“Because you’ve been around a really long time,” I say, biting into a tangy purple vegetable I don’t know the name of.
“One way of outliving them,” he chuckles. “What did you think of his book?”
“I think he hated you too much to be honest about everything,” I admit. “He wrote a lot about The Salting and the Reparations Treaty, but he didn’t mention the virus. Or the rift. Even the books in Troona mentioned those.”
King Lix’tuk’s amusement fades a little. “Did they?”
“Yes,” I say. “They just made it sound like things humans regretted. Mistakes. Not… atrocities.”
“Mistakes,” he repeats, like the word tastes worse than his grog.
“Mistakes we were paying for. Every month, whenever a second-born turned twenty-one.” I glance down at my plate, my stomach flipping from either the memory or the strawberry drink. “There were four of us on my train.”
His jaw tightens. “Four?”
“Me, Rose, Cedar, and Jasmine,” I say, naming them before I can stop myself. “That was just from Troona. I don’t know how many were actually at The Grand Hotel. I assume a lot more than four.”
“And Concord City does this every month?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Humans always find a way to make cruelty efficient.” He looks down at his grog like it has personally offended him. “Why didn’t you run? Make your own way. Your country is as big as Uzrirgard. Filled with gems and minerals that can be mined. Surely there’s plenty of work.”
“I couldn’t let my family get whipped!” I say more harshly than a little human girl should say to a king. “I mean… I love them. My little sister might be spared in a town like Troona, but my parents and older sister wouldn’t be.”
He sips his grog and continues eating. I feel a twinge of worry. I know he doesn’t respect weakness. Is that what he sees my hesitation as? Weakness, because I was concerned about my family? If that’s the kind of weakness an orc king doesn’t respect, then I guess he’ll never respect me.
“Humans introduced us to the whip,” he growls. “Tortured the orcs they managed to take alive. Whippings only enraged us, but we found they’re quite effective for controlling your kind. Just like a collar and leash.”
“It controlled us,” I admit, sipping my water, then shuddering when I remember the dungeon. “I guess it still does.”
He glares at me, eating some meat before washing it down with grog. His dark eyes flicker with something I can’t name. Pity,perhaps? Maybe I am a weak little girl, terrified of something that only enraged orcs, admitting my fears instead of hiding them behind a smile like I always did in Troona.
“I don’t think you deserve scars, Clover,” he says. “I won’t whip you unless you do something foolish, like try to run away. I’m assuming you’re notthatfoolish.”
I stare at him blankly for a moment. It’s not pity, it’s mercy. Not just physical, but mental. Maybe King Lix’tuk is a merciful drunk. The foot of his bedismore comfortable than my straw mattress in Troona. It could be worse. So much worse.
“I won’t try to run away,” I say genuinely. “Especially if you don’t hurt me.”
“Don’t put words in my mouth,” he rumbles, chuckling under his breath. “I’ll still put you over my knee if I have to.”
My bottom twitches slightly, then my core horrifyingly does the same, and heat floods my face.
“I’ll be on my best behavior,” I squeak out.
“I bet you will,” he says, finishing his last bite and draining the rest of his grog. “But if you aren’t going to run away, I won’t make you wear the collar all the time.”
He leans over and removes it. The relief is immediate. I rub my neck and swallow a few times to get used to the way it feels without it.
“Thank you,” I say.
King Lix’tuk waits patiently while I finish my meal. I clear the table without being asked and carry the dishes into the kitchen. The coffee cups from this morning are still on the counter, asare our plates from lunch. Beverly usually handled the dishes in Troona, but I guess there’s nobody here to do them but me. I doubt King Lix’tuk bothers himself with such rudimentary things.
I’m moving the dishes to the wash basin with a spout that is apparently called a sink when King Lix’tuk steps into the kitchen. He ignores me at first, grabbing another bottle of grog from the fridge. Once he removes the cork and takes a sip, he gives me a curious look.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I was going to wash the dishes,” I explain, picking up the coffee cups. “Back home, we just wiped them down, but I can actually clean them properly here.”
