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“She wasn’t,” Bron says, folding his arms. “Now fuck off.”
Rig mutters a curse and stalks away.
The suppressed giggle escapes my lips, but it turns into a sob. My shaking shifts to a violent tremble that makes my teeth chatter, as I’m reminded of my vulnerability and how men are made foolish by the cocks that swing between their legs.
Bron closes in on me and fists my upper arms when I sway. “There, tiny human. The bastard is gone. I will tell Doug, and he will put a thumping on the prick lest he get confused again.”
“I-I-I…” I cannot get the words out past the violent chattering of my teeth. “If D-d-doug had come up-p-pon us, he might have killed him a-a-and go-t-t-en into t-trouble again.”
His big brows knit together. “Ah—you’re looking pale, tiny one.”
My legs give out, and he hoists me into his arms before striding off through the camp.
“I can walk,” I protest. His scent is pleasant in some ways and clean, compared to Rig, yet it is not Doug’s scent, and it makes me uncomfortable to be close.
Bron ignores my wriggling and continues on, a stubborn set to his jaw that is reminiscent of Doug at his mule-headed worst. Do all orcs have a stubborn streak?
Only as we emerge from the camp, and I see Doug rise from where he is putting up a low tarp tent—which I realize is for us—do I recognize the error of Bron carrying me.
“Put me down,” I say, my tone sharp.
To his credit, Bron is swift to comply, and even though my legs are not quite stable, he slowly backs away.
Doug stalks toward us, chest heaving.
“He was only—uff!” I am snatched up and tossed over Doug’s broad shoulder. He growls low and menacing at his friend. “Oh! This is not Bron’s fault, Doug.” He swats my ass—I thrash—he swats it again.
I huff out a breath and try to peer back.
Bron stands a few paces away, hands up. “Doug, this is not what you think.”
It would seem humans are not the only males made foolish by the thing swinging between their legs.
* * *
Doug
Common sense tells me I should hear Bron out. We have been brothers since we were whelps and have always had each other’s back. But seeing his hands upon Jasmine clouds my mind to everything but rage and lust.
Territorial.That is how I feel. She is mine.
Ours,my beast corrects. He paws inside my head, snarling and wanting out.
“One of the humans had cornered her,” Bron is saying. I believe he has said it more than once, but I am slow to take it up. My nostrils flare.
He lowers his hands, perhaps sensing I’ve regained my self-control. “Name is Rig. A bald bastard who enjoys using his club.” He nods at me. “Take some time to calm and comfort your mate. Put a thumping on him tomorrow when you’re clear-headed and won’t kill the prick. We are far from Krug and the protection of the warlord. You look fit to bust my skull, and all I did was bring your mate back. The human bastard will not live to see the morning if you go at him like this.”
Bron always did have a rambling mouth, as though my silence makes him fill in the gaps. But he is well-meaning, and I’m grateful that he protected her when I could not. I will need to make an example of Rig so that word gets around not to touch what is mine. That will not be a problem. I am skilled at keeping querulous humans in line.
“Doug?”
My head twists to look at Jasmine, still over my shoulder, and she peers back up at me.
I hear Bron chuckle and the sound of his footsteps as he walks away.
But I pay him no mind—all my rage shifts with lightning speed toward lust as her aroused smell hits me.
Does she like it when I master her?
