The Princess and the Orc

Drogath glided through the forest, his footsteps silent despite his massive frame. The morning's frustration still simmered beneath his skin. Three days he'd waited for an audience with King Henrik, and for three days the human guards had turned him away with increasingly flimsy excuses. As if he couldn't smell their fear, their instinctive revulsion at the sight of an orc approaching their precious gates. He couldn’t afford to be away from his clan much longer, yet he also couldn’t afford to fail in his plan, either. His people needed him to succeed. They couldn’t fight a war on two fronts. Not alone.
The crack of branches and thunder of hooves pulled him from his brooding. His hand found the shaft of his axe as he moved toward the sound, keeping to the shadows of the ancient trees. As the shouting grew closer, he crouched behind a fallen tree and assessed the situation. The scents hit him first—horse sweat, human fear, and the acrid tang of malice that always accompanied those who enjoyed causing terror in others. Rage filled him and he moved out from the trees, hoping he was in time to help the poor soul who was under attack.
He crested a small rise and took in the scene at a glance. Six mounted soldiers pursued a lone rider on a black horse, a woman, judging by the skirt and hair flowing behind her. Their uniforms weren't those of either Henrik’s guard or Drogath’s enemy, yet the way they moved spoke of professional training. Mercenaries, then, or someone's private army. He feared for her if they caught her. While orcs were often touted as vile creatures, he knew all too well that humans often caused the most harm to their own.
Drogath didn't hesitate. Whatever game these humans played, it wasn't a fair hunt. He raced through the forest, hoping to intercept the action. The woman’s horse leapt over a fallen log and stumbled, with the woman going over the horse’s head and onto the ground. The horse took off, leaving the woman huddled on the ground. He burst from the cover with a roar that shook leaves from the branches, letting battle-rage fill him even as he kept his mind clear and tactical. The first two humans died before they could even turn their horses, toppling from them, dead before they hit the ground. The third managed to raise his sword before Drogath's axe separated his head from his shoulders.
The remaining soldiers broke and scattered, as humans so often did when faced with an orc warrior's fury. But Drogath was too quick, cutting them down before they could escape, save one who had turned tail like the coward he was as soon as Drogath had revealed himself.
He turned to the woman, expecting the usual reaction—screaming, fainting, or trying to flee. Instead, she met his gaze evenly, chin raised despite the fear that radiated from her in waves. Her features were delicate, aristocratic, and startlingly familiar from the coins that bore her image. Princess Amalia herself. Well. This complicated matters.
“Thank you.” Her voice shook a bit as she spoke. “For saving my life. Though I don't understand why.”
Drogath smiled. Maybe he would finally get his audience with the king. King Henrik could hardly refuse to speak with the orc who saved his only daughter. “Perhaps, princess, there is much about my people you do not understand.” He stepped closer again, testing her courage, and she didn’t flinch, though she smelled of fear, and something else. “Though if you wish to learn, these woods are my territory. And I would not be opposed to teaching you.”
“Take me home,” she commanded, her voice impressively steady. “At once.”
Drogath smirked. She was terrified. He could smell it on her, yet she dared to order him about like a common servant. More interesting still was the other scent threading through her fear. Arousal, sharp and sweet. His blood stirred in response, along with something else he hadn’t expected to find and didn’t dare name, not yet. Didn’t dare to hope.
“Take you home?” he rumbled, letting his voice drop to its deepest register. “But I am an orc, little princess. Haven't you heard? We kidnap beautiful women for sport. Keep them, bind them to us forever.”
She paled further, her skin creamy under her fiery red hair, but lifted her chin higher. “You saved my life. You won't harm me now.”
“Such certainty.” He stepped closer, noting how her pupils dilated. “But there are brigands still searching these woods for you. The second force that had split from this group. I hear them even now.” He did, too. Crashes through the underbrush, voices calling to each other in the distance. “I could protect you, escort you safely home... for a price.”
“What price?” Her fists tightened next to her body, but she didn't back away.
“Marriage.”
“What?” The word exploded from her in a most un-princess-like squawk. “Absolutely not!”
Drogath shrugged his massive shoulders. “As you wish.” He turned, hefted his ax, and began walking away, counting silently in his head. One. Two. Three. Shouts were growing closer. Whether they were the enemy or her own guard, because there was no way the princess was out alone, he didn’t know. But if he didn’t know who it was, neither did she, which gave him an advantage. He had waited for an opportunity, leverage with the king. Now he had one in his claws. The princess herself. His victory would be sweeter if she came willingly.
“Wait!”
He smiled, then smoothed his expression before turning back. Amalia stood rigid, hands fisted at her side, face white but determined, her face tilted in a regal expression. Behind her, the voices grew closer.
“I accept.”
“Accept what, precisely?” He wouldn't make this easy for her. He needed her to say the words, to seal the bargain.
She swallowed hard. “I accept your offer of marriage.”
“Ah.” Relief flooded him. He had her.
Drogath moved closer until he towered above her, forcing her to look up to meet his eyes. “Then we must seal our bargain properly.” He reached for her, giving her time to pull away if she truly wished to refuse. When she remained still, he cupped the back of her head with one massive hand and drew her toward him.
“With a kiss.”