Page 12 of The Princess and the Orc (Cursed Kingdoms)

Chapter Twelve

A malia’s heart pounded like a war drum, her pulse a frantic beat against her ribs. Fear coiled in her belly, cold and suffocating, threatening to pull her under. She swallowed hard, forcing it down, locking it away where it couldn’t paralyze her. She was a princess. Frederich wouldn’t dare harm her.

Would he?

Her throat tightened as she glanced at the lifeless bodies of her guards, their blood dark against the dirt. Frederich had killed them without hesitation, without remorse. His power-hungry gaze now turned to her, and for the first time, she felt truly trapped.

He had dragged her from her horse, binding her hands in front of her before hoisting her onto his warhorse. She had tried to twist away, to create even the smallest distance between them, but he was stronger. His arm locked around her waist, pulling her flush against him. The press of his armored chest made bile rise in her throat.

He laughed when she struggled.

“Don’t worry, Princess Amalia,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “You’ll see your filthy beast soon enough. You’ll watch as I gut him like the mongrel he is. Him and all his kind.”

Amalia stiffened, her breath shallow.

Frederich’s fingers dug into her waist, his voice dropping into something colder, something crueler. “Too bad you married him. You’re spoiled now. Worthless to me. We could have ruled together.”

She turned her face away, revulsion curling through her. This was not the man she had once considered a possible husband. He had always been arrogant, but now she saw the truth. There was nothing noble about him. He was poison wrapped in silk.

A second rider approached, his horse slowing beside them. Councillor Basinger barely spared Amalia a glance, his expression twisted with disdain.

“You have the girl?” he asked.

Frederich smirked. “Of course. The orc will be so distracted that we’ll have no trouble crushing them.”

Basinger gave a short, humorless chuckle. “They’re beasts. It was never going to be a fight. She’s just insurance against the orcs and her father. Unless you’ve already handled that matter.”

Frederich’s grip on Amalia tightened. “Oh, he won’t be coming.”

Basinger smiled. “A convenient accident. Tragic, really. That leaves only his grieving daughter to inherit the throne.” His gaze flicked toward her, calculating. “And a new king to guide her.”

A chill shot through Amalia’s bones.

Her father was gone?

No. It couldn’t be. He was supposed to be rallying the army, supposed to be safe. Her vision blurred, fury and anguish tangling into something sharp, something unbreakable.

“My husband is Drogath!” she shouted, her voice raw with emotion.

Frederich only sneered. “Not for long. As soon as you’re a widow, you and I will be married. Then we’ll see how long the marriage lasts.”

The implication sent ice through her veins.

Before she could respond, a soldier sprinted toward them, his breath ragged. “Your Highness, the orcs. They’re waiting for us.”

Frederich’s smirk widened. “Of course they are.” He pulled Amalia tighter against him, the shift pressing the hilt of his dagger against her bound hands. “But they’ll surrender the moment they see who I have.”

Kicking his horse into motion, he led his men forward. The army parted before him, soldiers shifting uneasily as they caught sight of their captive princess. Basinger fell in beside him, his own smile thin, pleased.

The column moved through the valley, toward the narrow mouth of the pass where the orcs lay in wait. The moment they reached the front line, Frederich yanked his horse to a halt.

Then cold steel kissed Amalia’s throat.

She froze.

Frederich’s voice rang out, cutting through the stillness.

“Orc!” he bellowed. “I have your mate. If you want her to live, show yourself.”

The battlefield held its breath.

Amalia’s pulse hammered, but she refused to tremble. She knew Drogath would come for her.

And the moment he did, there would be hell to pay.

* * *

D rogath's blood ran cold as he watched Frederich parade Amalia before his army. She sat rigid in front of him on his horse, her wrists bound, her face pale but composed. Pride and rage warred in Drogath's chest, pride at her courage, rage at seeing his mate in enemy hands. Behind Frederich, Councillor Basinger sat astride his own mount, looking smugly satisfied. The betrayal clearly cut Amalia deeply. Drogath could see it in the way she wouldn't look at her father's councillor.

“Surrender your army,” Frederich called out, one arm wrapped possessively around Amalia's waist, “and I might let your pretty whore live!”

Drogath noted that the prince said nothing about letting the orcs live, not that he expected they would survive the day if they yielded the field. No, the prince would rampage through his people, slaughtering all who stood before him.

“Don't surrender,” Amalia called out, her voice carrying clearly across the battlefield. Frederich yanked her hair in warning, making her gasp, tears springing to her eyes. But she remained steadfast, fixing him with an even gaze.

Drogath took a step forward, his hands raised in apparent surrender. “Let her go, and we can discuss terms.”

“Drop your weapon first,” Frederich demanded.

Slowly, deliberately, Drogath lowered his battle axe to the ground. He could hear the murmurs of confusion from his warriors behind him, but he kept his eyes fixed on Amalia's. There was something in her expression.

She caught his gaze and made a subtle movement with her bound hands. Understanding flashed between them. His mate wasn't as helpless as she appeared.

“Kneel,” Frederich commanded, clearly relishing his moment of triumph.

Drogath began to lower himself, watching as Frederich's attention focused on his submission. The moment the man's grip on Amalia loosened, she brought her fists up over her shoulder and into his throat with all her strength. As he wheezed and loosened his hold further, she threw herself from the horse.

Drogath was moving before she hit the ground. He snatched up his axe and crossed the space between them in three massive strides. Frederich was still struggling to breathe when Drogath's axe took his head from his shoulders.

“The princess!” Basinger shouted, wheeling his horse around. “Kill the princess!”

But Drogath was already there, sheltering Amalia behind his bulk as arrows whistled past them. His warriors surged forward with war cries that shook the earth.

A horn sounded from the rear of Frederich's army. Drogath grinned ferally as he saw the royal banners of Sherith appearing over the ridge. King Henrik had come after all.

“The king!” someone shouted. “The king has come!”

Frederich's forces broke in panic, caught between Drogath's warriors and Henrik's cavalry. Basinger tried to flee in the chaos, but found himself surrounded by orc warriors who had specifically been watching for his attempted escape.

“Are you hurt?” Drogath asked Amalia as he cut her bonds, his hands gentle despite the battle rage still raging through him.

“No.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You came for me.”

“I will always come for you.” He pulled her close, breathing in her scent. “Even when you don’t want me. My brave, clever mate.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” she whispered against his chest. “When they captured me, all I could think was that I might never see you again, never tell you how I felt. I was coming back, Drogath. I was coming for you.”

A throat cleared nearby. They turned to find King Henrik watching them, his expression caught between amusement and concern.

“Perhaps we should save the reconciliation for after we've dealt with the traitors?” he suggested mildly.

Drogath reluctantly released Amalia, though he kept one hand on her waist. “Of course, Your Majesty. Though I believe you can handle this part.”

“It would be my pleasure.” Henrik's eyes hardened as he looked at the captured Basinger.

Amalia leaned into Drogath's side, her hand finding his. “Take me home?” she asked softly.

“To the clan?” he asked, needing to hear the words.

She smiled up at him. “To our people.”