Page 11 of Shackled to the Orc

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Page 11 of Shackled to the Orc

Istare up, wide eyed, gagging as he presses his huge fingers into my mouth. He slips his meaty digits under my tongue, finding my deerskin pouch, and pulls it out, holding it up accusingly.

“What is this?”

“How did you know?”

His eyes flash. “Answer me.” His voice is hard, not used to being disobeyed.

“Herbs. That’s all. I’m a healer.” I look down. “I was a healer.”

“In show matches. Fighters keep pouches of pig blood in their mouths, to make the crowd think it is real. You learn to see these things.” His voice is deep and growly, a harsh accent in his tones. He speaks to me in longer sentences than he does to other people, handing my prized possession back to me.

“Your leg is giving you pain. I have stillroot. I can make you a tea, it’ll soothe you. It’ll taste like I ruined a good cup by steeping it until it’s so bitter you’ll want to spit it out, but it’ll help.”

With a long groan, he sits heavily back on his bed, and I let out a breath. Being a foot away from the orc makes me feel this intense pressure, like he could snap at any moment, those fangs resting against my neck, his huge, red tongue sliding over my skin as he tastes me.

I pull the rough, woolen blanket over me tighter as the fire heats the room, finally warming me. There’s a cautious knock at the door.

“It’s Peter. I’ve got the clothes and some food, and hot water’s on the way.”

Khan plants his hands, but I get up quickly, throwing the pouch under the bed where it will be hidden. “I’ll get it,” I say, opening the door.

Peter looks younger than me. He’s a thin, wiry fellow, his cheeks flushed red, and he’s got a canvas sack and a huge plate laden with slow-cooked meat, parsnips, and a huge piece of crusty bread.

“Milady,” he says, bowing his head to me, and I take the sack first, thanking him and putting it by the bed, then grab the heavy plate of food and put it on the table as footsteps come down the hallway. The smell of it is filling the room, making my stomach rumble.

Two men, humans, near Peter’s age but both broader, one bald with uneven stubble, the other with a clean-shaved face missing most of his teeth, lug a huge cauldron, their muscles straining. They are wearing matching, ill-fitting vestments, covering their torso and upper legs, like a one-piece tunic.

“May we enter?” the one missing teeth asks, his arms shaking with the weight, looking up nervously at the orc. He nods, and they walk in, pouring the boiling water into the bath. They lug it back out, and two more men, these ones older, nearing thirty, repeat it, each holding a large wooden bucket which steam rises from.

It takes a dozen trips, while the orc sits in wait, before the huge bathtub is filled. I keep looking longingly at the food, but I don’t dare bite into it.

“Eat,” he says simply, and pulls himself from the bed. I grab a chunk of crusty bread eagerly, dipping it into the juices of the meat, and take a bite, which I choke and cough on as he pulls his loincloth off with a practiced movement, tossing it in a basket by the door.

His cock hangs like a massive green snake, the head enormous and a deeper shade, nearly purple, with thick black hair above it. His balls are bigger than apples, huge and pumping him full of more testosterone than a dozen human men. His dick swings as he steps to the tub, walking past me, and I can’t help but stare at his powerful, muscled ass, every inch of his body designed for fighting…

And something else, which makes feverish lust rush through my body.

He sinks into the tub slowly, the water near boiling, and lets out a long groan. I manage to swallow the big bite of bread, but I can’t take another, trying not to look at his naked, muscled body as he leans back in the huge tub.

“I’ve got…” I clear my throat. “I’ve got some little mineral rocks, they are good for sore muscles,” I say, trying to be useful.

He turns his head, his gorgeous green eyes contrasting against his hard, intimidating features, and gives me a near imperceptible nod. I retrieve my pouch from under the bed, pull out two small rocks, and put it back into my hiding place.

I brace myself, awkwardly balancing the blanket over my body, and approach him in the tub. I drop the two little rocks into the steaming waters, and they dissolve as I go back to my seat by the table. He brings his hand up to his temples, pressing against his forehead, grimacing.

“What is it?” I ask.

He pulls his hand down. “Nothing. Headaches.”

“For how long?”

He shrugs. “Two months.”

“Two months? Do you drink enough water? It could be dehydration,” I say, and get up, grabbing the pitcher by his bed and pouring it into the glass.

“It’s not dehydration,” he says, but he still downs the huge glass in a single gulp.

“Then what is it?”


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