Chapter 2
The general's quarters were three floors up. My ankle throbbed with each step. I blinked back tears and hoped he did not see them.
When we reached his door, he dismissed the guards who'd followed us with a single gesture. They left without question. He opened the door and guided me inside, his hand never leaving my back.
I'd imagined chaos. Instead: order. A large room with actual windows—barred, but windows. The massive bed dominated the space, covered in dark furs. Built for someone his size. Built for fucking. My mind immediately supplied images of what he did in it. What he would do to me in it.
But what caught my attention were the books. Shelves of them. Books in Common, in Orcish script, even some in old tongue.
Vorak pulled a chain from his belt—when had he gotten that?—and knelt by the wall. His movements were efficient but not rough as he locked the shackle around my ankle.
"King's orders," he said, not quite meeting my eyes. "You're a spy. Can't have you wandering free."
He tested the chain's length, making sure it wasn't too tight against my skin. "Reaches the chamberpot. Water basin. Most of the room." A pause. "It's not my choice."
The last words were quiet, almost defensive. As if it mattered to him what I thought.
He stood, jaw tight. "Wait here."
He left without another word.
I sank onto the floor, back against the wall. Marriage. Tomorrow. To an orc who looked at me like he wanted to eat me alive, but who had also carried me and warned me to show strength.
The door opened again.
Vorak entered carrying a tray. The door shut with finality. He set the tray on the table—bread, meat, water—then turned to study me. His gaze traveled slowly down my body, lingering where my tunic had ridden up to expose my thighs.
"Eat," he said, voice rougher than before.
"Can't reach."
He picked up the tray and sat down beside me. Close. His thigh pressed against mine, heat seeping through fabric.
"You read," I said, needing distraction from his proximity.
"Does that surprise you?" He spoke Human Common more fluidly now. Had his halting speech before been an act? It seemed so.
"This entire place surprises me. Orc generals who read. Kings who honor diplomatic papers even when they know they're lies."
"We're not the savages your people paint us as."
"My people." I laughed, bitter. "My people sent me here to die."
He handed me bread, fingers brushing mine. "But you survived."
"For now."
"You'll continue to survive. You're too stubborn to die."
"You don't know me."
"I know enough." He tore off meat and held it out. When I reached for it, he pulled back, making me lean across him. My breast pressed against his arm. His breathing changed. "I know you're trained as a spy, but you won't dislocate your own thumb."
I froze. "How—"
"Your right thumb. The way you kept grabbing at it in the cell, then stopping. You know how but can't do it to yourself." He set down the meat and caught my right hand. His thumb traced over mine. "This was broken. Never healed right."
"Two years ago. During a mission that went wrong. A guard caught me mid-escape." I tried to pull my hand back. He held it. "He decided to help. Broke it in three places."
Vorak's jaw tightened. "Dead?"
"What?"
"The guard. Is he dead?"
"I... I don't know. I escaped, but—"
"Good."
"Good that I escaped?"
"Good you survived. That you're here now." His thumb was still stroking mine. "Mark trained you to dislocate it?"
"On corpses. Over and over until it was mechanical. But on myself..." I shrugged. "The first time I tried, right after the break healed, the pain was... I passed out. Mark was furious. Said I was weak. Useless."
"But he kept you, anyway."
"I was good at everything else. Better than good. And he'd already invested so much training in me. He started when I was seven, spent eleven years making me perfect." I finally pulled my hand free. "He said my inability to hurt myself was a character flaw he'd have to work around."
"It's not a flaw." Vorak's eyes were intent on mine. "It's preservation instinct. Your body knows the difference between surviving and self-destruction."
"Pretty words for cowardice."
"Pretty words for sense." He leaned closer. "Tomorrow night will be... intense."
"The king mentioned particular needs."
His eyes darkened. "King Gromar says too much."
"Then you tell me."
He shifted, and I felt the hard length against my hip. "Orc marriages aren't like human ones. When I claim you tomorrow night, it's complete. Your body will know mine in every way."
My breath caught. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise." His hand hovered near my face. "And if you keep looking at me like that, tomorrow might come early."
"Like what?"
"Like you're curious. You're wondering what my tusks would feel like against your skin. You're imagining my hands on your body."
I swallowed hard. He was right. "That's fear."
"Liar." But he pulled back. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
We sat in silence while I ate, but the air crackled with tension. When I finished, he stood.
"Where are you going?"
"To prepare. The ceremony requires... arrangements."
"Vorak."
He paused at the door.
"Why did you help me? With my ankle and warning me about the king?"
He was quiet. "Because you reminded me of someone."
"Who?"
"Someone who deserved better than fate gave them." He left before I could ask more.
Iwaited until full dark, then tested the chain.
The lock was solid, but the ring in the wall was old mortar and worn.
My lucky night. Or maybe unlucky, as my body wanted Vorak, and my body wanted to know what mating him would be like.
But I had my duty. So, I found a sharp edge on the bed frame and began working at it.
Hours passed. My fingers went numb, then bled. But finally, the ring loosened. I pulled the ring free and tested my weight on my ankle. Fire shot up my leg. In the hours since I'd been chained, it had stiffened. Walking on it like this would be impossible. I'd collapse before I reached the stairs.
I needed support. My eyes swept the room. The washing basin sat on a small wooden stand: crude but functional. One of its legs was loose, probably why it wobbled when I'd noticed it earlier.
I heard the guard shift change outside—voices calling to each other, boots on stone.
Perfect. I wrapped cloth torn from my undershirt around the loose joint to muffle sound, then worked the leg free during the noise of the guards talking.
The leg came off. It was solid oak, about as long as my forearm, meant to bear weight. This would work.
I tore more strips from my undershirt, then positioned the table leg against my ankle, running from mid-calf down past my heel.
The wood was sturdy enough to take my weight, keep the joint from flexing.
I wrapped it tight with the fabric strips, testing the binding as I went.
The next strip I wrapped around the bottom of my foot and the wood, then added another layer of cloth around the bottom to muffle the sound of wood on stone.
Testing my weight again, it was much better. Still painful, but the makeshift splint kept my ankle stable and bore some of my weight.
I wrapped the chain around my waist to muffle any clinking, then crept to the door. Each step was deliberate, using my good foot first, then carefully rolling my weight onto the splinted ankle.
Locked. But locks I could handle. I felt along my collar, where the hairpin was worked into the stitching itself.
Mark had taught us to sew them in as part of the thread pattern, invisible unless you knew exactly where to feel.
My bloody fingers were clumsy, numb. I had to use my teeth to work it free, tasting copper as I did.
The lock differed from human designs, but the principle was the same. Working by feel alone in the near-darkness, I had to steady my shaking hands. The blood made the pin slippery. I almost dropped it twice.
Finally, the tumblers fell into place. I opened the door.
The corridor was empty, lit by sparse torches.
Down was my best bet for escape. I kept to the worn carpet runners in the middle of the corridor where I could, but at intersections I had to move onto stone.
Each time, I placed my splinted foot with excruciating care, rolling my weight to minimize sound.
I made it past one corridor. Then another. Though the fabric was already spotted with blood where my ankle was swelling against the binding, the splint held.
A hand clamped over my mouth.
"Faster than I expected," Vorak whispered in my ear. His body pressed against my back, and I felt his erection against my rear.
I went rigid, then tried to elbow him. He held me tighter, not hurting but immobilizing me. His arm banded across my chest, right below my breasts.
"Shh. Guards patrol in three minutes. Unless you want to explain why you're wandering in chains, stop fighting."
He was right. Footsteps approached. He pulled me into an alcove, pressing me against the wall with his body shielding mine. The chain at my waist clinked.
"Breathe shallow," he whispered, lips brushing my ear. "They'll smell fear if you panic."
Two orcs passed, chatting. One laughed. They never looked our way.
When their footsteps faded, Vorak stepped back. Losing his heat left me cold.
"You knew I'd try to escape."
"I hoped you would."
"What?"
"It shows spirit. Intelligence. Refusal to accept fate." He touched my bloody fingers. "Though I hate that you hurt yourself."
"I heal."
"You shouldn't have to." He pulled out a key. "May I?"
I nodded. He unlocked the chain from my ankle. Relief was immediate.
"You're letting me go?"
"No. I'm giving you a choice." He stepped aside, clearing my path. "Run. Try to escape. You might make it to the gates before they catch you. Then they will execute you as a spy.
"Or?"
"Or come back with me. Sleep in an actual bed instead of on the floor. Tomorrow, marry me and live."
"Why would you want to marry someone who just tried to escape?"
"Because you tried. Because it shows your loyalty isn't easily put aside. Even to those who do not deserve it. Because—" He stopped. "Because I'm tired of being alone."
The naked honesty hit harder than any threat.
"I don't know you," I said.
"No. But you will." He held out his hand. "Your choice, Kaela."
He knew my name. Of course, he did.
I could run. Die on my feet rather than live in chains.
Or I could take the hand of an orc general who read books, cared for my wounds and was tired of being alone.
I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and solid. "Come. Let me tend those cuts."