Page 42 of Orc's Pretend Mate

“Good,” one of them growls. “Smart. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

I struggle, but the hand on my throat is unyielding. I glance at Vapas, willing him to fight, to find a way out, but the odds are too stacked against us.

One of them steps towards him with bindings in their hand. Vapas looks sick, staring at the ropes then back to me.

Sorry.He mouths the word and my heart shatters as my stomach drops to the floor.

The door bursts open with a deafening crash. Two Urr’ki figures storm inside and the room again explodes into chaos.

26

PHOEBE

The room erupts into a frenzy as the door bursts open. The grip on my throat tightens reflexively, cutting off my airway. The two new Urr’ki fill the space with sheer force and determination. Their presence is commanding while their movements are swift and deliberate.

One of them, a tall figure with a jagged scar running across his jaw, charges straight for the Urr’ki holding me. The iron grip on my throat vanishes and I collapse to the ground, gasping for air.

“Phoebe!” Vapas shouts over the noise of the fighting.

Before I can fully comprehend what’s happening Vapas positions himself between me and the violence. I push myself to a sitting position. I’m disoriented and lost, uncertain of who is who in the dim light. I anchor myself on to Vapas.

The smaller of the new Urr’ki moves with a speed that is terrifying. He strikes with precision, disarming one of our attempted captors with a single motion that ends in a sharp crack. The would-be ambusher crumples to the floor.

I scramble backward on my hands. My throat is burning as I struggle to regain my composure. Vapas crouches beside me, his eyes scanning me for injuries.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice low and urgent.

I shake my head, too breathless to answer. My eyes focus past him on the fight. The resistance, or what I hope is the real resistance, is holding their own.

“Stay behind me,” Vapas orders, rising to his full height.

The scarred Urr’ki delivers a brutal strike to one of the attackers, sending them sprawling into the table. It shatters under the impact, and the lantern rolls across the floor, its fragile flame guttering.

The attackers are retreating, dragging their injured along with them as they retreat from the room with curses and snarls. One spits on the floor before disappearing into the hallway, leaving us alone with what I hope are our saviors.

The scarred Urr’ki exhales, his chest heaving as he turns to face us. His gaze sweeps over Vapas, then lingers on me for a moment as if assessing something, but I don’t know what. He doesn’t speak right away. His gaze is sharp and calculating, resting on me for a beat too long, making the hairs on my arms prickle.

“Not what I expected,” he finally says, his voice gravelly and low.

The smaller Urr’ki steps forward, brushing dust from his hands. He narrows his eyes at Vapas.

“Are you an idiot?” the scarred one asks.

A tap, clack, tap comes down the hall behind them. My stomach churns wildly as cold spreads over my skin. What fresh hell iscoming to us now? Our rescuers, hearing the sound, tense and glance back to the door, but show no other outward reactions. Vapas backs up until we’re touching.

“No,” Vapas snaps at the scarred Urr’ki.

“You are a fool, though,” the other Urr’ki says.

The tap, clack, tap is coming closer. No one else is reacting to it which is stressing me out.

The tap, clack, tap grows louder, steady and deliberate. My heart pounds with every step. I grip Vapas’s arm, leaning into his solid presence for reassurance. The scarred Urr’ki stiffens, casting a glance toward the doorway, while the smaller one folds his arms over his chest, his gaze sharpening.

Finally, the source of the sound emerges. A figure limps into the room, leaning heavily on a pair of crutches carved from what looks like polished bone. They’re the same as the ones I saw at the booth across from us. Now I can see that he has a twisted leg which drags awkwardly behind him. A painful reminder of some past injury. His presence, however, is anything but weak.

His piercing gaze sweeps the room, assessing the wreckage and the tension that is thick in the air. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are sharp, calculating, and unnervingly calm. He halts just inside the doorway, the sound of the crutches falling silent as he surveys us.

“Well,” he says, his voice dry and rasping. “What a mess.”

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