Chapter 9
Clover
I’m bound to a whipping cross, just like the families of the second-borns who tried to escape before they were auctioned.
My wrists and ankles have rope around them that is tied to metal rings, but there’s enough give for my limbs to jerk when the whip inevitably cuts into my skin.
Most of the pressure is on my neck. The collar is tighter than the rope and there’s very little give.
If I lose my balance, I’ll be hanging from this collar like a noose until I can get back to my feet.
But I’d face this fate a thousand times before I’d ever let my family suffer.
Maybe that’s why I’m still hanging onto what little courage I have.
What little dignity is left now that I’m mostly stripped bare.
The tattered remains of the most expensive dress I’ve ever seen are bunched around my hips, the weight pulling my panties down another inch.
Once the whipping begins, I’m sure I won’t be able to stop myself from screaming. From thrashing. My dress will probably be around my ankles before he’s done, exposing more skin for the cruel orc king to scar.
But why hasn’t he started yet? I keep counting the first lash in my head, but it never comes.
“Do you regret not begging for mercy when you had the chance?” he growls, whip hanging from his hand.
“No, Your Majesty,” I answer, shaking my head and feeling the collar chafing my throat, doing my best not to cry. “Lady Frax’mo said orcs don’t respect weakness. I’ll take my lashes. I will not beg for mercy.”
“Taking your lashes will not make me respect you, little human girl,” he rumbles. “I don’t respect humans at all.”
How could he? He was alive during The Great War, leading his people in battle.
He saw the worst of our atrocities. Felt them firsthand.
Even in the old books I read, I understood we were villains.
I just didn’t realize how much hatred still remained.
Maybe I was a fool to believe wounds like that could ever heal, reparations or not.
“I understand your feeling that we don’t deserve your respect,” I say, a tear escaping. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and brace myself again. “Just do what you have to do.”
“I don’t have to do a damn thing,” he growls. “I could whip you. Not whip you. I could just leave you tied to that cross until there’s nothing left but a skeleton.”
“I understand that, Your Majesty,” I whisper, still waiting for the agony of the first lash, but every crack of the whip is only in my head. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
“I can even show mercy,” he says, his voice slightly less intense. “Whether you beg for it or not.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I acknowledge, too scared for any semblance of hope to bubble beneath my fear.
“Mercy comes in many forms,” he says, taking a step closer.
His large, warm hand presses on my back and I tense up as he moves it to the base of my skull, squeezing my neck just above the collar tightly enough to make me whimper.
“Some humans thought death was more merciful than the whip. It wouldn’t take much.
A quick snap of your neck. You probably wouldn’t even feel it. ”
I whimper louder. I’m sure I’m showing weakness now.
My entire body is shaking. Every time I hear the soft sound of the leather whip trailing along the floor, I tense up, wondering if I’m about to meet my end.
Maybe death would be more merciful than the whip.
I wouldn’t suffer. I won’t have to spend the rest of my life tormented by this cruel orc king.
“Is that what you really want, little human girl? To just be put out of your misery?” His thumb brushes the skin along my neck, creating a strange tingling sensation.
My life is essentially already over. The one I knew, at least. I’ve done my part.
I stood on the stage. I got auctioned. The money will ensure my family is taken care of.
But I can’t ask for death. I can’t accept it so easily.
A part of me still wants to fight for whatever life I have left, even if it is seen as weakness.
“No, Your Majesty,” I force out. “I don’t want to die.”
“So, this is where you’ll make your stand, is it?” he asks, his thumb still moving against the soft skin of my neck, just below my ear. “On the edge of death? If I remove the restraints, will you fall to your knees and beg me to spare your life?”
“If you’re going to spare me, it won’t matter if I’m on my knees or not,” I declare. “Begging for mercy won’t change anything, will it? It’s yours to give… yours to take away.”
“What if I like humans better on their knees?” he asks, still tormenting me with his thumb, the sensation almost maddening by how gentle it is compared to the pressure on my neck.
“If that’s what you expect from me, I’ll learn to walk on them,” I say. “But I won’t get on them to beg you to spare my life.”
His hand moves from my neck to my right wrist. I look up, confused, and see that he’s removing the restraint.
Hope flickers inside me, but I’m more scared of it than I am of him.
Does this mean he isn’t going to whip me?
If it does, am I truly being spared, or am I about to face a fate worse than the whip?
Even after I’m freed, I’m too terrified to move. I remain where I am, facing the cross, hands braced below the restraints now dangling beside my wrist. He leaves the collar around my neck but removes the rope securing it to the cross.
“You’re not like most humans,” he growls. “I haven’t decided if that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet, but I’m not going to whip you. Right now, at least.”
I slowly turn to face him, meeting his dark gaze, my knees still wobbly, despite what he said. My breasts are exposed, and when his eyes lower to them, I cover them with my arms. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Don’t be so quick to offer gratitude, little human girl,” he snarls. “You will still face a Reparations Penalty, but it won’t be the whip. I’m just going to put you over my knee.”
I know what that means. I’ve never experienced it, but Rose did when she was younger. Still, a sore bottom is better than unimaginable pain and wounds that will bleed for days. It’s mercy. I know that, whether he’s admitting it or not. It’s not something I’ll take lightly or easily forget.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I reply, nodding. “I understand.”
“But first, you need a bath,” he growls, turning away. “Wash that ridiculous paint off your face and scrub yourself clean. You still smell like Concord City, and I don’t want to smell that stench unless I’m watching it burn.”
I look around, not seeing any water, other than what has trickled from a crack in the wall behind the whipping cross. I gather the remnants of my dress and do my best to hold it in place.
“Can you show me where I should bathe?” I ask apprehensively.
“Yes, little human girl,” he growls, snatching a length of leather from the wall.
He attaches it to my collar, turning it into a leash.
“Since you’re going to be staying here with me in my final days, I guess I have to give you the grand fucking tour.
But I’ll just keep my little pet on a leash, so you don’t wander off. ”
I’m not sure how I feel about the leash, but it’s better than the whip.
He tugs on the leash as he walks toward the stairs, then he stomps up the steps like they’re nothing.
I struggle to keep up but there’s enough give in the leash that I don’t get dragged.
He’s definitely not an aged orc, even if he’s in his final days.
I’m scared to draw a breath, but the stairs force plenty.
I do my best to hold onto my dress. What’s left of it.
That proves to be a futile effort when I stumble on the stairs, and the fabric slides down my hips.
I reach for it, but a jerk on the leash prevents me from bunching the fabric before it hits the floor.
King Lix’tuk doesn’t stop to retrieve it, leaving me to stumble along behind him almost naked.
Despite how rough he’s being, he holds the door open when I reach the top of the stairs. That confuses me enough for gratitude to emerge.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I pant, walking past him, covering myself the best I can now that I don’t even have a tattered dress.
We’re in a hallway similar to the one outside his throne room. He keeps walking and tugging on the leash until he reaches the spot where I lost my shoe. He leans over, picks it up, and turns to me. His eyes roam across my exposed skin enough for me to turn red.
“In Uzrirgard, these usually work better in pairs,” he sneers, tossing it onto the floor, perfectly aligned with my foot.
“Thank you again, Your Majesty,” I sigh, slipping my bare foot into it.
“You can drop the your-majesty shit,” he mutters, continuing on. “Everyone in this fortress knows I’m a king, even the ghosts. You’re barely more than a pet.”
A pet? Is that why he put a collar and leash on me? I’m not sure if being an orc king’s pet is better than being his gift or companion, but at least he’s not whipping me.
“What should I call you?” I ask awkwardly, trying to keep up with him so that there is no pressure on my neck.
“King Lix’tuk is fine,” he says, stopping near a set of large metal doors. “Stand in front of them, in the middle,” he orders, pointing where I should go.
He lets go of the leash, so I hold my arms over my breasts and hurry to the spot. He slides a large, green finger across the wall and a screen appears. He taps it a few times, and a red light sweeps across my body.
“What was that?” I gasp, unsure what just happened.
Then the doors open, once again guided by some hidden mechanism.
“The doors will now respond to you.” He gestures for me to enter the kitchen before picking up my leash.
I walk in, and it’s nothing like the one in my family’s one-room shack. It’s massive, but I guess everything here is. I’m used to things being human-sized. Orc-sized is still taking some getting used to.
The kitchen is built from the same dark stone and metal as the rest of the fortress, but this room doesn’t look abandoned.
The counters are black stone, polished smooth enough to reflect the artificial torches mounted along the walls and ceiling.
The cabinets are etched with the same swirling designs I’ve seen everywhere else.
One wall is lined with glass-faced refrigerators, each one softly illuminated from within.
I can see neatly stacked containers inside, labeled in orcish symbols I can’t read.
Some hold meat. Some hold vegetables. Others hold things I can’t identify at all, though several look colorful enough to be fruit.
There’s no stove like the one my mother used back home.
No fire. No charcoal. No smoke-stained pot hanging over a burner.
Instead, strange devices are built into the counters, all metal and glass with glowing panels that light up when King Lix’tuk walks near them.
One looks like a box with a clear door. Another has a wide basin beneath a curved spout.
Warriors built this fortress for battle, but someone has dragged it into the modern age, making the kitchen look like something that belongs in Concord City or one of the large cities we passed on the way to Zrogmul.
“My food is delivered weekly. Since you’re going to be here, I guess you can prepare it,” he says, gesturing to the glass-faced refrigerators and strange devices. “That’s what some pets do for their orc masters.”
“I don’t know how to cook,” I say, swallowing hard.
He shakes his head and glares at me, adjusting his crown. “It’s already cooked. You really are a damn primitive, aren’t you? You place it in the Reviver, hit a button, and wait ten seconds.” He gestures vaguely toward one of the box-shaped devices with a clear door.
I look at it, feeling the tightness of the collar around my neck.
“I can handle that,” I say hesitantly. “I think.”
He shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he exits the kitchen. I follow behind him again, glancing at some of the paintings until we reach another door. He doesn’t stop.
“Library,” he growls, pointing at it.
I’d love to look, but I have to keep up with him. He calls out the names of the other rooms as we pass them. It doesn’t seem like he’s showing me the entire fortress, just the parts he uses. He finally stops in front of a door and it opens for him.
“You can bathe in here. There are a few robes. They’ll be big on you, but they should suffice for tonight.
I’ll have some clothes brought tomorrow,” he rumbles, unhooking the leash from my collar.
“Take your time, but I’m going to bed. I was just about to retire for the evening when Lord Frax’mo contacted me about my… gift.”
I stand there, rubbing the skin that’s chaffed from the collar, unsure if I’ve just been spared for the night or if I’m supposed to follow him.
He told me to bathe, so I guess he expects me to do that first. He also mentioned I would be going over his knee for my Reparations Penalty.
If he’s going to bed, I guess I won’t find out how much his big, heavy hand hurts tonight.
But as he walks down the hallway and turns the corner, I feel a twinge of panic.
“Wait, King Lix’tuk,” I call out. “After my bath, where do I sleep?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at me like he finds my question annoying. “My bedchamber is at the end of this hall. I figured you could find your own way there.”
My stomach drops. Of course. I’m not a guest. I’m not even a servant.
I’m a gift. A pet. I’m not na?ve enough not to know what men expect from women.
I knew exactly what the men who were bidding planned to do if they won.
If I’m King Lix’tuk’s companion during his final days, then I guess that means I’ll be sharing his bed.
That scares me more than a spanking, but I won’t fight it. Not after he spared me from the whip.
“Your bedchamber?” I repeat, my voice smaller than I want it to be. “I understand, King Lix’tuk.”
“You’ll sleep at the foot of my bed,” he growls, walking down the hallway. “Like all human pets in Uzrirgard. The ones who aren’t kept in cages, at least.”
Or maybe he won’t touch me like that. He just wants me at the foot of his bed like a pet. The foot of his bed is better than a cage. Better than being tied to a whipping cross. If that’s my place, then that’s where I’ll stay.
But first, I have to take a bath.