Page 3 of The Princess and the Orc (Cursed Kingdoms)

Chapter Three

A malia held herself rigid as Drogath's massive hand cradled the back of her head. It was just a kiss, a meaningless gesture to seal a bargain that would never come to pass. Her father would never allow her to marry an orc, no matter what promises she made in the heat of the moment. The thought steadied her. One kiss, and then she would be safely escorted home.

She tilted her chin up, expecting a quick, perfunctory press of lips. Instead, Drogath's dark eyes caught and held hers, filled with an intensity that made her breath catch. His other hand settled at her waist, and with surprising gentleness, he pulled her to him as if she weighed nothing at all.

“Scared, little princess?” His deep voice rumbled through her where their bodies pressed together, and she realized her hands rested against the solid wall of his chest, the heat from his mostly bare body searing her.

“Of course not,” she lied, proud that her voice remained steady. “It's just a kiss.”

His tusked mouth curved in a knowing smile. “We shall see.”

Then his lips claimed hers, and all thoughts of propriety and politics burned away in a rush of sensation. This was no chaste peck between nobles at court. Drogath kissed like a warrior claiming territory, passionate and demanding, yet with an underlying tenderness that made her knees weak. His tusks, which should have been awkward or frightening, somehow added to the erotic pleasure of the kiss.

Against her will, Amalia melted into him, her lips parting on a gasp. Drogath took immediate advantage, deepening the kiss until she moaned softly into his mouth. Her fingers curled into the leather straps that criss-crossed his chest, trying to ground herself as unfamiliar heat pooled in her belly.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down her throat, and Amalia's head fell back, her body arching into his touch. “This isn't... we shouldn’t…” But she made no move to push him away.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against her skin, his breath hot and sending shivers down her spine. “Tell me you don't want this.”

She should. She knew she should. But when she opened her mouth, all that emerged was another breathy moan as his teeth grazed her pulse point. His hands, so massive they could span her waist, slid up her sides with maddening slowness.

“So responsive,” he growled approvingly. “So perfect.”

One hand tangled in her hair while the other pressed against her lower back, molding her more firmly against him. The hard planes of his body felt amazing against her softness, and she could feel the evidence of his desire pressing against her belly.

Horror and arousal warred within her as she realized just how much she wanted this, wanted him. He was an orc, her people's enemy, everything she'd been taught to fear and revile. Yet her body sang for his touch, and when he captured her mouth again, she kissed him back with equal passion.

His tongue stroked against hers as his hands roamed her body, learning her curves through the thin fabric of her riding dress. Every touch left trails of fire in its wake. When his fingers brushed the side of her breast, she gasped and arched into the contact, wanting more. He tugged the top of her riding dress and the buttons sprang open, exposing her breast to the air. He cupped the mound, rubbing his thumb across the taut peak. The shock of his touch on her bare skin sent heat shooting through her body, straight to her core, which throbbed with a need she had never felt before. She moaned and pushed into his hold, trying to get closer.

He chuckled and tweaked the nipple. “Be still. I want to look at you.”

But he didn’t look for long. He bent down and sucked one tip in his mouth, his tusks brushing the side of her breast, his teeth worrying at the peak, skirting the edge of pleasure and pain. She buried her hands in his black hair, finding it smoother than she expected, and tugged him closer, twisting the dark strands in her fingers, holding him to her.

He nipped her and shifted to the other side, feasting on her while massaging the soft flesh, his dark green color a shock against her pale, creamy skin. He drew her dress further open and, baring her stomach, and began kissing his way down the gently curved belly. Shouts echoed in the distance, penetrating the haze of passion that clouded her mind. She shook her head and pushed him away.

“We have to stop,” she gasped.

Drogath slowly lifted his head, his eyes hazy with passion, and rested his forehead against her stomach. His breathing was as ragged as her own, his obsidian eyes dark with desire. Sounds in the distance penetrated, and his fog cleared quickly. He stood, pulling her dress closed.

“We need to move,” he said, his gaze looking around the forest surrounding them. “Before I take you right here in the forest.”

The words should have shocked her, should have snapped her out of this madness. Instead, they sent another wave of heat through her core. Images flashed through her mind. Those powerful hands on her bare skin, his massive body moving over hers, taking her with the same passionate intensity he'd shown in battle.

“Yes,” she whispered, though whether she was agreeing they should stop or begging him to continue, she wasn't sure. Her lips felt swollen from his kisses, her body trembling with a need she'd never experienced before.

He growled low in his throat and kissed her again, harder this time, his control clearly fraying. One hand slid down to cup her bottom, pulling her more firmly against him, and Amalia moaned at the friction. Her fingers slid under the leather straps, seeking warm skin.

A distant shout snapped her back to reality. The soldiers were still searching, drawing closer. Drogath pulled back slightly, though he kept her pressed close with one arm around her waist.

“Finish dressing before those soldiers find us,” he said, his voice rough with restrained desire. “Unless you've changed your mind about wanting to return home?”

The question held layers of meaning. Amalia fought to gather her scattered thoughts, horrified by how close she'd come to giving herself to an orc in the middle of the forest. Yet she couldn't deny the way her body still hummed for his touch, or how right it had felt in his arms. She fumbled with the buttons, avoiding his gaze.

“Take me home,” she managed, hating how breathless she sounded. “Please.”

His knowing smile sent another shiver through her. “As my princess commands.”

Shergar snorted from somewhere behind Amalie, having circled back to them. Drogath lifted her easily back onto her horse, his hands lingering longer than necessary.

“Know this. When we are alone, I will finish what we started here. And I will take my time with it. And you will like it, my mate.”

Amalia's face flamed, but she couldn't suppress a thrill of anticipation at his words. What had she gotten herself into? And why did the thought of being at his mercy fill her with such desperate longing?

* * *

D rogath kept a careful distance behind the princess as they traveled, close enough to protect her if needed, but far enough that she wouldn't feel crowded by his presence. His keen senses remained alert for any sign of the remaining soldiers, though they seemed to have withdrawn once he'd entered the picture. Smart of them.

His body still hummed from the interrupted moment they’d shared earlier, his cock aching where it pressed against his breeches, damning him for stopping when he had a willing female present. The princess had been a ball of fire in his arms, full of passion and heat, an unexpected surprise, and most welcome. He’d had his share of females, both human and orc.any human females found orcs irresistible, something to do with scents, according to their legends. But when an orc found his fated mate, the pull was undeniable, and his mate, whether she be human or orc, would be unable to resist. It appeared the princess would be a fiery mate to warm his bed, and he was grateful for his match.

While he had been frustrated at his attempts to see the king, his efforts appeared to have paid off in a most unexpected way. He had come seeking an ally, and he would leave with a mate and a stronger alliance, or so he hoped. His clan needed him to succeed. Their very existence relied on his ability to convince King Henrik that the orcs were not to blame for the border raids. If the king denied the mating pact and threw him in the dungeon, a very real possibility, his clan and the fate of all orc clans that he hoped would unite under one banner would be in jeopardy.

And all of it rested on the head of one spoiled princess.

Amalia kept her horse to a sedate walk, slow enough to allow him to keep pace and protect her, though a little ahead of him. She rode with her body rigid, her chin tilted up and away from him, acting as if he was her servant, not her mate. He allowed it, amused by her petty rebellion. It wouldn’t last once they were mated, though technically, in the eyes of his people, they already were since she accepted the bond. He doubted she would have gone along so easily if she understood what she was agreeing to, so he had decided not to share the details. Once he had her fully mated, he would take her in hand and she would be unable to resist him. For now, he would settle for admiring the curve of her ass as she rode her steed, and thinking about how she would ride him someday, her tight pussy clenching around him, her soft breasts bouncing, her belly rounded with his young.

He clutched the silk ribbon from her hair in his hand, plucked from where it had snagged on a branch during their interlude. It was infused with her delicate scent and teased him. He could still taste her on his lips, still feel the way she'd melted against him, desire overwhelming her fear and prejudice. But he wasn't fool enough to think that would last once she was back in her gilded cage.

When the castle towers appeared through the trees, her shoulders stiffened. Her horse sensed the change in her posture and pranced nervously. Drogath slowed his pace, giving her the space she needed to make her choice. He'd known this moment would come from the instant she'd agreed to his bargain. She would run from him, but she would never escape.

Amalia drew her mount to a halt, half-turning in the saddle to look back at him. For a moment, their eyes met across the distance. He saw the conflict there, the whisper of regret that almost made him hope that she would choose him.

Then she turned back, kicked her horse into motion. The animal's hooves thundered against the packed earth as she fled toward the safety of her walls. Drogath watched her go, noting how she leaned forward in the saddle, her red hair streaming behind her like a banner. She was beautiful in flight. And it gave him a reason to spank her delectable ass, once he caught up with her.

He continued his steady pace toward the castle, watching as she reached the gates. She spoke briefly to the guards, then disappeared inside without a backward glance. By the time he approached, the guards had arranged themselves in a defensive formation, spears leveled at his chest.

“That's far enough, orc,” the captain called out, his voice steady despite the scent of fear rolling off him in waves. He probably was alarmed by the blood smeared on Drogath’s chest, some of which had come off on the princess’s velvet riding habit. “The princess warned us you'd try to follow her. Turn back now, and we won't be forced to hurt you.”

Drogath's laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “Hurt me? With those toothpicks?” He took another step forward, noting how the younger guards shuffled nervously. “Your princess and I have business to discuss.”

“The princess gave explicit orders that you're not to be admitted,” the captain insisted. “She says you accosted her in the forest.”

“Did she?” Drogath held up the silk ribbon, letting it flutter in the breeze. “Strange that she'd give her token to someone who accosted her, wouldn't you say?”

The captain's eyes narrowed as he studied the ribbon. Drogath could practically see the thoughts churning behind his eyes. The ribbon was clearly the princess's, its quality unmistakable. And if Drogath had truly attacked her, why would she have ridden home accompanied by him instead of being pursued? Why would she be unharmed?

“Could have taken it from her by force,” one of the younger guards suggested, but he didn't sound convinced.

“And yet here I stand, asking permission to enter rather than scaling your walls or breaking down your gate,” Drogath pointed out mildly. “I’ve come to speak with King Henrik about matters that concern both our peoples. The princess can confirm that I mean no harm, unless you're suggesting she's a coward who runs from peaceful discussions?”

That hit its mark. None of them would dare imply their princess was a coward. The captain shifted uncomfortably, clearly uncertain how to proceed.

“Send for Sir Cadvael,” he finally ordered one of his men. “The king's advisor will know how to handle this.”

As the messenger hurried off, Drogath wandered over to a bucket of cold water and washed the blood off of his skin. It was getting itchy as it dried, and he didn’t want to meet the king looking like a barbarian, after all. Then he settled into a relaxed stance. Let them see that their weapons didn't concern him. Let them wonder why their princess had given him her token. Let them stew in their uncertainty and prejudice while they waited for someone else to make the hard decisions.

He inhaled deeply, picking out individual scents through the miasma of human fear and sweat. There. The lingering trace of Amalia's passage through these gates. Beneath the fear she'd been projecting, he'd caught a hint of arousal, of reluctant attraction. She might have run from him, might even have convinced herself she'd escaped a monster, but her body remembered the truth of what had passed between them.

She was his promised bride, whether she admitted it to her people or not. And Drogath was nothing if not patient. Let her hide behind her walls for now. Let her pretend their bargain meant nothing. He would wait, and watch, and when the moment was right, he would have his mate, his prize.

He smiled, showing just enough fang to make the guards shuffle backward. The ribbon danced in his grip like a promise.