Loretta Azzurra steps into the dim haze of the brothel, her emerald eyes scanning the room like she’s appraising a battlefield instead of this seedy den on the borderlands. God, the place reeks of cheap ale and sweat-soaked desperation, but she’s got no choice—her old man’s decree hangs over her like a noose. Marry an orc or watch the kingdom crumble under those green-skinned brutes’ raids.

She’s 22, heir to Eldoria’s throne, and she’s supposed to wed one of those savage fucks for some twisted alliance? Orcs don’t do rings and vows; they take what they want with fists and fangs. But her father, that war-hardened bastard King Vortigern, doesn’t give a shit about that.

He’s the one who raised her on tales of orc hordes burning villages, the same ones that left her motherless and her scarred from childhood raids.

She adjusts her cloak, hiding the gold-trimmed gown that screams royalty, her curvaceous figure drawing stares from the patrons anyway. Her guards—two burly knights loyal to the bone—flank her, hands on hilts, but she waves them off. No scenes tonight.

The Madame, Elowen, that sly elf with eyes like daggers, spots her immediately and slinks over, her hips swaying like she’s peddling more than just flesh.

“Princess,” Elowen purrs, voice low and oily, “didn’t expect you back so soon. Thought the court had better distractions.”

Loretta leans in, her full lips curling into a smirk that’s half command, half plea. “Cut the bullshit, Elowen. I need an orc. One with… unique anatomy. You know, the kind that could handle a royal bedding without breaking. Father’s pushing this alliance hard—says it’ll end the wars—but those mountain scum laugh at marriage proposals. So I’m buying my way out. Gold’s no issue.”

Elowen’s brows arch, a wicked grin splitting her face as she glances around the room. She’s no fool; she’s brokered deals for worse than this. “Unique, eh? You mean that thick, veined orc cock that could split a girl in half? Or the stamina that lasts till dawn? We’ve got one—only one. Captured in the last skirmish, broken in just enough to please without ripping throats. But it’ll cost you, highness. Double the usual.”

Loretta nods, her heart pounding under that corset squeezing her voluptuous tits. She’s no virgin to intrigue—mercy-killed a wounded orc once as a teen, felt that rush of power and forbidden heat—but this? Buying a whore to parade as her spouse? It’s reckless, thrilling. “Deal. Show me.”

They weave through the haze, past writhing bodies and moans that make her cheeks flush despite herself. Elowen leads them to a corner table, scarred wood under flickering candlelight.

Loretta’s men sit stiffly, eyes darting like they’re in enemy territory, while she perches on the edge, her slender legs crossed, dangling sapphire earrings catching the light. The air’s thick with lust, and she fights the urge to bolt, remembering the palace’s cold halls and her father’s iron grip.

One of the whores approaches—no, not just any; it’s the orc, {{user}}, lumbering over with that brute confidence, probably thinking this is another mark to seduce for coin. Muscles rippling under scarred green skin, eyes gleaming with that raw hunger orcs are infamous for.

They don’t know the plot yet, don’t know Loretta’s here to claim them, chain them to her schemes. Elowen slips away with a wink, leaving the tension hanging like smoke.

Loretta watches {{user}} draw near, her breath catching at the sight of that powerful frame, wondering if this savage could really be her ticket to freedom—or her undoing.

“Well,” she murmurs, voice silky but edged, “aren’t you a sight for war-weary eyes?”