Page 15 of The Princess and the Orc

“Mine,” he murmured against her hair, the word carrying all the weight of an orc mating claim. “Now and always.”

“Yours,” she agreed sleepily, snuggling closer. “My barbarian.”

He smiled at the drowsy note in her voice. He had finally found a mate worthy of him. But what would she think when she found out the truth?

ChapterNine

Amalia tugged at the unfamiliar fabric of her breeches, still uncertain about wearing such masculine attire. Women of her station wore dresses and would never be caught dead wearing such scandalous attire. Yet Drogath had delivered this outfit to her this morning, saying they needed to make good time on the road and she needed to be properly dressed. While it wasn’t appropriate, she felt free wearing breeches, able to move more easily and comfortably.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of autumn's approach as she stood in the castle courtyard, watching servants load the last of their supplies onto pack horses. Drogath argued with them about the amount of supplies, directing them to remove much of her things and the food, saying they could follow later.

“Stop fidgeting,” Drogath rumbled from behind her, his massive hands settling on her shoulders. “You look beautiful and practical.”

“No decent woman wears such things,” she muttered, though with less conviction than she might have had a week ago. The breeches allowed for easier movement, and the soft leather felt pleasantly supple against her skin.

His chuckle vibrated through her. “In our clan, we value functionality over ornamental beauty. Our women are warriors, hunters, leaders, not decorative objects to be admired from afar.” His fingers traced down her spine, making her shiver. “Though you manage to be both practical and breathtaking.”

A thrill ran through her at his words. Warriors. Hunters. Such roles had never been open to her before, constrained as she was by the expectations of court life. “You mean I could learn to fight? To hunt?”

“If you wish it, though, I will protect you with my life.” He moved around to face her, his dark eyes warm with affection. “You'll find we have different ideas about what makes a decent female among my people.”

Before she could respond, a familiar whinny caught her attention. Her heart leaped as she saw Shergar being led into the courtyard, saddled and ready for travel. Beside him was a massive bay stallion, clearly bred for carrying Drogath's considerable weight.

“We’re riding? Where’s the carriage? How will we bring my clothes? Our supplies? This isn’t acceptable.” Amalia protested.

“I thought you would be happy to have your horse, free to ride without the confines of a carriage,” Drogath said, a warning clear in his tone.

She sniffed. “I like to ride, but this isn’t a morning jaunt. You’re forcing me to leave my home. I don’t understand why we can’t just stay here. I’m a princess and you’re a regular orc. What do you have to go back to?”

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in to speak in a low voice. “Watch your tone, mate, or I’ll punish you here and you’ll be sore for the ride.”

“You wouldn’t!” She drew back and stared at him in shock.

He only arched an eyebrow. She considered his words for a moment, then decided it would be far better to back down than test him. “Fine. Do I at least get to ride by myself?”

His expression smoothed. “Of course. You're my mate, not my prisoner, and you’re an accomplished rider. I trust you to stay by my side by choice.” He paused, then added with a hint of fang, “Though if you try to run, I might have to spank you. Again.”

Heat flooded her cheeks at the memory, along with other places she tried not to think about in public. Another piece of her preconceptions about orcs, and him, crumbled away.

“Why such haste to leave?” she asked, changing the subject as she watched the five royal guards mount up. Her father had insisted on sending them, despite Drogath's protests. “Surely we could stay a few more days? And why are we riding? Not that I don’t like riding, but if we took a carriage, we could carry all the supplies.”

His expression darkened slightly, and he frowned into the distance. “I’ve delayed too long already. I must return to my clan. We must move swiftly. Your things, along with supplies, can follow more slowly.” Something in his tone suggested there was more he wasn't saying, but she knew better than to press him in front of others.

“Amalia.” Her father's voice drew her attention. King Henrik stood at the castle steps, looking older than she remembered. When had his face grown so drawn?

She ran to him, propriety forgotten as she threw herself into his arms like she had as a child, tears springing in her eyes. “Father.”

“Hush now.” He held her tight, his voice rough with emotion. “This isn't goodbye forever. You're barely a day's ride away, and with our new alliance, there will be regular communication between us and the clan.” He pulled back to cup her face in his hands.

Amalia blinked back tears. “I’ll make you proud, Father. I'll show them all that this alliance can work.”

“You already have.” He kissed her forehead, then turned to Drogath with a stern expression. “Keep her safe.”

“With my life,” Drogath promised solemnly.

The farewell became a blur after that. Last-minute instructions, tearful hugs from her ladies' maids, last checks of the supplies. Before she knew it, she was mounted on Shergar, the familiar leather of his reins grounding her as they passed through the castle gates.

She looked back once, watching her childhood home grow smaller behind them. Drogath rode beside her, his presence both intimidating and comforting. When she faced forward again, she sat straighter in her saddle. She was no longer just Princess Amalia, ornamental daughter of King Henrik, heir to the throne. She was an orc mate, though she had no idea what that meant or her role in his clan. She’d figure it out eventually and hoped she could handle it.

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