Page 1 of Bound to the Orc Warlord

CHAPTER ONE

Ashley

The door of my boss’s office creaks as I inch it open. Shit! Since when does this freaking thing creak? I freeze, straining to hear over my pounding heart if anyone’s coming to check. Booming voices and male laughter echo down the hall. It’s the end of the workday on Friday, and the guys have started the party early, like always. Why hadn’t I ever realized that buying a bunch of pizza and booze every Friday evening isn’t anything a real charity would waste money on?

“It’s good,” I breathe out the faintest of whispers, trying to psych myself up. “Just do it.”

I chickened out last week, so this is my last chance. The big fundraiser is next weekend, and the wealthy of New YorkCity will open their wallets and pour millions of dollars into a “charity” they think will help orphaned kids.

But it’s all a scam.

Disappointment curdles my stomach as I slip into the dark office. I’d been so excited to get a job right out of college, especially one at a nonprofit supporting a cause I truly believe in. It had felt unreal that they’d hire me without any experience.

Now I know Mr. Caprio hired mebecauseof my inexperience. He thought I’d be too green to notice the strange money transfers or the way he slammed his private laptop shut every time I came into his office.

I creep my way over to his sleek, modern desk, clear of everything but two computers, a desktop with a large monitor, and his small laptop shoved off to the side. While the big monitor swirls with a screensaver, I crouch behind the desk and open the small laptop.

He’s made two mistakes. One, he underestimates me, and two, he uses the same passwordeverywhere.

When the laptop screen lights, my fingers fly across the keyboard, typing in said password. The files with the embezzlement scheme are in the documents folder. I try to open a browser and email them to the newspaper, but the laptop won’t connect to the internet. When I check the settings, there’s no wifi card installed. Shit! It’s one of those air-gapped computers completely cut off from the internet.

I shove my keychain flash drive into a port, and a series of warnings pop up. I try to dismiss them, but it’s no good. Mr. Caprio might be lazy about coming up with passwords, but someone set this computer up with some serious security. I’m no computer wizard and couldn’t break it even if I had time. Which I don’t.

My eyes flick to the door. This is all taking longer than I want, and my stomach roils in protest as another spurt of anxiety goes through me.

There’s only one other thing I can think of. I pull out my phone and send a text to a reporter who loves to write scathing whistle-blowing exposés. After typing a quick explanation about the charity being a scam, I start snapping photos of the documents on the laptop screen, sending them as fast as they’ll go through.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, wishing I’d been able to afford a faster network connection instead of the bargain-basement plan.

With shaking fingers, I snap the last few pics, close all the files, and shut the laptop. All I have to do now is sneak out the back way while I continue to send the photos. A wash of elation rushes through me. I can’t believe I’m going to get away with this!

Mr. Caprio’s voice echoes from the hallway, and my heart leaps into my throat.

Shit!

I duck even lower behind the desk and try to crawl into the space underneath. If this were a movie, I’d be an actress thin enough to fully hide. But this is reality, so one whole hip sticks out, covered in the bright green of my favorite dress. I’d picked it to give me confidence, but now I wish I’d worn black.

Maybe he’ll grab something from the table by the door and not see me.

The latch clicks on the door, and brightness floods the room.

Are those footsteps? I hold my breath, but I can’t hear anything over the pounding of my heart. Several seconds pass as I stare at the blinking “sending” on my phone. The last photo goes through, and I let out a silent sigh. I did it! I got the information out!

A hand clamps onto my shoulder and drags me out from under the desk.

I yelp, my eyes flying upward as I’m yanked to my feet.

Nick Caprio looms over me, built like a guy who played football in high school but has let himself go a little now that he’s in his late twenties. He gets his fancy suits tailored to hide his softening middle and looks great. Dark eyes flash in his handsome tanned face, his brown hair cut to fall perfectly across his wide brow.

“Why were you hiding? What are you doing in here?”

While I try to think of a good excuse, my eyes dart guiltily to the laptop. I can’t help it. I have an absolutely shit poker face.

“Oh, Ashley, I wish you hadn’t done that.” He twists a lock of my red hair around his finger. The gesture is gentle, his tone wistful. Then Mr. Caprio’s face hardens. “Why couldn’t you be what you seemed? The smiling fat girl so eager to please her gorgeous, rich boss.”

My cheeks broil with mortification as I remember all the times I thought he flirted with me because helikedme. God, I used to daydream about exactly what he’s saying—that he’d pull up in front of my crappy apartment building in a limo and ask me to fly away with him on a tropical vacation. I’d be daring and wear the pink bikini that shows off my plump stomach, and he’d take his time rubbing sunscreen all over my pale, freckled skin.

But his flirting was more lies, all told to make me too enamored of him to question anything he said or did.

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