Her Orc King: A Monster Fantasy Romance (Black Bear Clan Book 1)

Mara, for one, was overjoyed that I was finally in on the family secret and that she could now talk to me freely. With tears in her eyes, she apologized for keeping things from me, and I hugged her fiercely, apologizing in turn for being impatient and forcing her into a difficult situation.

The kitchen staff was sorry to see me drop my double shifts at the chopping board, so I agreed to continue working there whenever Mara didn’t need me. With my newfound debt-free life and a mate richer than my wildest dreams, I didn’t need to work, but I liked the orcs in the steamy kitchen, and it gave me an excuse to chat with the maids.

Every afternoon, I asked Vark or Steagor to take me up to the Sun Room, as we’d dubbed it, and I set up a small windowsill garden with basil, rosemary, and thyme growing in clay pots. Gorvor brought me some wildflower seeds from his next hunt, but I saved them for the next growing season when I could sow them in the early spring. As summer bloomed to its full extent, we turned the small room into a cozy sanctuary where Gorvor joined me most days for an hour or more of lovemaking and well-earned rest.

On a rainy morning, Gorvor and I are enjoying breakfast at our table in the great hall, when Bogur arrives, soaked through but grinning. He approaches the king and murmurs into his ear. Whatever news the scout has brought seems to be intended for Gorvor first, so I sit as patiently as possible, munching on a ripe, juicy peach, and curb my curiosity.

I’ll find out what’s going on sooner or later. My mate doesn’t keep secrets from me anymore.

Gorvor stands, then bends down to kiss me on the lips. “I will return shortly, Dawn.”

I follow him with my gaze as he disappears through the kitchen door, then focus on the scout.

“Will you join me?” I ask, indicating the hearty breakfast spread on the table in front of me.

Bogur gives me a slight bow, and he brings up a chair and tucks in, his hunger apparent.

I let the poor male get a couple of bites in, then ask, “Can you tell me the news you’ve brought?”

His gaze darts around the room, and he lowers his voice. “I was watching the northern mountain pass. And I spotted a herd of mountain sheep grazing in a meadow.”

He says this as if it should mean something to me, almost buzzing with excitement.

“And that’s…good?” I venture.

He nods eagerly. “Their wool is pure white, so it’s extremely valuable. And the meat is a delicacy we don’t often get to eat. The herd was large, so we could easily harvest several animals without hurting it.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say. “Will you go after them?”

“If the king allows it,” he replies.

It’s clear to me what he would choose if the decision was up to him. I let the scout return to his breakfast and take a sip of tea. I should talk to Gorvor soon. If his people have to trudge through heavy rain to hunt for sheep, maybe he is being a little too careful with the gold. I understand trying to preserve an appearance of a modest life for his clan, but if his orcs are living on top of an actual gold mine, they should partake in the abundance, too. The king included. Gorvor has had to take care of everyone for so long, I wonder if anyone ever took care of him.

But this is not the time to question his decisions. He returns moments later and claps the scout on his back.

Then he turns to the crowded dining hall and calls, “Hunters, we gather at the gate in a quarter hour. We will feast tonight.”

A cheer goes up from the long tables, and a baby bursts into a fit of crying, startled by the noise. His father soothes him quickly, then hands him off to his mate and kisses her soundly. Throughout the hall, hunters rise from their seats and leave for their quarters to gather their longbows.

I grasp Gorvor’s hand before he can leave, too. “I have a suggestion if you’ll take it.”

He raises his eyebrows but sits back on his carved wooden throne, gaze intent on me. I love how he focuses all his attention when I speak and doesn’t brush me away. “Tell me.”

I whisper, “I think you should invite Charan to hunt with you.”

His expression hardens. “Why would I do that?”

I reach for him and rub my thumb over the fierce divot between his furrowed eyebrows. “Because I think it would help your relationship. He is here to make sure you’re not going to try and threaten his rule when your father dies. Maybe this is a good time to reassure him that you have no intention of taking that crown? Especially as you’ll be hunting sheep today, not boar?”

I give him a significant look, and he laughs, mollified.

“Very well, little mate. Your suggestion is wise. I will ask him.”

He leans in for another kiss and leaves me, his long legs carrying him across the hall to where Charan and his men are sitting at a separate table. Even from the distance, I can see the surprise on Charan’s face when his brother invites him along. The other three orcs shake their heads despite Charan urging them on. One motions toward the door, as if to indicate the horrible weather. But their leader seems determined to join in on the hunt. He gets up and leaves, presumably to get his weapons, too, and Gorvor strides for the corridor that leads to our bedroom.

I remain in my seat, sipping my tea and watching the rest of Charan’s group. They huddle close together, their heads almost touching. I wish I could be a fly on the wall to listen in on their conversation—I didn’t miss the flash of displeasure that shot across the face of the big warrior who’s sitting facing me when Gorvor stepped up to their table. Now, they don’t look too happy that their leader has decided to hunt with the Black Bear Clan.

Most of all, I’m surprised at the fact that the three remaining Boar Clan orcs are staying here. I would have thought that they’d want to provide some sort of security for their chief, but they remain at the table, scowling at anyone who passes too close to them. The Black Bear Clan orcs avoid them as much as they can, and a strange sort of bubble forms around the strangers’ table, as if they are a rock in a river of orcs flowing around them.

I wave goodbye to the hunters when they leave through the front door, then take up my work with Mara, helping her answer correspondence and order supplies for the coming months. Neekar and Ozork will be traveling to the city soon, and I want them to start establishing relationships with the women’s clothes merchants in Ultrup in advance of my first shipment of ladies’ products.

After lunch, I ask Vark and Steagor to accompany me to the Sun Room—I have to water the plants and sweep the floor, and I’m hoping that Gorvor might find me there if he returns from the hunt soon enough.

I’ve even become used to the spiral staircase that leads up to my little haven, but today, my lantern flickers sadly on the way up, the flame shortening and slowly dimming.

“Take my hand,” Vark says as darkness closes in around us.

I put my palm on the wall, supporting myself. “It’s fine, I’ll manage. It’s just a few more steps.”

Peering at the lantern, I shake it gently. I could have sworn I’d added oil to it recently, but I’ve had so many things to do, it’s possible it had slipped my mind.

“The king will use our guts as festival ornaments if you trip and break your neck,” Steagor mutters from behind me.

“Then it’s good you’ll catch me before I fall,” I say, resolutely trudging on.

Vark lets out a snort. “You are a fine queen for Gorvor.”

I pause, catching my breath. “How do you figure that?”

I secretly agree with him, of course. I’m the perfect queen for Gorvor because he’s my mate. It took me a while, but I have accepted my role, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

“You don’t back down,” he says. “Even on your first day here, you screamed at us for letting him take you into his room.”

I glower at his back. “I still haven’t entirely forgiven you for that, you know.”

“Ah, we knew he wouldn’t hurt you,” Vark says. “That’s not the kind of male he is.”

“Besides,” Steagor adds, his voice a rumble in the dark. “You wouldn’t have believed us.”

I open my mouth to object, then close it again. He’s not wrong.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I came here with a lot of prejudice.”

Steagor surprises me with a laugh. “It’s all right, my lady.”

We reach the top, and I unlock the door with the key Gorvor has given me. Light floods into the corridor, and I squint and shade my eyes at the sudden brightness. I’d left the shutters cracked open for the plants, and even though the day is gloomy, my eyes sting for a moment before they adjust.

“Oh, no,” I cry, springing forward. “What a mess!”

The shutters, while letting in the light, also let in a flood of rain, and now the stone floor is wet, the curtains are soaked, and my plants are half drowning in their pots.

“I will get you more lamp oil,” Steagor says from the doorway, picking up my discarded lantern. “I will return shortly.”

Vark scoffs at him. “You just want to avoid helping with the cleaning.”

The older orc shrugs and departs, leaving us in the Sun Room. Vark grumbles as he works, but he helps me mop up the worst of the puddles, then lifts the heavy soil-filled flowerpots and pours the excess water off through the window.

I’m on my knees, wiping the flagstones yet again, when Vark suddenly straightens and turns toward the door.

“Be quiet,” he says urgently.

I stop mid-swipe and strain my ears. I can’t hear anything, but Vark’s entire posture changes. He drops into his fighter’s stance and pulls a long knife from his weapons belt with one hand and a short hatchet with the other.

“What is it?” I whisper.

“Orcs coming up the stairs. Could be nothing, but it’s not Steagor, and our people know this is your private room.” He walks to the threshold and glances back at me. “You will be safe in here. Do not open the door until I tell you, do you understand? Lock yourself in and secure the bolt.”

I nod, shivering. “Why can’t you stay in here and wait with me? You’d be safe in here as well.”

The look he gives me could freeze water. “I’m an orc. I do not hide. And Steagor will soon return. He could walk into an ambush.”

I want to object—orcs can be hurt as much as humans—but this is what he does. What he has trained for all his life. I squeeze my hands into fists and nod, refraining from arguing with him.

Even I can hear the rattle of steel now. Whoever is coming up the long staircase has come prepared for battle.

“Do it now,” Vark snaps. “Lock. Bolt. Do not open the door unless it’s me or Steagor on the other side.”

With shaking hands, I obey his order. He steps into the short corridor, his weapons at the ready, and I slam the door behind him, feeling sick to my stomach. I fit the key into the lock and turn it twice, then slide the heavy iron bolt across, securing myself inside. Helplessness threatens to overwhelm me. This room, so remote and private, has been such a joy to use, but now it has become a prison—and Vark is out there, risking his life for me.

I have to help him somehow.

I run to the window and scream into the rain, “Help! We’re being attacked in the Sun Room! Help us!”

No answer comes, and the relentless patter of the falling raindrops smothers my voice. We’re so high up and so far away from any of the guarded entrances to the Hill that even on a nice day, it would be a stretch to call for help from here. Now, I have no chance of being heard. I look toward the top of the cliff that the window is cut from, then down, trying to see if I can find a way out of here and warn someone. But the sheer rock wall would be too dangerous to scale even in dry weather. I would fall and break my neck before I could ever get to safety.

From the other side of the thick oakwood door, shouts catch my attention. I run back to the entrance and press my ear to the wood.

“We’re here for the girl,” a rough voice states. “You don’t have to die.”

“Piss off.” Vark’s voice is easily recognizable, cold with fury. “I’ll kill you all and let your bodies rot.”

Of course, my mind paints the image of the culprits clearly. The Boar Clan orcs. They likely realized that with the king and most of the warriors gone from the Hill, this was their perfect chance to attack.

At the first clash of steel, I jump back, terrified. Grunts and shouts fill the space, muffled and yet too close. Panic rises inside me. However many assailants came up those stairs, Vark is out there alone, likely outnumbered. And even if he’s the better warrior, this is a numbers game—how long will it take them to wear him down? The close quarters of the corridor make it hard for more than one soldier to jump him at a time, so that will buy him time. So will the short-range weapons he always carries on his belt. But if one slips past him…

Maybe I could open the door quickly and stab whoever is close enough to reach? I search the room frantically for any sort of weapon, but we didn’t design this space to hold an arsenal. The best I can come up with is one of Gorvor’s short-bladed knives for sharpening the writing quills. Its blade is barely as long as my thumb, but it’s sharp and handy for me to hold, unlike the large knives the orcs use for battle or hunting.

Clutching the little weapon, I return to the door, only to realize my mistake. Any sneak attack on my part would have to be sudden and silent, and there is no way I could both unbolt and unlock the door without giving myself away to the combatants outside. I would only distract Vark and get him killed faster.

I wish Steagor would return, but to fetch the lamp oil and walk all the way back here, it will take him a while. The attackers timed this right.

A grunt of pain has me flinching, even though I don’t know who it is. The idea that males are fighting outside my door because of me is so abhorrent, my hands tremble uncontrollably. I nearly drop the knife at the thought of someone getting killed.

But I force myself to think of Gorvor. What would he have me do? He would say I needed to fight. To make the best of a bad situation and make sure I survive.

Gorvor.

It could be hours yet before he returns. I wonder what he will find when he seeks me out. Because I’m sure he will. If I’m not in our bedroom, waiting for him, he will come up here to search for me. I only have to hold out that long. In the meantime, Steagor will bring back the lantern, and maybe he can help defeat the attackers.

But another pained sound comes from the other side of the door, and then, two loud knocks. I jump back, staring at the lock as if it might bite me. Only Gorvor and I have the keys to this room, so nobody can get in by unlocking it, but there are other ways. They could break down the door. It would take them a while, because it’s sturdy and reinforced with iron, but orcs are nothing if not strong.

“Open the door, girl,” a rough voice calls through the wood. “Or your filthy little guard dies.”

My breath lodges in my throat. I can’t answer. Vark said not to open the door for anyone but him or Steagor, but if he’s not the one speaking, he must be…

My mind rebels at the thought. No. The orc said they will kill Vark if I don’t comply, so he must be alive. Or the stranger is lying, which is exactly what I would expect him to do.

“I will count to ten,” the male snarls as if impatience is getting the best of him. “If you don’t unlock this door by then, I will slit his throat, and his death will be on you.”

I sob in terror, my heart hammering wildly. If I don’t open the door, Vark will die. I know it as surely as I know my name. They will not let a witness live. But maybe if I go with them willingly, they’ll let him live. I could trade myself in for a chance to save his life—I’m clearly what they’re after, so there’s a chance they want me alive.

“Four,” the male calls, counting off slowly. “Three.”

I can’t let him die.

Gritting my teeth, I put my weight into pushing the bolt open. The orc outside stops counting, and silence descends as if he’s waiting for me to make the final decision. I fit the key back in the lock, take a deep breath, and turn it twice, quickly. Then, rather than open the door myself, I dance back and stand in the far corner of the small room.

Something slams against the door, and it flies open, cracking loudly on the stone wall. Then an orc strides in, a big male with broad shoulders and a chest plate and helmet made of polished steel. It’s one of Charan’s companions, as I suspected. Behind him in the corridor lie three orcs—one is Vark, his body crumpled on the floor, and the other two are two more Boar Clan orcs.

The only male left standing faces off with me. He’s bleeding from his leg and he seems to be missing two fingers on his left hand, but it’s his scowl that’s the most terrifying. He looks like he wants to murder me right where I stand.

“Come.”

He makes as if he wants to grab me by the waist, but I jump aside just in time—and press the small knife to my neck.

“Don’t come any closer,” I yelp, my hand shaking but my grip firm.

He stops and straightens, a calculating expression crossing his face. “What are you doing?”

I angle the knife so he can see it better and point at Vark with my free hand. “I will only come with you if you let him live.”