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Disappointment flashed across Kane’s face and he pressed his lips together. “I’ll be outside. Make it quick.” 

The moment Kane closed the door, Samson grabbed the door of Dalthu’s cell and shook. It didn’t budge. 

“Little Tiger—”

Samson held up his hand, cutting Dalthu off. “I might be able to get the keys off Kane,” he muttered. “But they’ll be suspicious if the door was opened like that. I could smash the lock after, make it look like you broke out, but after that—”

A crude wooden yoke bound the orc's arms next to his head. Breman yanked the rope wrapped around the orc's neck, forcing him to stumble forward.

"Caught him sneaking around the perimeter," Breman declared to the gathered crowd, a malicious satisfaction in his voice. "It was a real battle, but I managed to take him down."

The captured orc let out a soft puff of laughter and Breman's face flushed an angry shade of purple. 

“. . . wh . . . Sam . . . ake . . .”
Someone was calling for him. Someone very far away. 

Where am I?

Samson tried to open his eyes, but his body was frozen.

Am I dead?

“He needs . . . him more . . .”

Whose voice is that? It sounds familiar.

Memories flooded through Samson’s mind. 

The village on fire . . . Dalthu covered in arrows . . . Hazel holding a knife . . . her body jerking and falling to the floor . . . my brother, Kane, standing behind her . . .

“Then why isn’t he waking up?!” 

Kane’s voice was high-pitched. Whoever he was speaking to replied, but it was too soft for Samson to make out.  

“Forget it,” his brother said. “I’m giving him more.”

Samson stumbled out of the hut and into a world on fire. Flames leaped from burning stalls; billowing plumes of thick smoke blotted out the sky. Coughing, his eyes streaming with tears, Samson surveyed the carnage in horror. Orc and human bodies sprawled across the ground, some still twitching in their death throes. Ahead, he spotted Vetu's tent — or what remained of it. The elderly merchant lay slumped beneath its smoldering ruins. Samson’s stomach lurched.

Samson spent the next few days either unwinding in the bathhouse or coming undone in Dalthu’s embrace. 

It should have been paradise. After all, Dalthu was attentive, affectionate, and a hell of a cook. He also knew how to leave Samson breathless in bed. He’d expertly use his mouth, hands, and toys (courtesy of Adora) to make Samson beg for more. 

Except . . . just when it seemed like they were about to take the next step, Dalthu would back away. Oh sure, the big green lug would make sure Samson was satisfied. Often, the orc was so eager that Samson would have to spend a whole day in bed recuperating and feeling like he’d been drained dry. Still. Never any further. It was getting harder and harder to ignore his growing desire and the frustration of being denied.

"I want more."

Samson's confession hung in the air, heavy with anticipation. His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for an answer. He was ready. Ready to be pounced on. Ready for his orc captor to release his pent-up lust.

Dalthu gently cupped Samson’s face in his hands and leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.

Here we go.

Samson braced himself against the bathtub’s edge, feeling the warmth of his orc captor’s breath against his skin as he prepared himself for what was to come. 

As Dalthu carried him out the back gates of the village, Samson tried to distract himself from the very muscular and very naked chest he was pressed up against. He peered out over Dalthu’s arms. Even though he didn’t have the excellent night vision the orcs had, Samson could still make out the impressive outline of the mountain standing guard over the orc village.

“What do you call that there? That mountain?”

“Gruumsh.” Dalthu’s deep voice rumbled pleasantly and, despite himself, Samson leaned in closer.

A week passed by and, while waiting for Hazel’s signal, Samson’s days fell into a routine. As soon as the sun came up, Dalthu would drop Samson off at Shakil’s hut. Samson would then spend the day exploring the village or playing with Ulam and the other orclings. In the evenings, he would return to Dalthu’s hut and eat and drink with Adora and other orc mates until he fell asleep. When he opened his eyes in the morning, Dalthu would be back by his side and they would repeat the whole thing over again.

Their tour began at the center of the village. Rows and rows of tents and stalls were set up and offered every item imaginable. There were food stalls that offered exotic spiced meats and strange-looking fruits. Fine embroidered linens were displayed on racks as artisans shouted out prices. Up and down, left and right, everywhere you looked, orcs were selling. 

Shakil slowed down in front of a forest green tent where, inside, a small brown orc was hunched over a covered table, arranging glittering bracelets on a display mat. 

“Anything new today, Vetu?” Shakil asked the small orc.

“Ah, Shakil, good morning.” The orc’s voice squeaked and cracked like the wooden planks of a ship. “Have you found a Mating Day gift yet?”