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After they’d told me I’d be fishing for our dinner, we had to prepare the fallen orc’s body.
Wruk—the king of our clan.
He was stripped of his clothing and if I thought the males of my clan were weakly muscled, it’s obvious they followed their leader.
The bastard mate of mine pushed my face into the dead body, guffawing loudly, ordering me to lick the male’s tattoos as penance for killing him while the others snickered.
For that, the bastard will pay.
All five males are lounging around the camp when I return. If they wish to live like pigs, I’ll give them filth. I gut and clean the fish there, along with the dead king, and cook it over the open flame.
But it’s not enough. When the fish is done, they won’t come get up. The bastards make me fix their plates and serve them. So I do what any strong, orc female would.
I spit in their fish.
Chapter Two
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BAKOG, GRANDSON TO King Brachard of the West Mountain Orcs:
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN she’s not in Creede?” My roar quakes the ground.
From all around, people come running. My blood feels like its boiling in my veins, thickening to sludge. There’s a red haze covering my vision.
Not Shalia.
I’ve protected her since I was five and had my first vision. Shally was going to lose her way, lose her home, lose everything that ever mattered to her. She was going to be alone and depressed and cry herself to sleep at night.
At the hands of orcs.
Determined to keep it from happening, I’ve kept an eye on her our entire lives. And just when I thought maybe the danger was over—she’s gone. But that was only the first vision.
“Bakog,” my father says. “Explain to us what happened.”
“I dropped her off at Rosemary’s. The way I do every time.” I turn to look at Frakil.
