Page 30 of Wed to the Orc Captive

They were joking with each other, stepping over the ground that was spattered with Vrathgar's blood. One of them had his sword and was looking at the etching on the blade, while the big one was still kneeling on his back, pulled out a knife.

“Don’t kill him yet,” I said, detached. “He wanted my body so much, let him watch.” And men are always ready to believe someone else is like them, that we’re as debauched or as cruel as they are. I dipped soup into the bowls, and it smelled like the wild onion that was supposed to take the edge off his wounds, and now someone was wrenching his hands behind his back to tie, and I wasn’t going to let myself look at the face I’d kissed last night, at the fresh bruises spreading over the old ones, because I was a fool, a mercenary fool. The smiling one took a bowl out of my hands. The one that had tackled him first caught the edge of my sleeve, and rough fingers rubbed into my shoulder, and I thought I could scrub and scrub my skin and never feel clean again. I held a bowl out to him, like this was nothing, like I did this every day.

“You surprise me, orc-follower. Annora, was it?” The smiling one spoke between bites, the sheen of what was supposed to feed us on his lips. “So I take it you are the spoils of war?”

“My people sold me to solve the orc problem.” The large one with the beard had left Vrathgar and was stepping over, and I held out the third bowl, hoping his hunger was stronger than any other urge.

“I take it from the dearth of supply that your master lied about the numbers.”

“No one is coming,” I said, dull, momentary relief sinking into me as he took the bowl instead of my arm.

“I figured.” The quiet one slurped.

The giant's brows knitted over the untouched food. “Is he really Droth?” he said. “I don’t want trouble.”

“I couldn’t tell,” I said. “But we met Droth, and we ran from them.”

“Shut up and eat, Dewan,” the first one said. “The Droth don’t care about stragglers and runaways. They care about chieftain’s honor, convoluted rules.” He waved towards me. “They’re more likely to be after the blonde than worried about him.”

I wondered if that was true, if whatever I became after this meal would have the shadow of that horde still chasing me. I picked up the knife and stirred.

“If he’s running this way, could be he’s one of the other tribes.” The fast one assessed me. “You said they sold you from one of the towns?”

“Brackshire.” I had no reason for secrets.

“Why would the orcs make a deal like that?”

The smiling one scoffed at him, licked a finger. “A lot of these towns think the orcs are entranced by women, like they’re fae beasts, isn’t that right? And what’s easier to pay them, a filly or a reasonable bribe?” He smirked at me. “Won’t work with the Droth, though. As I’m sure the bird now understands.” He looked over at the bloody heap that an hour ago had been my husband. “What about you? Did the magic broad work on you? Are you cured of violence?”

Vrathgar didn’t answer. The fast one frowned, started to stand⁠—

“I think it was working,” I said, in a rush. Because I was a weakling, because I didn’t want to see him hurt. Because I’d destroy myself and everything. “He got gentler. In bed.”

There was a second of silence, before one honked out a guffaw. My heart was pounding, and I wished I had the words to pray. They were making jokes and lewd suggestions, and I was denying my gaze to the only man here who felt like he mattered, because I didn’t think I could endure seeing his face. The smiling one was laughing, looking across the fire at me, and I knew that his faster friend could be next to me in an instant, knew however quick I was with the knife I couldn’t be fast enough. I had to stay alive. I would not think about the next moment, the next hour. He was speaking, and I watched the shape of his lips, forced myself to resolve them into words.

“...so what do you say, orc-girl? A fair offer?”

“What?” I whispered.

“Not listening. We'll have to do something about that.” Teeth glimmered. It was a human face. I should feel something, looking into that face, but I didn’t. Maybe I really was cold. “I offered you a deal, to repay us for being rescued. What do you think? Do you think you can take care of us three lost souls?” The dark-haired one snorted. I should feel something. Maybe I was a monster. I watched his face. His smile faded, turning ugly, predictable, his brows resolved into a frown as he reached up to his mouth to touch the corner where drool oozed down his chin.

“Are you alright?” I rasped. “You look odd.”

To my other side, the fast one, the one who’d hit him first, fell over, the convulsions starting as Bogdana’s powder kicked in.

Ronnel’s fingers came back from his mouth pink with blood. His eyes widened, horror. “You crazy bitch,” he bellowed. “She poisoned…she didn’t eat—" That was all that was understandable before the words cut off in bubbles, in foam. At least he fell away from the fire.

I should feel something, shouldn’t I? If I was selling my soul, and I should feel something, and I didn’t.

A fist gripped my collar. “What is this?” The bearded one was screaming. The third one. The largest. “What did you do to them, witch? Fix it! Fix it now!” He gripped my throat, and squeezed.

He was the largest. He’d eaten last. How long?

Bogdana would promise him an antidote. Bogdana would grind up acorns and dandelion roots and say comforting words. People lived and died on hope. They especially died on it. But I couldn’t get air to speak. There was a little fleck of foam on his beard. I just had to say it, please. Please. And then I remembered that I didn’t.

I pulled the knife back and jammed it deep under his ribs.

His eyes bulged, and I kept pressing, as my hand went wet and hot, my wrist, down the front of my dress. I twisted.