Page 23 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
I thrust harder, faster, until she’s shaking under me, her pussy clenching with every stroke. I reach around to rub her clit again, and shescreams, her orgasm tearing through her with violent grace. Her whole body quakes, pussy squeezing me in relentless waves until I can’t hold back.
“Zahra—fuck—” I explode inside her, spilling deep, groaning her name like a prayer.
We collapse onto the furs, tangled, spent, panting.
For long minutes, we just breathe. The fire pops softly nearby. The clan sleeps on beyond the walls. But in here, everything has changed.
She rolls to face me, still glowing, still marked with the war paint of a warrior—but now she’s mine. Not claimed like territory. Chosen. Shared.
“Next time,” she murmurs, brushing a kiss to my jaw, “I want you on your back. I want to ride you.Seethe way you lose control for me.”
I laugh, breathless, already half-hard again. “You’ll get no argument from me, mate.”
And as her fingers find my cock again, stroking with promise, I realize something else:
This is more than just a bond. This is the beginning of a reign.
Ours.
9
ZAHRA
Dawn breaks over the Orclands in shades of crimson and gold, painting the canyon walls with light that reminds me of the war paint now permanently etched into my daily routine. Three weeks have passed since that night in Rogar's tent, three weeks of learning what it means to be claimed and claimed in return. The transformation feels deeper than mere physical intimacy—I've begun to understand the intricate web of loyalty and responsibility that binds the Stormfang together.
I'm adjusting the straps on my leather armor when Grimna approaches the training ground, his scarred face bearing the grim satisfaction of someone who's discovered useful intelligence.
"Morning, Lady Zahra," he says, using the title that still makes my chest clench with something between pride and disbelief. "Rogar wants you to join the scouting patrol today."
"Which route?" I ask, checking that my weapons are properly secured. The curved saber feels like an extension of my arm now, its weight familiar and comforting.
"Northern approaches toward the old mining settlements. Reports suggest dark elf activity in the area—supply convoysmoving toward the border territories." His grey eyes study my face with the intensity of someone reading battlefield conditions. "Could be routine resupply, could be preparation for another assault on our territory."
The distinction matters. Routine supply runs can be raided for resources and information. Military preparations suggest a larger threat that requires different tactical responses. Either way, the intelligence gathering represents exactly the kind of mission where my knowledge of dark elf operations provides genuine value.
"Who's leading the patrol?"
"I am." Grimna's expression grows troubled. "Though I'll be honest—part of me wonders if this isn't premature. You've proven yourself in training and strategy sessions, but field operations carry different risks."
The concern in his voice touches something warm in my chest. Over the past weeks, Rogar's gruff second-in-command has evolved from grudging acceptance of my presence to something approaching protective affection. He's become the closest thing to family I've known since my mother's death.
"You think I'll be a liability?"
"I think you'll be a target." He hefts his massive war axe, testing its balance with practiced ease. "Dark elves have long memories and longer grudges. If they identify you during the mission, it changes from reconnaissance to rescue operation."
"Or it becomes an opportunity to gather intelligence they'd never willingly share." I meet his gaze steadily. "Sometimes the best information comes from enemies who think they're capturing rather than being observed."
Grimna's bark of laughter echoes off the canyon walls. "Spoken like someone who's learned to turn disadvantages into weapons. Very well—but you follow my lead, stay within sight of backup, and retreat the moment I give the signal."
"Understood."
The patrol consists of eight warriors, each chosen for specific skills that complement the mission requirements. Thresh brings his exceptional tracking abilities, while Vex provides expertise in dark elf magical signatures. Two newer clan members—Drak and Kellen—represent the rising generation that sees my presence as natural rather than revolutionary.
We move through the pre-dawn darkness with the fluid efficiency of predators in familiar territory. The younger warriors maintain perfect spacing and communication discipline, while the veterans read the landscape like a familiar map. Being part of such coordinated movement feels intoxicating after years of solitary survival.
"Contact ahead," Thresh whispers, his enhanced senses detecting what the rest of us have missed. "Dark elf patrol, moving southeast along the ridge line."
Grimna signals for concealment, and we melt into the rocky terrain with practiced ease. Through gaps in the stone formations, I catch glimpses of our quarry—six dark elves in the distinctive black leather armor of border scouts, their violet eyes scanning the terrain with professional alertness.
