Her dress slides a little lower, exposing more of her ass as the weight of the fabric pushes her panties down a couple of inches. I can’t help the twitch beneath my armor, my dick reminding me that it isn’t as old as I feel. I haven’t bedded a woman since my wife died. Never bedded a human at all, but my cock doesn’t care about my hatred right now.
“Why didn’t they whip the second-borns when they ran?” I ask, walking to the wall, ignoring the pressure in my crotch.
“Second-borns were too valuable to whip,” she whispers. “Scars aren’t popular at the Reparations Auction.”
My hand hesitates when I get to the second whip. It’s the one I would expect to be used for the Reparations Penalty. The first is better for prolonged whippings when we want prisoners to suffer through more than fifty lashes. The third will leave wounds thatrequire medical treatment. It might even kill her, considering how small and fragile she is.
I don’t understand why I’m hesitating, but something about this still feels wrong. She’s a human. I should care more about the scum on my boots than her existence, no matter how much false courage she tries to hide her fear behind.
“What scares you more?” I ask, removing the whip from the wall, walking back behind her trembling form. “The pain that will make you scream or the scars you’ll wear for the rest of your life?”
“I don’t care about the scars,” she whispers, bracing herself on the whipping cross like she expects to feel my wrath at any moment. “You’re the only one who will ever see them.”
The whip hangs loose in my hand, the leather stretched across the floor, ready to be unleashed. Ready to deliver the kind of suffering humans earned long before this one was born.
I should like her answer. Knowing that her body will be forever marked as punishment for what her people did. That every time I’m forced to look at her, I’ll remember how much I made her scream. That might actually bring some comfort in my final days.
But I can’t bring myself to crack the whip.
Maybe time has dulled more than my blade.
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 bearound 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’thaveto 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 deathwouldbe 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.
