Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 58110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58110 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 291(@200wpm)___ 232(@250wpm)___ 194(@300wpm)
"Hmph," is all Turnip says. "Show me my bed then."
Agakor steps forward. "Madam, the bed is for my bride-to-be." His expression looks as if he's trying to hide his amusement, even though his tone is grave, and it fills me with a surge of affection for him. "Her companion will sleep on a pallet upon the floor."
"Don't seem like a very good deal for me," Turnip grumbles.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. This is all very ludicrous and yet…surprisingly enjoyable. The food here is terrible, the keep dirty, but everyone is sassy and full of smiles. I try to think of such responses at my father's keep and cannot find one. Everyone there is somber and slightly sad, and the washerwomen flinch when they catch sight of my father for fear he'll yell at them.
There is promise here after all. My father has hurt me and humiliated me, and my new husband's home is a mess. But…a keep can be cleaned. A cook can be procured. A man that smiles when an old washerwoman berates him? That is a priceless find, half-orc or not. I'm smiling as I get to my feet. "I don't mind sleeping on the pallet. We must respect our elders, after all."
Turnip cackles. "Got yourself a smart one, Lord Orc. Even if she's as broad as a barn."
I flinch at her thoughtless words, but Agakor only turns his smile in my direction. "I like that she is tall and fit. What am I to do with a little mouse?" And the gaze he turns on me is clearly approving. I think about how I touched him earlier, and how velvety and hot his cock was, and how it jumped at my touch. My cheeks flame and I duck my head again, feeling shy but pleased.
We're led through the interior of the keep, and Agakor escorts me like a gentleman, my hand tucked into his thick arm. We head upstairs, toward Agakor's private quarters, and as we walk, I make mental notes of things that can be improved. There are lovely candle sconces on the walls, but they're covered in drips of wax and gutted, spent tapers. There's trash built up in the corners of every hall, but the keep itself seems to be of sturdy make, the stonework good. The halls are an excellent size, and there's a lovely window at the end of one that shows a pretty, stained-glass vision of the goddess Belara holding a dove. That has to be a sign, doesn't it?
Turnip is spry and seems to know the keep. She heads for a pair of doors on one side of the hall and pushes them open. "Taken the old lord's rooms for yourself, have you, Lord Orc?"
"Why not?" Agakor asks, glancing over at me. "I purchased the keep from him. I am the one in command here now."
I place a calm hand on his, to let him know I support him. And when Turnip steps inside, I gasp at the glimpse of the rooms before me. There's an enormous bed, sure. That's to be expected. But along one wall, there's a massive bookshelf filled with reading materials of all kinds—some scrolls, some leather-bound books, some simple sheaves of parchment tied with ribbon. With pure delight, I step forward and head unerringly for those shelves, pulling one book and then another from their home. "This…this is wonderful," I say, clutching a volume of Yshremi poetry to my breast. I turn wide eyes toward Agakor. "Are all these books yours?"
"They are. Do you read, then?"
My heart lightens. I can forgive my father's departure, or the fact that he didn't tell me my husband-to-be was a half-orc. I'm to live at a keep with books. So many books. "I love to read," I admit shyly. I'm almost reluctant to put the poetry volume down, I want it so badly. "Do you read, then?"
He shakes his head. "The books are spoils from a great many places, but I have not read a single one. It is something I should like to conquer."
"Perhaps I can help you with it," I offer. "Reading is wonderful."
Agakor grins at me, his eyes bright. "I should like that."
Before either of us can say anything else, Turnip moves to the bed and flings herself onto it. "We're sleeping, are we not?"
A short time later, Turnip snores loudly in the bed and I snuff out the candle next to my pallet, hugging the volume of poetry to my chest once more. I've stayed up late reading—I can't sleep anyhow. The blankets are soft and comfortable and of a fine make, and my head rests upon a thick goose-down pillow. More spoils, I suspect. I sit up in bed, the room dark, but I can see a gleam of light from under the bedroom door, and out there, a moving shadow. Agakor and his guards have set up sentries to ensure that Turnip and I are not disturbed. Oddly enough, I feel safe and comfortable, and it's not just thanks to Turnip's snoring.