Page 10 of The Shadow Orc's Bride

Rakhal weighed it once in his palm, then flicked his wrist.

The weapon spun through the air and struck the stone floor with a cold, echoing clatter. The sound rang in the chamber like a death knell.

Only then did he speak. His voice was quiet, shadow-deep, each word carrying the weight of finality.

“If you want to live…” His gaze bore into hers, unwavering. “…then you will not resist.”

Chapter

Five

Something had pressed down on her.

Heavy. Suffocating. A weight that slithered through her dreams and dragged her up from their depths. The air thickened around her, cold and dense with a darkness that felt alive. Her heart stuttered in her chest before she even understood why.

Her eyes snapped open to find herself staring straight into terror.

Above her hovered a pair of eyes, cold and merciless, glowing with a luminous blue that pierced the shadows like frost-lit fire. They belonged to a figure cloaked in darkness, with shadows writhing around him as though they were alive, feeding on his presence, bending to his will.

The mask had hidden his face, carved and cruel, but not enough to conceal the aura of death that clung to him. Black hair had spilled loose, catching faintly in the lamplight, though the shadows had devoured most of it.

Relentless. Unyielding. Death incarnate.

Every breath she had drawn had scraped her lungs raw, the air thick as tar. The edge of steel had lain cool against her throat, the pressure slight but absolute. She hadn't dared to swallow.

The nightmare had been real.

A shadow orc, she'd realised, cold horror gnawing at her, rendering her unable to speak, to move.

Not just any orc—a particularly deadly one. One of the creatures whispered about in fearful tones by soldiers who had seen too much of war. He had made it all the way here, through the wards, past the guards, right into her tower. Into her chamber. To her very bedside.

She had stared death in the face.

The glowing eyes. The dagger at her throat. The shadows writhing like serpents at his command. She had felt it all pressing down on her, crushing, inevitable.

And then?—

She had caught it. A flicker. A sliver of something she hadn't expected.

Hesitation.

It had been there in the way the blade had lingered, poised but unmoving. In the weight of his gaze as he'd looked at her, unblinking, like a predator studying prey—but not striking. For a heartbeat, perhaps two, he had faltered.

It was the smallest crack in the armor of death. But she had seen it.

She'd tried to buy time.

Words had been her only weapon, and she had wielded them as best she could—truth spun into delaying tactics, her one and only trump card laid bare: the plan with the Ketheri. She should have stayed silent. Should have accepted death with dignity. But she hadn't. She had wanted to live.

She had to live.

Selfish, perhaps. But necessary. She couldn't allow one of her cousins to take the seat of power, to undo everything her father had built. This—this moment—had been the only way out.

And perhaps…

Futilely, she'd reached for her dagger. The one hidden beneath her pillow, the one comfort she had kept close even here in her own tower.

But he had caught her. Effortless, merciless. His grip had closed around her wrist, iron-strong, crushing until she had gasped in pain. He had taken the weapon from her as easily as one might disarm a child. The message had been clear: she was no match for him. Not in strength. Not in speed. If he had wished it, he could have crushed her bones in his bare hands.