him.

"Both," the general said, voice deeper than the king's, rougher. The sound made me clench. "The papers are real. The woman is not what she claims."

His eyes never left mine as he spoke. I felt stripped bare. Not just examined, but seen. Like he could read every lie I'd ever told.

"Perceptive," I said before I could stop myself.

An almost-smile touched his lips. "Necessary, in my position."

The king stood. "Your people want peace. My people want the border raids to stop. Traditional marriage alliance, yes?"

Marriage alliance? Ice water in my veins. The papers hadn't said—

But of course they hadn't. Mark never told me the full truth.

"Your confusion is sweet," the king said. "Let me make simple. You marry one of mine. Bind our peoples. Stop the killing." His grin widened. "Or you rot in that cell until you beg for death."

My gaze moved between them. The king studied me like a puzzle. But the general—Vorak, the king had called him—watched me with an intensity that made my nipples tighten against the rough fabric of my tunic.

"Who?" The word came out breathless.

King Gromar laughed. "Who you think, little human? You not pretty enough for royalty."

The general's jaw clenched at those words.

"My greatest general needs a wife. Someone to satisfy his... particular needs." The king's smile turned knowing. "You need to live. Everyone wins."

Particular needs? The way he said it, the way the general's hands fisted, sent liquid heat pooling between my thighs.

"He doesn't look thrilled," I managed.

"He very thrilled," the king corrected. "Aren't you, old friend? Been watching her since we brought her in. Practically begged for the assignment to fetch her."

Color darkened the general's cheeks. "My king—"

"Oh, don't be shy now, Vorak. Not when you about to get what you want."

Get what he wants. Words hung heavy with promise.

"So," King Gromar said. "Choose. Marriage or death."

I looked at Vorak. Really looked. Beyond the warrior's build and intimidating presence, I saw exhaustion in his shoulders, shadows under his eyes. Scars that told stories of survival, not just victory.

And the way he looked at me—hunger, yes. Raw want. But also recognition.

"Marriage," I said, voice rough.

Triumph flared in Vorak's molten lava eyes. Triumph and heat…

King Gromar clapped once. "Tomorrow then. Tonight, you get acquainted." He gestured to the guards. "Take her to the general’s quarters. Chain her there. Let them... get to know each other."

"Time to go," the king said, gesturing to his guards.

As they approached, one of the guards who'd brought me in, the smaller one who'd ordered me to stand, leaned close as he grabbed my arm.

"You should have chosen death, girl," he muttered, almost pitying. "Would have been quick."

Before I could respond, he was steering me toward the throne. The guard released me to Vorak. I stood before him, mouth dry.

"Walk," he ordered, shoving me in front of Vorak.

Our eyes met for a heartbeat. His jaw clenched, the muscles in his neck tightening.

His tusks caught the torchlight as his lips parted in something not quite a snarl, not quite a smile.

Something darker. Hungrier. His copper eyes dropped to where the guard's rough handling had made my tunic slip off one shoulder, exposing the curve of my collarbone.

"Careful," Vorak said to the guard, though his eyes never left mine. "She's now mine."

The guard stepped back.

Vorak moved behind me to guide me forward, and that's when his hand brushed my lower back, possessive, fingers spreading to claim as much skin as possible through my tunic. He was glad I hadn't chosen death.