She looked at me, then at the bath, then back at me. Her meaning was brutally clear.You are filthy. Make yourself clean.
She let the curtain fall, leaving me in the small, steamy space. I stood there for a long moment, the warmth from the water doing nothing to chase the chill from my bones.
This was not a cell. But it was not freedom. I was not a prisoner in a dungeon, destined for the rack. I was something else. Something to be washed, groomed, and prepared.
As I stripped off my tunic, the last remnant of Kael the soldier, and sank into the scalding water, the full, horrifying truth of my situation finally landed. I had not been brought to a military fortress to be interrogated. I had been brought to hishome. Shepherded by hismother. The bath was not a kindness. It was a preparation. I was being scrubbed clean, not for my own comfort, but like an offering being readied for the altar.
I was not a pet in a gilded cage. I was a broodmare being brought to the stud. And that felt infinitely more terrifying.
Chapter 7
Korvak
The walk from my longhouse to my brother’s was a journey through the heart of my victory. The stronghold was alive with a triumphant energy I had not felt in my lifetime. Warriors I had known since they were tuskless pups clapped me on the shoulder, their faces split in victory grins. The scent of roasting meat and brewing ale hung thick in the cold mountain air, a promise of the celebration to come. They saw me as the hero of our people, the general who had finally turned the tide. They saw the Bonecrusher. They did not see the man whose every thought was currently tangled around a small, red-haired human female.
My brother, Kazgar, held court in the Great Lodge, the oldest and largest of the longhouses, its timbers dark with the smoke of a hundred generations of chieftains. He and I were twins, born on the same winter night, but where the spirits had marked me for war, they had marked him for rule. He sat on theChieftain’s Seat, a massive throne of ironwood and dragon bone, flanked by his two wives, Ilyana and Zora. They were strong Orcish females, proud and sharp-eyed, the mothers of his heirs. They nodded to me with respect as I entered.
“Brother,” Kazgar greeted, his voice a familiar, rumbling bass. Unlike me, he wore the layered furs and bone adornments of a chieftain, not the practical leather of a general. “The outriders brought news of your victory. You have done what our father could not.”
“I took a single city,” I corrected, stopping before the hearth in the center of the hall. “It is a foothold, nothing more. The humans will not let this stand.”
“Let them send their legions,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “They will break upon our mountains. You’ve given our people more than a city, Korvak. You have given them hope.” He leaned forward, his dark eyes, so like my own, boring into me. “And I hear you have given yourself something as well. A human mate?”
The words, spoken so casually in the warmth of the hall, struck me with the force of an unexpected blow. A dull heat crept up my neck. I, who had faceddown charging cavalry without flinching, was flustered by a simple question. The beast in my blood stirred, a possessive, primal thing that recognized the wordmateas a brand of ownership.
“A prize of war,” I deflected, my voice coming out tighter than I intended. “A necessity.”
Kazgar smiled, a slow, knowing expression that always infuriated me. He knew me better than any living soul. “Of course. Purely political.” His wives exchanged a look of faint amusement. “Well, I congratulate you on your… victory. Rest your warriors. We will feast tonight. We can plan the next stage of the reclamation when their bellies are full and their spirits are high.”
I gave a curt nod, eager to escape his perceptive gaze. “As you command, Chieftain.”
As I walked back through the stronghold, the congratulations of my people felt different. They were not just celebrating a military victory now; they were celebrating the continuation of our line. Orcs were a practical people. A general taking a mate—even a human one—was a sign of stability, of a future. I had been popular enough among the unclaimed females of our allied clans, but none had ever stirred more than apassing, physical interest. I had taken my pleasure on campaigns, in the border towns, but never within our own stronghold. It was a matter of respect. Nothing had ever been worth the complication.
Until now. Until a slip of a girl with eyes like a storm and the spirit of a cornered wolf had charged me in the middle of a slaughter.
When I entered my own longhouse, the familiar scent of woodsmoke, curing leather, and my mother’s herb bundles was overlaid with something new. It was her scent. Clean now. The scent of heather and iron, stripped of the battlefield’s grime, was a clean, sharp note in the air that went straight to my gut.
And there she was.
She stood by the fire, her back ramrod straight. She was not wearing the soft wool dress my mother had left for her. Instead, she wore one of my own gods-damned tunics. The dark leather garment, meant for my frame, swallowed her whole. The hem fell to her knees, the sleeves hung past her hands, and the shoulder seams slumped halfway down her arms. It was absurd. It was also the most blatant act of defiance I had ever witnessed.
My mother, Grakka, stood by the hearth, her arms crossed, a look on her face that was equal parts exasperation and deep, grudging respect. “Her rags were fit only for the fire,” she said in Orcish, her voice dry. “I offered her a woman’s clothing. She chose yours instead.”
I looked at the girl. Her face was pale, but her chin was high. She was daring me. Daring me to be angry, to punish her for this small, potent rebellion. The beast in me roared with approval. This was no docile, weeping creature. This was fire.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mother,” I said, my voice carefully neutral.
Grakka’s eyes glinted. She walked over to me and placed a hand on my arm, her wrinkled skin tough as old leather.“You will have your hands full with this one, my son,”she murmured, her voice too low for the human to hear.“That is good. A strong male needs a strong mate.”She squeezed my arm.“Congratulations.”And with that, she swept from the longhouse, leaving the two of us utterly alone.
The silence that descended was thick and heavy. The air crackled with it. The fire popped and hissed, the only sound.
I took a step toward her, and I smelled it instantly. Underneath her clean, natural scent was the sharp, acrid tang of fear. It was not the shrieking terror of the civilians in the square, but the high, alert tension of a trapped animal that knows the predator is closing in. The smell of it did something unexpected. It did not ignite my predatory instincts. It banked them. The desire to see that fear extinguished was a sudden, overwhelming need.
She took a small, involuntary step back, her eyes wide. I stopped, keeping a respectful distance between us. I was a mountain of muscle and battle scars; to her, I must seem like the apocalypse in a tunic.
“I will not force you,” I said, my voice low and steady in the common tongue. The words felt strange, inadequate, but necessary.
She stared at me, her expression a mask of disbelief. Her whole body was braced for an attack.
