Page 13 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 13

E gon lay on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, watching the gentle rise and fall of Lyric’s chest as she slept. They’d spent a long time ‘practicing’ before she’d fallen asleep in his arms, and it had been the most exquisite torture—but he’d remained in control. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he could trust himself.

He traced a finger along her collarbone, marveling at the softness of her skin, the delicate flush that colored her cheeks. He’d thought he was protecting her by bargaining for a new life for her, and perhaps he was, but he suspected that he’d been trying to protect himself as well. He’d been afraid of losing control, of hurting her, of becoming the monster he feared he was.

He stared at their intertwined fingers, her smaller hand nestled in his massive green palm. The contrast was stark—her sun-kissed skin against his battle-scarred hide. Yet she’d reached for him without hesitation, even after witnessing his Beast. Her breathing shifted and he looked up to find her watching him.

“You’re not afraid of me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Should I be?”

His thumb traced a small circle on the back of her hand. “Of course not. But there’s more I haven’t told you.”

“I suspected as much.” A hint of amusement colored her words.

He took a deep breath. “You saw what happened to me. We call it the Beast Curse. The orcs accepted it many years ago in order to protect the Five Kingdoms.”

She nodded slowly.

“I think I remember hearing about that.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m surprised. Lasseran has been doing everything possible to erase that knowledge, to paint us as little more than savage animals. But that’s not all. My brothers and I have reason to believe he’s building an army of Cursed warriors, but ones without choice or conscience.”

Lyric’s fingers tightened around his. “Beast warriors.”

“Yes. But corrupted versions. Twisted by dark magic and broken to his will.” He looked towards the forest, its shadows deepening with the night. “If what we suspect is true, he engineered meetings between orcs serving in his army and eligible females, then took the children to raise himself.”

“That’s why those men mentioned Beast warriors as a threat.”

He nodded. “I’m trying to verify these rumors, to understand what we’re facing.” His voice dropped. “I volunteered. Partly because I’m suited to the task, but also because?—”

“Because you were running away,” she finished softly.

The truth of her words stung. “My brothers have found their mates. Their happiness is… difficult to witness when you believe such joy will never be yours.”

Her free hand came up to his face, fingers tracing the scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. “And now?”

“Now I’ve found something I never expected. But I’ve also confirmed our worst fears. Lasseran is planning to use them against the other kingdoms—to bring them all under his control. My guess is that is why he’s also collecting additional tribute—to find his wars.”

He watched her face carefully as she processed his words. The moonlight cast half her features in shadow, but he could still read the determination in her eyes. He’d seen that same look when she’d defended him to the village elders.

“There’s more you need to know,” he said, his voice rough. “About what I am. About what those males might bring down upon your village.”

He released her hand and climbed out of bed, needing distance to reveal this truth. His Beast stirred uneasily, sensing his discomfort.

“When the Beast inside takes over, we are still ourselves. Despite the rage, the power, we are taught the discipline to control it.” He paced the room restlessly, but she remained silent, watching him with those perceptive green eyes.

“We don’t think Lasseran is teaching them control. He is turning them into mindless Beasts loyal only to him.” He turned back to face her fully. “The males they’ll send won’t be like me. They’ll be hollow shells, filled with rage and pain. They won’t recognize friend from foe. They’ll destroy everything in their path.”

“That’s why you came.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s what I was looking for.” He knelt before her, bringing himself to her eye level. “I never expected to find you here. Never thought I’d have something personal at stake in this mission.”

She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. “And now?”

“Now I can’t walk away,” he admitted, the truth of it settling heavy in his chest. “Not from you. Not from these people. Not when I know what’s coming.”

He watched her face transform as she absorbed his words. Where he expected fear, he saw calculation. Where he anticipated despair, he found determination. The moonlight caught in her eyes, turning them to polished jade.

“No,” she said simply.

“No?” he repeated, caught off guard.

She stood as well, brushing past him to pace the small room. Her movements were quick, purposeful—a stark contrast to his resigned stillness.

“I refuse to accept that this village is doomed.” She turned to face him. “These are good people, Egon. They accepted me when I showed up with nothing. They deserve better than to become fodder for some power-hungry lord’s ambitions.”

His chest tightened with a painful mix of admiration and dread. “Lyric, you don’t understand what we’re facing. These aren’t ordinary males?—”

“Neither are you.” She stepped closer, the scent of honey and flowers enveloping him. “You said it yourself—in Norhaven, your people preserved the old ways. The true ways.”

Her certainty unsettled him. He’d come here expecting to gather information. He hadn’t anticipated the need to warn the villagers, let alone to inspire resistance. Certainly not to give hope where there could be none.

“We have time before they return,” she continued, her mind clearly racing ahead. “The festival isn’t for a few more days. That’s time to prepare, to plan.” She touched his arm, her fingers warm against his skin. “You know their weaknesses. You understand what we’re facing better than anyone.”

“I’m one warrior,” he protested, though something in him responded to her unwavering belief. “Against how many?”

“You’re not alone.” Her voice softened. “The villagers might not be warriors, but they are stronger than they appear.”

He shook his head, unable to match her optimism. Yet he couldn’t deny the spark of possibility her words kindled within him.

“And we have something Lasseran doesn’t,” she added, her lips curving into a smile that caught him off guard.

“What’s that?”

“We have you—a warrior who remembers what the blessing truly means.” Her hand found his again. “A protector, not a destroyer.”

He stared at her, stunned by her unwavering faith in him—in what they might accomplish together. The weight of her trust settled on his shoulders, both burden and blessing.

“There’s something else,” she added, her eyes brightening with sudden inspiration. “Someone who might help us.”

“Who?” he asked, skepticism creeping into his voice despite himself.

“There’s a woman in the mountains.” She gestured towards the shadowy peaks visible beyond the forest’s edge. “The villagers call her the Crone of Elmridge. Some fear her, others seek her wisdom, but they all respect her knowledge of the old ways.”

He frowned at her. “A wise woman? What could she possibly?—”

“She knows things, Egon.” Her fingers tightened around his. “Ancient things. The elders say she was old when their grandfathers were young. She speaks of the Old Gods as if she’s met them personally.”

“You think she might know how to break Lasseran’s curse? How to free his warriors?” The possibility seemed remote, yet he couldn’t dismiss it entirely. He remembered his brother Wulf’s certainty that the Old Gods were working on their behalf, and the strange pull he’d felt toward the abandoned shrine.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But she once helped heal a man from this village who’d been poisoned by dark magic. The healers had given up, but she knew a ritual that cleansed his blood.”

He considered the idea, weighing the risk against the potential reward. “The mountains are at least a day’s journey. If we go, that leaves the village unprotected.”

“We’d need to leave at first light to return before the festival,” she agreed. “But if there’s even a chance she knows something that could help us fight Lasseran’s corrupted warriors…”

The warrior in him balked at leaving the village vulnerable, even briefly, but the strategist recognized the value of gathering more information, more weapons for the coming fight. But it was the part of him that had prayed at the forgotten shrine—the part that desperately wanted to believe in something beyond brute strength—that made his decision.

“We’ll go,” he said finally. “But we leave before dawn and travel fast.”

For the first time since he’d left Norhaven, he felt a sense of purpose beyond mere reconnaissance. Her unwavering faith in him—in what they could accomplish together—awakened something he’d long thought dead. Hope flickered in his chest, fragile but undeniable.

“We’ll leave before dawn,” he repeated, already calculating the fastest route through the mountains. “But first…”

His gaze drifted towards the village, thinking of the two guards still lying. The villagers had retreated to their homes after the violence, shock and fear written plainly on their faces despite their gratitude.

“We can’t leave until we deal with what happened today,” he said, his voice low. “Those men will be missed. When they don’t report back, Lasseran’s forces will come looking.”

Her expression sobered. “You’re right. We need to clean this up.”

He rubbed his jaw, the reality of their situation settling heavily on his shoulders. “The bodies need to be hidden. And we need a story for the village—something they can tell if questioned.”

“Something believable,” she agreed. “Something that won’t lead back to you.”

He appreciated her quick understanding. Most humans would be overwhelmed by such grim practicalities, but she’d survived the slums of Kel’Vara, she had a survivor’s practicality.

“The guards were drinking heavily at the tavern,” he suggested. “Perhaps they wandered into the forest, fell afoul of wild animals.”

“Believable enough.” She nodded thoughtfully. “The woods beyond the northern fields are known to be dangerous. We could leave evidence there—torn clothing, blood.”

He studied her face in the moonlight, struck by her calm pragmatism. “You’ve thought about this before.”

“Survival requires preparation,” she said simply. “I’ve lived too long looking over my shoulder not to consider all possibilities.”

The admission sent a pang through his chest. What had she endured in the years since he’d left her? What dangers had she faced alone?

“I’ll handle the bodies,” he said, pushing those thoughts aside for now. “You should return to the village, check on Samha and his sister. Make sure everyone understands what to say if questioned.”

They dressed quickly and headed back to the village. He left her with Elder Harta, then slung the guard’s bodies over his shoulder and slipped into the darkness, moving with practiced stealth. Their weight was nothing to him, but the responsibility of what he was about to do weighed heavily. He’d killed before—in battle, in defense of his clan—but disposing of bodies like this felt different. Necessary, but grim.

The forest thickened around him as he ventured deeper, far from any village paths. He’d chosen this spot carefully—a rocky ravine where scavengers would find the remains quickly. Nature would erase his handiwork, completing the illusion of a wilderness accident.

As he arranged the scene, his mind drifted back to Lyric again. Her unwavering faith in him both honored and terrified him. What if he couldn’t be the protector she believed him to be? What if his presence only brought more danger to her doorstep?

He placed torn clothing on jagged branches, spilled blood in strategic patterns. The scene told a story of men who’d wandered drunkenly into dangerous territory and paid the price. It wouldn’t withstand intense scrutiny, but it didn’t need to—it just needed to be convincing enough to buy them time.

When he finished, he stood back, scanning the area one last time. It was close to midnight and they needed to be on the mountain path before the village stirred. The Crone of Elmridge was an unknown variable—perhaps a waste of precious time, perhaps their only hope. Either way, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt toward the mountains, as if something beyond his understanding was guiding his path.

His Beast prowled uneasily, sensing his nerves. For once, it didn’t feel like a curse or burden, but a strength he might need in the days ahead. If she could accept this part of him without fear, perhaps he could finally make peace with what he was.

With one last look at his grim handiwork, he melted back into the forest, relieved to be heading back to his mate.