Page 9 of ORC’d By the Emperor

Wait, what is happening?

Remembering what Grak said, I keep my eyes averted. The heat coming off his hand is insane. Like he has a small fire burning inside his palm.

My heart beats wildly as he turns my head to the left, then right—then abruptly lets it fall, as if my lack of beauty has offended him.

I release a huge sigh of relief as his boots clomp away into the distance. Okay, there’s a whole other half of the row to go. And after that, I’ll need to avoid getting chosen three more times in the Swamplands, which I remember from the special edition Summer of the Fae map, sit in off-limits danger zones to the north, east, west, and south.

I just have to literally keep my head down while this Emperor picks someone way more attractive. Hopefully, it doesn’t take much longer. Kneeling in a freezing throne hall is the opposite of fun.

As if in answer to my prayers, a couple of minutes later, Grak announces, “Emperor has chosen Bride. Unchosen Brides may keep eyes lowered, rise, and depart for East Swamplands.”

“I wonder who he chose,” I whisper to Aimee as we both begin to rise with our eyes lowered.

But then a hand crashes down heavy on my shoulder. I’m pushed back to my knees, and a new voice thunders behind me.

“Not you, Little Bride.”

Chapter 7

The Red Door

He…

The Orc Emperor…

He chose me.

To be his bride!

And now he’s standing directly behind me, with his heavy hand on my shoulder.

You’re not supposed to look Orcs directly in the eye for fear of having your head removed from your body.

But I can’t help it.

My gaze drifts up to the creature who chose me…

And my blood runs cold when I see the most terrifying monster I have ever laid eyes on.

The Emperor is even larger than Grak. A golden crown of spikes and tiny skulls sits on top of a mix of wild black hair and braids covered in gold circlets and tipped with fangs. A gold hoop hangs from his nose, right above a pair of razor-sharp tusks I have no doubt could tear me apart. Each of his thick fingers is covered in rings—most of them skull-themed.

Like the other Orcs, he goes shirtless over his torso, just fur and a bandolier. But instead of a mantle, a fur-lined cloak falls from his shoulders all the way to the floor, and both his bracers and bandolier are covered in more animal fangs. At his waist, where Grak wears a golden skull plate as a codpiece, he has the entire skull of some horned animal.

He doesn’t carry any weapons that I can see, and that’s the most disturbing detail of them all. Somehow I know it’s because he doesn’t need them. He’s already a living, breathing monument to strength, treasure, and murder.

His golden eyes rake over my face. And that’s when it hits me... Oh god, I’m looking him dead in the eye. The one thing Grak told us, like, three times not to do.

I drop my gaze, but it’s too late. That insanely large hand once again reaches down…

This time when he lifts my head, he cups my chin in his roughened palm and squeezes.

Suddenly, I get the feeling that by “removed,” Grak didn’t mean a quick Game of Thrones sword beheading. The Emperor’s muscles bulge with the kind of strength that could easily rip my head from the rest of my body with one upward jerk of his hand.

I mentally cast him in a fighting video game. I can just hear the announcer yelling, “Fatality!” while he hoists my organically decapitated head in the air, with my spine still attached.

But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing? Maybe I want to have my head removed from my body. It might be better and way less painful than having to mate with this terrifying beast.

However, instead of Orc-murdering me for issuing a challenge, the Emperor releases my chin and commands Grak, “Bring Chosen Female to throne.”