Her Rugged Orcs

Chapter 1

Eira

The stone bites into my knees as I kneel before my master. The chill of the stone floor seeps through the thin silk of my dress. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the cold. Above me, Master Vex'thor's boots click against the stone as he circles, appraising what remains of his investment.

"She's trained, of course. One of our finest slaves." His voice drips with the same honeyed poison he used to entice noble clients. "But tastes change, and well... freshness matters in our trade."

I keep my head bowed, my pale blonde hair falling around my face. My green eyes remain downcast. Seven years of service have taught me when to speak and act, and when to remain silent and still.

The prospective buyer - some merchant whose name I didn't catch - huffs. "Bit old for my needs. What did you say, twenty-four years old?"

"Indeed. Still..." Master Vex'thor's fingers brush my chin, tilting my face up. "Consider the experience. The skills."

The merchant's nose wrinkles. "I deal in fresh merchandise only."

"Then perhaps..." Master Vex'thor's grip tightens. "The pits?"

My heart stutters. The gladiator pits. It’s a place where used-up pleasure slaves go to die for entertainment. The words fall between them like a death sentence.

"Reasonable price for pit fodder." The merchant scratches his chin. "Though she won't last long there."

"You'd be surprised." Master Vex'thor releases my chin. "She's quite... resilient."

They haggle over my worth like I'm a damaged vase at the market. The price drops with each exchange until they settle on a sum that wouldn't buy a decent pair of boots. Seven years of perfect service reduced to copper coins.

"Done then." Master Vex'thor's boots turn away. "To the pits she goes."

Just like that. Discarded. Like all the others before me who grew too old, too worn, too familiar to excite jaded sexual appetites.

The merchant's hand clamps tightly around my arm, dragging me through torch-lit corridors that reek of blood and sweat. My bare feet slip on the damp stone as we descend deeper into the bowels of the gladiator pits.

"Quite the prize I have for you today, Pit Master Dex." The merchant pushes me forward.

The dark elf's crimson eyes rake over me, lingering on the scars that mar my pale skin. His silver hair gleams in the torchlight as he circles me. "A pleasure slave? What use do I have for such soft merchandise?"

"Oh, but she's special." The merchant's voice drips with false enthusiasm. "Just think of the spectacle. The crowd loves a good show before the killing starts."

Pit Master Dex's lips curl into a cruel smile. "The warriors will enjoy breaking her spirit before their matches. And the crowd..." He grabs my chin. "They'll love watching her squirm. I’ll pay you double her price."

The merchant practically bounces. "Done!"

Coins exchange hands. My worth has doubled, but my fate remains the same. A plaything, but now for killers instead of nobles.

"Welcome to your new home, pretty thing." Pit Master Dex's breath is hot against my ear. "The warriors need... motivation before and after their fights. And you'll provide it, one way or another."

The roar of the crowd above makes the walls tremble. Soon I'll be up there, another piece of meat thrown to the wolves.

The dark elf guards drag me into the arena, their fingers digging into my arms hard enough to bruise. Sand crunches beneath my bare feet, still damp with blood from earlier matches. The crowd's roar crashes over me like a wave. Their bloodthirsty excitement makes my skin crawl.

"Fresh meat!" someone shouts from the stands.

I lift my chin, refusing to show fear despite the trembling in my legs. That's when I see them.

Three orcs stand chained together at the wrists on the far side of the arena, their massive forms dwarfing the dark elf guards around them. The sight steals my breath. I've seen orcs before, but never like these.

The largest one, muscles rippling beneath green-gray skin marked with intricate black tattoos, catches my gaze. His golden-brown eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that makes my heart stutter. There's something in that look I can't decipher – not the usual hunger I'm accustomed to seeing in men's eyes, but something deeper, more complex.

Next to him, an orc with sharp features and calculating blue eyes surveys the arena like he's counting exits and planning strategies. His dark green skin contrasts with the intricate braids in his black hair. His gaze sweeps over me, analytical rather than appreciative.

The third... While the others command attention, this one seems to absorb the shadows themselves. His brown-green skin and long dark hair blend with the arena's dimness. When his silver eyes briefly meet mine before sliding away, the hair on my arms rises.

"Place your bets!" Pit Master Dex's voice booms across the arena. "Three savage orcs against our champion! Winner gets the pleasure slave!"

My stomach turns. The guards' grip tightens as I instinctively try to step back.

Pit Master Dex soon leans in close, his lips nearly brushing my ear. "The orcs fight to the death tonight. You will entertain the victor in whatever way they please."

My throat constricts and my fingers curl into the silk of my dress. I've pleasured countless men, learned to bend and yield without breaking. But these orcs... The largest one's bicep is thicker than my waist. One wrong move and they could snap me in half.

Suddenly, a horn blasts through the arena. The crowd's roar swells as the guards escort in their champion. My breath catches in my throat.

This new orc towers over even the other three, his shoulders broad as a doorway. Firelight glints off tusks polished to a dangerous sheen. Battle scars map his olive skin in a web of raised silver lines. His dark eyes soon rake over my body with such intensity that it sends a shiver down my spine.

"Our undefeated champion!" Pit Master Dex's voice booms. "Who will claim both victory and this delicate prize for their pleasure?"

The champion's lip curls in a sneer. His predatory gaze lingers on the curve of my hip, my throat, calculating. Not the way the nobles used to look at me - like a prize to be savored. No, this is the look of someone deciding how best to break a new toy.

Across the arena, the three chained orcs shift. The tattooed one's golden eyes narrow at the champion. The calculating one's fingers flex against his chains. Even the shadow-quiet one seems to bristle in anticipation.

My heart pounds against my ribs. Seven years of slavery taught me to survive by reading others’ desires, by becoming whatever was wanted. But what skills could possibly help me survive the savage appetite I see in the champion's eyes?

The guards' grips tighten even more on my arms as if they sense my urge to flee. But there's nowhere to run. No way to talk or charm my way free from this nightmare.