Page 6 of The Princess and the Orc (Cursed Kingdoms)

Chapter Six

“W hy is this… creature attending our council meeting?” Councillor Victor Basinger, a hardened older man from one of the border regions, sneered at Drogath, who sprawled in one of the chairs looking remarkably unconcerned.

Amalia glanced nervously between her father and Drogath, wondering if anyone was going to respond to the inherent challenge in the comment. Amalia often attended Council meetings, initially under her father’s gentle suggestion so she could learn the business of the kingdom, then as she found it interesting. She knew many of the older Council members were waiting for the day when she married, constantly putting forth potential husbands for her father’s consideration so she could get to her real purpose: popping out babies and raising the next generation. She was nothing more than a vessel to many of them, though there were a few, like Sir Cadvael, who respected her and listened when she spoke.

Now King Henrik stood and announced her marriage, or mating, to an orc. The clamor was deafening, and Drogath only sat there, one leg propped over the arm of the chair, swinging slightly, a smirk on his face. He was intentionally baiting the Councillors, acting the part of a lazy, indolent orc, when she suspected otherwise. They had spent only one night together so far, but she already knew he was far more intelligent than anyone believed, which he manipulated to his advantage. Was it a game or did he have a deeper purpose in coming here? What did a common orc know about ruling a kingdom? He would be better served hanging with the soldiers, as her maid told her he’d done that morning.

Amalie caught Drogath’s gaze across the chamber, and he gave her a wicked wink, his sharp teeth flashing in a knowing grin. Heat licked down her spine, pooling low in her belly as memories of the previous night crashed over her. The way his calloused hands had roamed her body, the way his mouth had explored, teased, claimed—she had never felt anything like it. Prince Frederich, with his careful courtship and chaste kisses, had never dared to touch her so intimately.

And now, all she could think about was returning to their bedchambers, peeling away the layers of propriety and seeing if it had been as good as she remembered. Or if it would be even better.

Not that she was particularly pleased with him at the moment.

She had slept all night wrapped in warmth, cocooned by the solid weight of a male who radiated heat like a living furnace. His scent, rich and dark with the spice of something utterly him, had wrapped around her like a second skin, and for one blissful moment, she had expected to wake to his hands skimming her body, to the rough scrape of his tusks against the delicate skin of her throat.

Instead, she had been met with empty sheets and the chill of his absence.

The disappointment had been sharp, unexpected. Perhaps a little distance had been for the best. She wasn’t sure she was ready to lose herself completely in an orc’s embrace.

Tell that to her traitorous body.

Every time Drogath flashed her that wicked grin, the heat flared again, spreading like fire through her limbs. Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, desperate for friction, for relief from the ache building inside her. He knew exactly what he was doing to her. She could see it in the way his gaze lingered, the way his nostrils flared slightly, as if he could scent the longing curling beneath her skin.

And gods help her, she wanted him to do something about it.

“Princess Amalia. Are you listening?” An exasperated voice broke into her thoughts, and she turned her burning face to Councillor Basinger.

Before she could respond, Drogath growled and leapt to his feet, stepping between her and the Councillor. “Speak to my mate with more respect. She is my mate, your princess, and your future queen.”

The Councillor’s eyes flared with fear and he stumbled back a few steps, falling into his chair. Amalia stifled a giggle, glad to see the overbearing man put in his place. He had been the one to put forth Prince Frederich as a potential husband, being related to the prince or something, and she was sure he was disappointed by the king's refusal to consider him. But her heart warmed at the defense. Even her father had never defended her, saying she needed to hold her own against the Council if she wanted to rule after he was gone.

“My apologies, Princess Amalia,” Councillor Basinger finally sputtered in her direction.

She gave a graceful nod. “Thank you, Councillor. As you can understand, this may not have been the alliance we were expecting with our neighbors of Darea, however, this marriage will bring us more safety and a strong union with the orc clans of the mountain regions through which our enemies have to travel to invade us. Our orc allies know the mountain passes better than anyone and can provide defense for us, along with faster warnings, so we can be better prepared for any attacks.”

“Assuming they are not the ones attacking us now,” the Councillor muttered.

“We are not attacking you,” Drogath stated flatly. “However, that is an excellent change of subject. Who is attacking your settlements, not to mention ours?”

Councillor Basinger glared at him, then turned to the king. “Your majesty, I don’t have to speak to the creature who is killing my people.”

King Henrik steepled his fingers in front of him, a thoughtful look on his face. “In fact, you do. I have sent several of my guard to investigate and have not heard from them. They were supposed to coordinate with you and you have not mentioned them. I find this alarming.”

The Councillor paled and settled back in his seat heavily. “Your majesty, I thought they had returned by now with their reports. They must have been intercepted. I sent word with some of my own guards for protection.”

The king studied him with a shrewd gaze. “Everyone out. The Councillor, Sir Cadvael and I need to discuss the border. Drogath, we’ll review the details of the alliance tomorrow.”

Drogath’s jaw tightened, but he nodded once and held his hand out to Amalia. She avoided him, curtseying to her father, and headed from the room. Though he had defended her, she wasn’t pleased that he'd left her that morning. And if he thought she would forgive and forget and be brought to heel, then he needed to think again. Amalia hurried out, weaving through the councillors, leaving Drogath behind.

She headed for her favorite place, the one place in the castle that gave her comfort, at least when she couldn’t go riding. Her mother’s gardens and the hedge maze her mother had designed and planted. Though her mother had not lived to see it fully realized, Amalia loved to wander the twisty paths and think of her future.

The guards nodded respectfully to Amalia as she exited the castle into the expansive back gardens, where a sea of greenery and blossoms stretched beneath the warmth of the afternoon sun. Towering hedges, their edges meticulously trimmed, formed elegant archways and secluded alcoves, creating a sense of both grandeur and intimacy. The scent of roses, jasmine, and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of freshly turned soil. Winding stone pathways led through beds of vibrant flowers, their petals painted in every hue of the sunset, while ivy curled around marble trellises, casting dappled shadows across the ground.

At the heart of the garden lay the hedge maze, an intricate labyrinth of dense, verdant walls that stood nearly twice Amalia’s height. Her mother had designed it as a place of both wonder and quiet reflection, filling its hidden nooks with stone benches, ivy-covered statues, and fountains that murmured with the gentle trickle of water. Amalia had spent many childhood afternoons darting through its twisting corridors, shrieking with laughter as she played elaborate games of hide-and-seek beneath the shifting canopy of green.

Now, the maze seemed less like a playful retreat and more like a symbol of her own uncertain path. She trailed her fingers along the leaves as she passed, remembering the warmth of her mother’s guiding hand, the way she had lovingly coaxed each bloom into life. Unlike her, Amalia had no talent for tending the delicate balance of nature. She was more likely to over water a plant or let it wilt beneath her forgetfulness. Hopefully, she would prove to be a better mother than a gardener. Though as she glanced at the winding passages of the maze, she couldn’t shake the uneasy thought that motherhood, too, might be a puzzle she was not yet prepared to navigate.

She sensed a presence behind her, a large shape that made her shiver in the shadows of the maze. Drogath was in pursuit, not content to let her flee from him. She laughed quietly and slipped around corners, trying to elude the clever orc, but he maintained his steady pace, not quite catching her, letting her lead him on in their cat-and-mouse game. She thought she glimpsed his dark green skin through the hedge, but it only spurred her to move faster, more recklessly. She knew the maze better than anyone, knew its twists and turns. She circled the fountain and came through another side to try to catch Drogath off guard when he stepped in front of her, seizing her wrist.

“Caught you, mate.”

* * *

D rogath hadn’t wanted to leave their bedchambers that morning. Every instinct urged him to stay, to keep Amalie beneath him, to savor the heat of her body and the way she fit against him. But duty called, and he had another reason to pry himself away. Testing the limits of the king’s so-called hospitality, was he truly a guest, or merely a prisoner in a gilded cage?

He also hoped to speak with the king about the attacks plaguing the land. Instead, he found the palace in a slow morning haze, with courtiers taking breakfast in their rooms and no sign of the king himself. That left him with only one option. Seeking those who truly knew the castle’s secrets. The ones who moved unseen but saw everything. The servants and the soldiers.

Drogath had started in the kitchens, where his arrival initially startled the staff. Pots clattered, a scullery maid nearly dropped a tray, but Cook barely blinked. The formidable woman simply pointed to a stool in the corner and, without waiting for argument, piled a plate high with steaming meat, fresh bread, and thick slabs of cheese. She kept his cup filled and, between directing her bustling staff, plied him with talk of the borderland, apparently the place of her birth. She spoke of old stories and places they both knew, but none of the information he sought. Still, he left the kitchen pleasantly full and understanding that Cook now considered him her guest. A useful ally in a foreign court.

Still unshadowed by guards, a fact that both intrigued and unsettled him, he made his way to the soldiers' practice field. There, he spotted the captain from the previous day. Drogath braced himself for a confrontation, expecting to be ordered away. Instead, the man simply tossed him a weapon and gestured to the open field.

The sparring started slow. He tested their techniques, feeling out weaknesses, pushing where he could. But soon, others gathered. They watched. Then they joined. By the time the sun hung high in the sky, he had moved through a dozen different fighters, sweat slick on his skin, muscles burning with exertion. He might not have won them over, but he had earned something just as valuable. Respect.

He returned just in time for the Council meeting, and, while the morning didn’t yield any valuable information, he was comfortable with his progress, though his one regret was leaving Amalie’s bed at all. Judging by the occasional sharp glances she shot him, she hadn't been pleased to wake alone either. The scent of her arousal still lingered in the air, tantalizing, undeniable. She wouldn’t be satisfied until their mating was complete, but she wasn’t ready yet. Not to belong fully to an orc. Not while she remained untouched.

But there were other ways to prepare her.

And when the time came, she would not be left wanting.

The Council meeting was a futile endeavor, much like his morning activities. Though the border lord, Councillor Basinger, showed a suspicious amount of anger toward Drogath and his clan. Drogath was familiar with the man and his soldiers, and not in the best way. He had suspected that Basinger colluded with Prince Frederich, and the man’s reaction to his presence, the nasty reaction, only confirmed it.

It appeared the king also had his suspicions and Drogath was content to allow him to handle the situation. Especially since it allowed him to spend time with his mate, who was clearly irritated with him. Maybe he could sweeten her mood.

Drogath followed Amalia's scent through the twisting paths of the hedge maze, tracking her with the patience of a predator. The afternoon sun had warmed the fragrant leaves, releasing their herbal essence into the air. But he would know her anywhere. The sweet flutter of her pulse, the subtle fragrance of roses that clung to her skin.

She was playing with him, leading him deeper into the maze's heart. He heard her quiet laughter around corners, caught glimpses of her skirts disappearing around bends. His little mate had grown bold in their time together, learning to tease and tempt him.

She darted around the fountain in the center, and he figured out her game. Moving quickly to counter the motion, he blocked her escape, neatly cutting her off. Sunlight filtered through the leaves above, dappling her skin with patterns of light and shadow. Her chest rose and fell quickly with excited breaths, her eyes bright with mischief. He lightly captured her wrist, holding her still, feeling the rapid beat of her pulse just under her skin.

“Caught you,” he rumbled, advancing slowly into the space. She backed up until she hit the hedge wall, but her smile only grew wider.

“Did you?” She tilted her chin up defiantly. “Or did I want to be caught?”

The scent of her arousal confirmed her words, making his blood heat. He braced his arms on either side of her head, caging her with his body. “Dangerous game, little mate, teasing an orc.”

“Perhaps I like danger.” She reached up to trace one of his tusks with a delicate finger. The intimate gesture made him growl low in his throat.

“You've grown bold,” he observed, lowering his head to nuzzle her throat. She tipped her head back immediately, offering better access. A gesture of trust that humbled him. “Remember when you used to tremble at the sight of me?”

“Now I only tremble when you touch me.” Her hands slid up his chest to tangle in his hair. “When you look at me like you want to devour me.”

“I want to devour you." He grazed his teeth against her pulse point, feeling it jump beneath his lips. “To taste every inch of you. To make you cry out my name until your voice gives out.”

She shivered in his arms. “Someone might hear.”

“Let them.” He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing her soft moan. When he pulled back, her lips were swollen, her eyes heavy-lidded with desire. “Let them all know how thoroughly you're loved. How completely you're claimed.”

“Drogath.” His name was a plea on her lips.

He stepped back, enjoying how she swayed toward him, seeking his touch. “Come, mate. I think it's time we retired to our chambers for another lesson.”

She took his offered hand, twining their fingers together. “Lead the way, mate.”