Page 17 of The Princess and the Orc

Amalia perched on the edge of Drogath's bed in his chambers as darkness crept across the sky, her thoughts as tangled as her emotions. The room was sparse but comfortable, decorated with furs and weapons that spoke of a warrior's life. She'd been so foolish, acting like she was doing him some great favor by deigning to be his mate. All along, she'd been just another piece in a political game. And to think she'd thought, for once, someone wanted her for herself, not her status, not as the princess, not her throne.

Her cheeks burned as she remembered how she'd looked down on him at first, treating him like some simple barbarian when he was actually the leader of all the orc clans. Or would be, once he secured his position, with her help. The thought made her stomach turn.

Dawn was painting the sky in shades of pink when Drogath finally returned. He filled the doorway, his massive frame casting long shadows across the floor. Even exhausted, he moved with the fluid grace of a predator, though she could see the weight of command in the slump of his shoulders.

“We'll be in battle by nightfall,” he said without preamble.

Amalia kept her eyes fixed on the far wall, refusing to acknowledge him. The silence stretched between them like a physical thing.

He sighed heavily. “I think you should return to your father. You should never have come here.”

“But you needed me here, at least to make a showing,” she said, bitterness sharp on her tongue. “How else would you have taken the role of chief of all orcs if not for having a human princess as your mate? Proof of an alliance with my father. Now you don’t need me anymore and I can be shuttled off, where you can ignore me.”

“Is that what you think?” His voice was dangerously quiet. “That I orchestrated all of this just to outmaneuver Korroth?”

“Didn't you?” She finally turned to face him, anger giving her courage. “You saw me in danger and saw an opportunity. The perfect way to secure both an alliance and your position as chief.”

“That's not…” He broke off, running a hand over his face. “Yes, I saw the advantage when I found you in the forest. And yes, I wasn't entirely honest with you or your father about my position among my people.”

“You lied to me. Lied to all of us.” The words tasted like ashes in her mouth.

“I wanted you to know me as just Drogath first. Not as the challenger for leadership of all orc clans.” He took a step toward her, but stopped when she flinched. “I wanted you to care for me, not my status.”

She laughed, the sound brittle. “Well, now you'll never know, will you? I want to go home.”

The words hung in the air between them. Drogath's face might have been carved from stone.

“So be it,” he said finally. “I’ll send you with a company of our best warriors.”

“No.” She stood, drawing herself up to her full height, though it still left her barely reaching his chest. “You need every orc you have for the battle. I'll go with my three guards. No one will care about me now. They're all focused on killing orcs.”

Something flashed in his dark eyes, pain, perhaps, or regret. “For what it's worth,” he said softly, “I do love you.”

Amalia turned away, blinking back tears. “Goodbye, Drogath.” She moved toward the door on unsteady legs, then paused with her hand on the frame. “I hope you got everything you wanted.”

She fled before he could respond, before she could see if her words had hurt him as much as he had hurt her.

Captain Crispin stood outside. “Your Highness. Is everything okay?”

“No, We’re going home. Immediately.”

He glanced over her shoulder and she stiffened, knowing Drogath stood behind her. A silent moment passed, then the captain nodded. “As you wish. I will gather the horses and the men.”

* * *

Drogath didn’t know how long he lingered in his chambers after Amalia left. The silence was suffocating, pressing against him like the weight of a boulder. This homecoming had gone nothing like he had planned. He had imagined easing Amalia into clan life, giving her time to adjust, to see that his world was not as savage as she feared. He had hoped to gently reveal the truth, that he was more than just a chieftain. He was a contender for the throne of all orcs.

Now, all of it was ash in his mouth. Never mind the human army breathing down their necks. He had already lost something far greater. His mate. His future.

He raked a hand through his dark hair, his claws grazing his scalp as frustration coiled tight in his chest. His blood burned with the weight of a past that refused to let go. He had been born with an advantage. His father had been king, but that advantage came with a bitter curse. Many still blamed his father for the retreat to the mountains, for ceding their ancestral lands to the humans when Darea’s aggression had become too great. And then there was the greater wound, the one that festered in the back of his mind like an infection. His parents’ murder.

No one had ever uncovered the truth. They had died in a raid, supposedly by human hands, but the wounds on their bodies told a different story. Orc weapons had done the deed. Perhaps humans had wielded them, knowing it would sow discord among the clans. Or perhaps it had been other orcs, traitors within their own kind. He had always suspected his uncle, Korroth’s father, but without proof, he had no recourse.

A title was not inherited in their world. It had to be earned, fought for with blood and steel. Drogath had been too young when his father fell, and in the chaos that followed, the throne remained empty, fought over by too many unworthy hands. For years, the clans had torn at one another like starving wolves, but now, the battle lines had been drawn. Two contenders remained. Drogath. Korroth.

Whoever survived the coming war and led an army to the final field of battle would be crowned king.

But tonight, Drogath felt like he had already lost.

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