Page 3 of Bound to the Orc Warlord

“Mom, if you’re there, I could really use your help.” The stone warms, and even though I know it’s impossible, I feelsomeonelistening. “I need to get out of here.”

There’s no way I can fight off Mr. Caprio or Bruno, let alone both. I work out, but I’m short and chubby and nowhere near their strength.

“I wish I could escape!”

A light flicks on above me, so bright I’m blinded, too bright to be the supply closet’s fluorescent bulb. Warm wind stirs my hair, smelling of pine trees and flowers. A beautiful song teases the edge of my hearing, the same melody my mother used to sing.

My heart skitters as I climb to my feet. I should be freaking out, but instead, excitement thrums through me.

“Boss!” Bruno yells. “She’s doing something in there.”

A white ball of light hangs over my head, swirling and flashing with little bolts of blue sparking off the edges. The music grows louder, and I start to hum along. This song—this special song I’ve only heard from my mother—resonates down to my bones.

The door flies open, Mr. Caprio looming. “What the fuck isthat?”

A lightness fills my chest with a giddy joy, and I laugh. My arms stretch toward the glowing sphere as I rise onto my tiptoes. I don’t know what the light is, but it feels soright.

“You ruined my whole scheme. You’re not getting away from me, you little bitch.” He lunges for me.

But I fly away, up into the light.

CHAPTER TWO

Dravarr

A tankard flies through the air, a dark-brown wave of ale splashing from it with a bloom of yeasty scent. Yells echo from the wooden walls of the pub as everyone surges to their feet with the scrape of wooden benches sliding across the floor.

“Say it again!” Krivoth yells, as eager to fight as always.

“Oh, I will.” Gerna pokes a finger into her brother’s chest, punctuating each word. “You’re. Never. Going. To. Get. A. Woman. Unless. You. Grow. Up.”

He bares his tusks, storm clouds darkening his green face. Whatever this is between them is a real fight, not a friendly scrap.

“You think the Moon Goddess is going to pick you to get a moon bound bride?” she taunts, throwing her arms wide. As thevillage healer, Gerna’s usually kind. But she’s an orc, like the rest of us. Krivoth clearly did something to rile her anger. “Why would she, when she can pick someone like Dravarr? A real male.”

I scowl, wishing she’d left me out of it. Siblings. They always know the tender spots.

Krivoth spins in my direction, all of his anger now directed my way. Seven feet tall with heavily muscled shoulders straining the fabric of his blue tunic, he’s built much like me. He wanted to be clan warlord, but when my mother stepped down, she named me as her successor. The king approved her decision—I’m clearly the orc for the job—but some part of Krivoth clearly wonders if I only got it due to family connections.

I could stop this fight before it even starts, use my position as warlord to force everyone to calm down.

My mother catches my eye, her expression eager. As tall and strong as any of us, she’s a warrior through and through and loves a good fight. Beside her, Rovann watches me closely. Instead of his usual cocky grin, his eyes are assessing. My brother has always been better with people than I am. He tips his chin minutely toward Krivoth.

He’s right. This bad blood has festered long enough. It needs to be settled once and for all. We have real enemies to be wary of—we don’t need trouble within the clan.

When I unbuckle my sword and set it aside, the crowd cheers, knowing what it means.

“No blades drawn.” I raise my fists into a ready stance. “No harm done.”

Krivoth echoes my words as he sets aside his weapon, accepting the ancient rite brought with us from Avalon, the Faerie realm my ancestors originally came from. We can pound each other to pulp—orcs heal rapidly—without striking a killing blow.

Krivoth yells and swings.

I block with my forearm and snap a punch toward his ribs. My long black hair swirls into my face, catching in my beard, and I brush it back with a snarl, wishing I’d had time to put it in a warrior’s braid. The only consolation is Krivoth’s hair also gets in his way.

Then there’s no more time for such worries. The strikes come fast and furious, our fists a blur in the air, our feet dancing across the sawdust-covered floor.

The blood beats in my veins, a wild elation filling me, muffling pain. Orcs are made for battle, larger and stronger than our cousins, the elves. As one of the Wild Fae, the thrill of the fight calls to me. My lips pull back from my tusks in a feral grin. Krivoth isn’t the only one who needs this.

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