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“No thanks to the care you take of your mate,” I snap back.
He shrugs. “We knew you were safe.”
“They’re molding you,” Doparth says. “Look at you. Arguing with us. Wearing different clothes. You’re so desperately trying to fit in—and you’ll do well. In a few years, you’ll be just like your used-up mother.”
Gnark takes up his cause. “Yes. They want you to look half-human, do they not? Lighten your hair. Lighten your skin. Wear a human dress. Soon they’ll want you to cover your Blackheart tats. Or have they asked you already, Jogug? Have they asked you to pretty your face?”
“I-I don’t have any other clothes,” I say. Though I won’t admit it, I like the way my human dresses make me feel feminine. I didn’t like the way people looked at me when I looked Blackheart... like a crazed killer. Leather to my bared thighs, showing the wrist guards—my bracers—and so much skin my weapons showed. I looked dangerous and unapproachable.
And part of me screams that even at that, Bakog still wanted me.
“Tell me, my precious mate... are you fucking the prince? Because that’s the one who will get you to the top, eh? Spreading your pretty thighs for him? Making yourself at home with access to his possessions? His weapons? His gold?”
“What?” a familiar voice hisses from beyond the cages. My gaze flies that direction.
Bakog.
The caged orcs startle, turning to see him. He stands with the older male with silvery-green hair... Grumpy, that I’d seen in the kitchens, and Azorr, who stands near Grumpy on the opposite side. And yet, Grumpy doesn’t look sweet and mild, the opposite of his name. Nay, this time he looks mean and dangerous and I think mayhap I got the meaning of the name wrong. I think he’s called this because he has a whole other side.
“Ahh, there’s the prisoner you let live,” Stug mutters, too low for them to hear. “Surely, they owe you for allowing him breath? He’s a prince, aye? Look at the arm bands he wears.”
“So, this is why you couldn’t be my mate?” Bakog asks, his eyes narrowed. “You’re already mated?” Before I can answer, he goes on. “Which one?”
“I demand you release me at once,” Stug says. “After all, you’ve collected my mate. It’s the least compensation you can give me, even if you keep these others—”
The others hiss but I’m barely aware of their usual squabbling. My eyes are on Bakog who looks so... betrayed as he stares at me, not them.
“Answer me. Did you have a mate?” he asks again.
“Aye,” I whisper, ashamed. I’m not sure what I was thinking because Stug and Bakog are in a totally different class. I don’t know why or how I ever ended up with Stug, but obviously I did at some point. Somewhere, somehow, I chose him. “I am mated to Stug,” I say softly, even as Stug whispers to keep silent.
“Is it by choice, Jogug? Because right now, you have a choice. Choose me and I will do away with him.”
“That’s exactly what we would expect from West Mountain orcs,” Stug says and I suck in a breath at the ring of truth in his words. It’s what he’s always told me, right? That the West Mountain orcs steal women, and slaughter their males. Even their children if it suits them.
“There’s no rush in choosing,” the older man next to Bakog calls. “It will take these ones weeks to waste away on bread and water. You have plenty of time to recall your memories, m’kirn. To remember your rightful place.”
“That’s the king,” Stug whispers. “King Brachard.”
This? This male that the little ones called Grumpy is my father? His arms are massively muscled, his neck thick. And I should have known by the loud, forceful voice. I can almost hear him commanding my mother in that other tone, the one he has now. This was him all along—the orc king. The bastard who’d captured my human mother all those years ago, impregnating her and making her believe she appreciated his touch. Soft and sweet one moment, sly and bellowing the next.
The way Stug thought I should appreciate his. Even now, the smell of his vile breath penetrates my memory.
My poor, sweet mother couldn’t get away from that. No, and neither could that other human that she hung out with, who came along later. Then a third. The three that surrounded her at the moon ritual. Was the bastard impregnating all of them? Making them each believe they were the favored of the king?
Slowly I gaze at all the prisoners in the cage. Stug looks satisfied, like the fool knows exactly what I’m thinking. And why shouldn’t he? He is my mate, after all, though I still can’t remember the relationship. If I can’t remember agreeing to him. And Doparth looks pensive as he takes in my new garb. Gnark looks angered still that I dared to remove the dead king’s Blackheart clothes, that I broke my mourning cycle for a male I can’t even remember.
And everyone is quiet, all on pins and needles, waiting for me. Waiting for me to do something.
“You are the king?” I ask the green and silver-haired fox.
His eyes soften as he takes in my new appearance. My lighter hair, my dress instead of my stark leather skirt. “Aye, gi anyasa. I am Brachard.”
Gi anyasa? He calls me his dear one? He doesn’t just call me anyasa but adds the possessive word before it. He has no shame about claiming me in front of everyone. And why should he? The truth’s out now.
“Told you,” Stug whispers, reminding that this is my chance. The smirk on his face makes my bile rise in my throat. “The element of surprise.”
And I guess it is. This is my chance to take revenge for my mother. Loosening my tense form, I quickly walk up to him, arms outstretched as if I’m coming in for a hug. And while they all look confused, not a one of his royal guard stops me. Not Bakog, not Brun, not Azorr. Not the others that appeared and lined up further behind them.
