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CHAPTER ONE

D anger closes in while she waits alone.

The words echoed in King Ulric’s head as he led the small contingent of orc warriors back to Port Cael, and he clenched his hands on the reins, fighting the urge to increase the pace.

The thought that his wife might be in danger while he was not there to protect her made his Beast prowl restlessly beneath his skin.

His fists tightened as his claws emerged, biting into the flesh of his palms, and he forced himself to take a deep breath and relax his grip before blood was drawn.

I should never have left her side.

But he was king as well as husband, and he had a duty to his people as well as his queen.

Securing the Fanged Gate—the only pass into Norhaven large enough for a full-scale attack—was essential to their security, especially with the increasing threat from High King Lasseran.

For many years the orcs of Norhaven had served in High King’s armies, hoping to find a bride in the other kingdoms. But then they had discovered that Lasseran was secretly creating his own army of orcs.

They had refused to serve him any longer and Lasseran’s army had been gathering outside the Fanged Gate ever since.

He would have been there still if he hadn’t been told to return to Jessamin.

The warning had come from Egon’s new human mate, supposedly as a message from the gods.

If it had come from any other source, he would have ignored it, but while he didn’t know the big, battle-scarred warrior as well as he knew Egon’s brother Wulf, he trusted him.

Of course trusting Egon and trusting a cryptic message from the gods were not the same thing, especially when mixed in with other nonsense about flames and tapestries.

But Egon’s mate had also warned them about a sneak attack from Lasseran’s men, saving a good number of his males.

In the end, he couldn’t take the chance that Jessamin was in danger, no matter how little faith he had in the gods.

As far as he was concerned, the Old Gods had abandoned them in the two hundred years since the orcs of Norhaven had accepted the Beast Curse in order to save the Five Kingdoms from invaders from beyond the Southern Sea.

The Beasts that now lived inside them enhanced their senses and made them stronger, faster, and much harder to kill, but those advantages had come at a cost. As the years passed, fewer and fewer children were born in Norhaven and the children that were born were almost always male.

His people were dying out and he couldn’t save them.

The weight of that knowledge had haunted him ever since he’d become king.

“Something amiss, Your Majesty?” Tacken asked, riding up next to him, and he realized that Storm had picked up on his tension. His horse was shifting restlessly beneath him, eager to run, and once again he forced himself to relax his grip on the reins.

“Just anxious to return to Port Cael.”

His guard nodded respectfully and fell back.

He was grateful, but not surprised that the guard had not questioned him further.

There were very few in Norhaven who would question his authority, and even fewer who would do so publicly—but he also knew that he had changed since he married Jessamin.

Before his marriage, he had been known for his stern, disciplined demeanor, and yet since he had found his little bride, his Beast was all too often at the surface.

Jessamin…

When he had first met her, he had thought she was the most beautiful female he had ever seen, but he’d been determined to resist her beauty.

Their marriage was a matter of political expediency.

Both he and her father sought allies against Lasseran’s increasing power.

The Priest King of Almohad recognized the value of having skilled orc warriors on his side, while he had welcomed the chance to bring additional females to a kingdom sorely in need of them.

One hundred potential Brides had accompanied Jessamin—a drop in the bucket compared to the number of unmated males, but still a source of hope for his people.

But he had no illusions about the arrangement.

He knew that Jessamin had not had a choice in the union.

Despite her gentle sweetness, despite her willingness to do her duty, he knew that she could not be happy to find herself married to an orc.

And the darker part of him, the part hardened by his years as king, whispered not to trust her quiet charm.

She had been brought up in a royal household, taught to utter polite lies and soothing platitudes.

Despite his determination to keep her at a distance, he found himself entranced by his little bride.

Not just because of her beauty but because of her quiet strength and the clear-eyed but compassionate way in which she viewed the world.

However, the knowledge that she had not chosen him was like a thorn in his side, and so he continued to hold her at a distance, not wanting to force his presence on an unwilling bride.

But then she’d been poisoned by one of Lasseran’s spies.

The image of her small form lying still as death, her skin ashen, her breathing shallow, still filled his mind with brutal clarity.

He’d held her hand, watching her breathing grow ever shallower, and known he was helpless to save her.

All his Cursed strength and all his battle prowess were meaningless against the poison filling her body.

He still thanked the gods he didn’t quite believe in that an antidote had been found in time. Even in the depths of her illness, she had listened when he told her to drink, and when the healer had told him she needed something to fight for, he had confessed his feelings to her.

To his shock, she’d whispered that she loved him too.

But the words had been said when she was in the grip of the fever and he was afraid to believe they were true.

As soon as she recovered, he’d retreated behind his mask of stern politeness and she had accepted it with her usual serene poise, leaving him with a hollow feeling in his chest and his Beast prowling restlessly beneath the surface.

The dense forest thinned as they crested the ridge above Port Cael and he pulled Storm to a momentary halt, his enhanced vision scanning the town below.

It stretched along the side of the fjord, brightly colored wooden structures mingling with sturdy stone buildings.

His stronghold topped the hill overlooking the harbor, with a clear view up the fjord towards the open sea beyond.

The sprawling complex next to it was the former convent where the Brides who had accompanied Jessamin were housed.

There were no alarm bells. No soldiers running along the battlements. No strange ships in the harbor. Just the normal activity of the town.

His nostrils flared instinctively, seeking her scent on the wind—the sweet, clean smell of her that had become as necessary to him as air—even though he knew they were too far away even for his enhanced senses.

The need to see her, to make sure she was all right, burned in his chest and he could no longer restrain his impatience.

He gave Storm his head and the great warhorse immediately leapt forward, racing down the mountain road towards the town below.

He heard the startled exclamations from his warriors as they plunged after him but paid no attention.

He barely slowed as he reached the main road leading from the arena to his stronghold, people and carts scurrying out of his way as he wove rapidly through the crowd.

He rode Storm directly into the main courtyard, the horse’s iron-shod hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones, and came to a halt in the center, ignoring the resulting commotion.

His eyes raked across the battlements, the windows, the balconies—searching desperately.

There—a flash of deep blue silk on the high balcony of the royal wing.

Jessamin’s private balcony. The silk moved again, and he saw her.

Alive. Whole. Standing in the sunlight, her golden hair catching the light like spun gold, the gentle breeze lifting stray strands around her face.

Her small figure was unmistakable against the weathered stone, her posture straight and regal even in solitude.

Relief crashed through him with such force he nearly swayed in the saddle.

His lungs burned, and he realized he’d been holding his breath since he’d reached the town.

She was alive. She was safe. The tightness in his chest eased slightly, though his heart still hammered against his ribs.

The sight of her standing peacefully on her balcony after his mind had conjured the worst possible scenarios made him feel suddenly foolish and, paradoxically, even more protective.

She looked down suddenly and their eyes met. Even at that distance, he felt the connection between them—the one he was afraid to believe.

Mate , his beast growled, but he forced the knowledge down, just as he always did.

His relief at finding her unharmed crystallized into something harder, colder. Fury. Not at her—never at her—but at the nameless, faceless threat hovering over her.

He had to keep her safe.

Security would need to be doubled—no, tripled. Her movements would need to be monitored and restricted. No more unaccompanied walks in the garden. No more visits to the village. No more open court sessions where any assassin might slip close.

He would build walls around her. Protect her with steel and stone and loyal blades.

Cage , his beast growled, but better a cage than a coffin.