Page 17 of Scoring the Orc

Yeah. I was fucking unleashing all the aggression that Emilia has been working up in me. There’s something about her innocence that I want to ruin, her compliance that makes me want to push her until she breaks. I want to see her come undone because of me, know I’m the only one who can control her, and then put her back the way I want.

In other words, I’ve become obsessed.

Obsessed with her. Obsessed with breaking her. Obsessed with being the only one to claim every part of her battered soul.

Hrogun bumps into me, pulling me from my thoughts. “Everything alright, Captain?”

We’re almost to my home and I can see movement behind the window facing me. I have one of the largest homes on our base, a mix between the dark elves’ style of mansion and the rustic mobile camps most orc clans are known for. It’s big but still breathable, not full of useless shit I have no need for like an elf.

“Fine,” I huff and break away from them toward Emilia. I swear that girl has magic with the way she’s fucked with my brain and just being around her pisses me off.

Probably because I don’t like feeling so out of control.

I smother the thought, annoyed at it, as I slam through the front door. All I know is I want to find her, to make her pay for making me feel this way. Maybe she doesn’t deserve it, but if that’s the case then her sad eyes and fear shouldn’t make me so fucking hard.

She’s in the courtyard, hanging freshly washed linens. I watch her from the shadows for a moment, her movements careful and precise. She’s trying so hard to be perfect, to avoid my wrath. But I want to see what happens when she’s pushed too far.

“Emilia,” I call out, stepping into the light. She jumps, nearly dropping the sheet she’s holding.

“Yes, Jurto?” she replies, her voice steady but her eyes betraying her nervousness.

I stride over to her, grabbing a corner of the sheet and yanking it from her hands. “You’re doing it wrong,” I sneer. “Can’t you do anything right?”

She flinches. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll fix it.”

I step closer, invading her space. “You’re always sorry, but nothing ever changes. Maybe you need a better lesson.”

Her green eyes flare with something that looks almost like anger. For a moment, she opens her mouth as if to say something, but then she closes it, lowering her gaze. I can feel the tension building within her, the defiance simmering just beneath the surface. It’s intoxicating.

But then the flames die out and she just nods her head.

I’m almost disappointed. Because that one moment with her defiance made me want to bend her over and fuck it out of her.

I liked it more than her sad gaze or her tears. I like those, too, would love to see her cry as she begged me for more. But that fire… It makes me want to break her even more until she is a weeping mess for me and realizes that she will have to submit.

It’s been three days of Emilia being too submissive. I hate it.

She’s not crying. She’s not fighting me. And I know there is more in her. I want it, want to crack her open and take it all for myself.

Today, I find her in the study, dusting the shelves. She’s meticulous, careful with every movement. I watch her for a moment, the way her slender fingers trace the spines of the books. There’s a grace to her, a quiet strength that she tries to hide.

“Emilia,” I say, my voice breaking the silence. She startles, her back stiffening.

“Yes, Jurto?” she responds, turning to face me.

I walk over to her, my eyes never leaving hers. “You missed a spot,” I say, pointing to a perfectly clean shelf.

She looks where I’m pointing, confusion clouding her features. “I’m sorry, I’ll clean it again,” she says, reaching for the rag.

“No,” I say, grabbing her wrist. “You’re not getting it. You’re too focused on the task, not on the bigger picture.”

She frowns, a flicker of frustration crossing her face. “What do you mean?” she asks, her voice tinged with exasperation.

What the fuck do I mean? I just want to make her angry, to put her a little further.

“You’re too careful,” I say, my grip tightening on her wrist. “Always trying to be perfect. It’s pathetic.”

She tries to pull her wrist from my grasp, but I don’t let go. “I’m just doing what you asked,” she says, her voice trembling with anger and fear.

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