Page 13 of The Princess and the Orc (Cursed Kingdoms)

Chapter Thirteen

A malia lingered in the cave, the soft white robe draped over her body the only barrier between her bare skin and the cool air that whispered over her. Beneath the fabric, intricate symbols had been painted onto her flesh, each stroke laid with reverence by the clan’s medicine woman, each marking binding her to the traditions of the orcs. The fire crackled in the small space, throwing flickering golden light over the cavern walls, but the warmth it provided did little to soothe the tremor beneath her skin.

Tonight, she would stand before the clan and be united with Drogath, not just as his wife, but as his true mate. The weight of it pressed into her chest, equal parts exhilaration and apprehension. Soon, she would rule beside him, not only over his clan but over all orc-kind.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, where the smallest flicker of life stirred within her. Their child. Their future. A future she would protect with everything she had.

It had been two weeks since the battle that never truly came to pass. Once Frederich fell beneath Drogath’s blade and Basinger was captured, the enemy army lost its will to fight. Surrender came swiftly. The northern force, disorganized and leaderless, scattered like windblown leaves the moment they heard their leaders were either dead or imprisoned.

Not a single orc had fallen. They had won.

Frederich’s father, ever the politician, had wasted no time suing for peace. King Henrik had demanded nothing less than full surrender, absorbing the defeated kingdom as a city-state under Sherith’s rule. Basinger’s vast estates had been stripped from him, his co-conspirators swiftly identified and imprisoned.

But not all threats had been so neatly dealt with.

Korroth had vanished like a shadow at dawn, his treachery exposed. He had led Frederich’s army through a hidden pass into the valley, betraying his own kind. Worse still, he had failed to secure an alliance with Osna. Without power, without allies, he was a fugitive now. Drogath had sent scouts to track him, ensuring that his cousin would never again bring danger to their people. Or to Amalia.

She was grateful for that. She had spent too long being hunted. Too long looking over her shoulder, waiting for the next betrayal.

Now, she only wanted peace, for herself, for her mate, and for the child she carried.

A rustling at the cave’s entrance pulled her from her thoughts. The older orc female stepped inside, her sharp eyes gleaming with knowledge as they flicked over Amalia.

“It’s time, child.”

Amalia inhaled deeply, steadying herself. The nervous flutter in her stomach remained, but she no longer feared it. She clutched the robe closer for a moment before releasing it, smoothing her hands down her sides.

With a nod, she followed the elder out of the side chamber and into the larger ceremonial cavern where the entire clan had gathered.

The space was breathtaking. Torches lined the jagged walls, their flames casting warm light over the expectant faces of the orcs. The scent of burning incense and earth filled the air, thick and heady. At the center, the elders stood in a semi-circle, their expressions solemn as they awaited her approach.

And there was Drogath.

Clad only in a leather loincloth, his massive form was painted with symbols similar to her own, his green skin a living canvas of tradition and power. His molten gaze locked onto her the moment she stepped into the light, the fire catching on the fierce, possessive hunger in his eyes.

He was magnificent.

Amalia’s breath hitched as she met him in the center of the space, the murmur of the gathered orcs a distant hum against the pounding of her heart. Drogath cupped her face, his hands warm and steady, grounding her to the moment.

“Are you ready, my mate?”

Her lips trembled before curving into a small, nervous smile. “I think so.”

Grithka, the elder who had painted her, stepped forward and gestured to Amalia’s robe. “You must come to your mate as nature intended, unburdened by cloth or concealment.”

A hush fell over the cavern.

Amalia’s fingers trembled as she reached for the robe’s edges. She hesitated for only a breath before letting it slide from her shoulders. Cool air kissed her skin, and she kept her gaze locked on Drogath, refusing to acknowledge the many eyes upon her.

His expression darkened, his nostrils flaring as his gaze raked over her, hunger flashing across his face like lightning before he schooled his features. But she saw it. The raw, barely contained need in the tightening of his jaw, in the slight flex of his hands at his sides.

He wanted her. And that knowledge gave her strength.

Grithka began the ceremonial chant in the orcish tongue, her voice weaving through the space, ancient words binding them to the past, to the spirits who watched over them. She turned to Drogath expectantly.

He lifted his head, his voice strong, unwavering. “I claim this woman as my mate before all of you. Let any who would challenge this union speak now.”

The silence was deafening, stretching long enough for Amalia’s heart to hammer against her ribs.

Then Grithka turned to her, nodding.

Amalia swallowed against the lump in her throat, but when she spoke, her voice did not waver.

“I claim this male as my mate before the clan and all humankind. Let any who would challenge this union speak now.”

Her stomach tightened. She had stood before a human court, bound to Drogath in a political marriage, but this was different. This moment felt real. Sacred. She half-expected someone to rise and rip it all away.

But no one spoke.

Grithka stepped forward, bringing with her a bowl of dark liquid and a length of red cloth. “Now we mark you as one in the eyes of the clan.”

She dipped her fingers into the bowl, the thick, earthy-smelling paint cool against Amalia’s skin as she traced symbols over their joined hands. The words she murmured were foreign, but Amalia didn’t need to understand them to feel their weight, the power humming in the air.

When the markings were complete, Grithka wound the red cloth around their bound hands, the fabric soft yet unbreakable.

“Before these witnesses, you are claimed and marked. May the spirits of our ancestors recognize this bond.”

A roar of approval filled the cavern, voices rising in celebration, fists pounding against chests in rhythmic thunder. The sound echoed off the stone walls, vibrating through Amalia’s very bones.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she looked up at Drogath. He was hers. Now and forever.

He cupped her cheek again. “Are you ready to complete the claiming, mate?”

* * *

D rogath hadn’t expected Amalia to embrace this part of orc tradition so willingly. Many human females balked at it, bound by their fragile sensibilities and human morality. But Amalia was different. In many ways, she was his perfect mate, a woman who met his dominance with fire of her own, a mate who possessed a streak of wildness that called to something deep and primal in him.

Tonight, she would prove it before all.

An essential part of the orc claiming ceremony, especially for rulers, was the consummation of the bond before the clan, a public display of their union, their compatibility. Their people needed to witness the strength of their pairing, to see her surrender and his possession, to know without question that she belonged to him and he to her.

He inhaled deeply, sifting through the myriad scents in the cavern—the smoky incense still curling in the air from the ceremony, the warm musk of the gathered orcs, the damp mineral tang of the cave itself. But beneath it all, cutting through like the sharpest blade, was her.

His mate.

The scent of her arousal, thick and unmistakable, reached him, tightening every muscle in his body. She was nervous, but excited. Anticipation rolled off her in waves, mixing with her scent in a way that sent a deep, possessive hunger surging through him.

He tilted her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Focus on me and nothing else. No one else is here.”

She grinned, mischief lighting her emerald eyes. “But they are here. And watching us. Kind of difficult to miss them.”

His thumb traced across her lower lip, feeling the slight hitch in her breath. “They’re here to witness and celebrate us.”

Her nervous laugh was breathy, laced with something raw. “Right. Our ceremonies are not like this.”

Drogath chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “No, they are not.”

With a firm hand at the small of her back, he guided her toward the ceremonial bench—a structure designed to elevate her hips, placing her at the perfect height for him to claim her properly. It was padded for her comfort, adjusted to her smaller size, since orc females were built larger.

His rough fingers ghosted down her spine, savoring the contrast of her softness beneath his touch. She shivered, her skin pebbling beneath his palm, her breath catching as she eyed the bench with a flicker of trepidation.

She knew what was expected of her.

She hesitated for only a breath before surrendering to it, draping herself over the padded surface with the grace of a queen, gripping the carved wooden posts at the base. Her legs parted, baring herself fully to him.

His cock throbbed at the sight.

He pressed a heavy hand to the inside of her thigh, nudging her knees wider, spreading her until her pussy was fully open to his view. A fresh rush of slick glistened against her thighs, betraying her arousal.

Drogath growled low in his throat, sinking a finger through her folds, gathering the evidence of her desire. She moaned at the contact, her hips twitching in a silent plea.

His lips curved. Not yet, mate.

He withdrew his hand and delivered a sharp slap to the curve of her ass, relishing the way she gasped, her body jerking at the sting. A fresh wave of cream leaked from her, proof of her enjoyment.

“Settle, mate,” he commanded, his voice rough with restraint. “I decide what you get. Do you understand?”

She nodded quickly. “Please, Drogath.”

He chuckled darkly. “Begging. Good. We’ll hear more of that before we’re done tonight.”

He slid a single finger into her, stroking her inner walls in a slow, torturous rhythm. Her thighs quivered, her grip on the bench tightening. His thumb brushed over her clit in a teasing circle, not enough to give her relief—just enough to drive her mad.

She whined, pressing back against him, desperate for more.

Drogath stilled. Then, without warning, he delivered five quick, stinging slaps to her ass, leaving her breathless, her moans dissolving into soft, desperate cries.

“Will you be still,” he rumbled, “or do I need to tie you down?”

She sucked in a sharp breath.

He knew she enjoyed being tied. They had experimented with it before, but tonight, she needed to surrender on her own.

She shook her head quickly. “I’ll be good, Drogath.”

A satisfied growl rumbled from his chest.

He pressed a firm hand to her lower back, pinning her in place, and slid two fingers deep inside her, twisting just right—finding that spot, the one that never failed to send her spiraling.

Her thighs trembled, her moans dissolving into pleas, her body tightening like a bowstring. And then nothing.

He pulled his fingers free abruptly, ignoring her whimper of protest, and lined his cock at her entrance. Then, with one powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.

Her sharp cry echoed through the cavern as her walls clenched down around him, her orgasm ripping through her in an uncontrolled, shuddering wave.

Drogath gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay still, letting her body milk him, letting her ride the pleasure that had overtaken her.

Then he leaned over her, his mouth brushing her ear.

“Did you come without permission, mate?”

A choked sob left her lips. Her head dropped, auburn hair spilling over her shoulders.

Drogath wasn’t satisfied. He curled a hand in her hair and tugged, forcing her to lift her head.

“Did you come without permission?” he repeated, his voice dangerously soft.

She nodded frantically, sniffling.

He exhaled sharply and withdrew from her tight heat, his cock glistening with her arousal. Every muscle in his body screamed at the loss of her, but he ignored it.

This was a lesson she needed to learn.

Stepping back, he let his gaze roam over her trembling form, her slick, clenching pussy still spasming around nothing. As if it needed him back.

Not yet.

His palm settled on the curve of her ass, rubbing slowly, soothing. Then, crack.

The sharp slap echoed through the cavern, her body jolting beneath the force of it.

Again. And again. Until her soft gasps became broken cries, her skin flushed and burning beneath his touch.

And yet, she was soaked.

Drogath smirked, pressing his fingers between her thighs to find her dripping, her body strung so tight it was almost cruel.

His perfect, perfect mate.

He lined himself up again, pressing the swollen head of his cock to her entrance.

“No coming,” he warned, voice thick with restraint. “Not until I say.”

She nodded, her cheeks still damp with tears.

This time, when he drove into her, there was no holding back.

His fingers dug into her hips as he took her, his pace punishing, every deep thrust designed to wring more pleasure from her, to brand her as his.

Her cries turned to screams as he struck the spot inside her that made her shatter.

He curled over her, pinching her clit between his fingers, wrenching one final sob from her.

“Come for me, mate.” His voice was raw, primal. “Come now.”

She shattered.

Her release gushed around him, drenching them both as he roared, spilling his seed deep inside her, claiming her in the most fundamental way.

Panting, he collapsed over her, pressing soft kisses to her damp skin.

“My perfect mate,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “I love you, Amalia.”

She turned her face, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips.

“I love you, my mate.”

* * *

C heck out more of the Cursed Kingdoms fairytale retelling books in the series. You do not need to read them in any particular order. Check out the series here .

And, if you like orcs, check out my book, Rescued by her Monster Mercenaries, a monster menage romance featuring an orc, minotaur and a human! Read on for an excerpt!