Chapter 4 #2
His fingers brush the edge of the bandage, impossibly gentle for hands that size. He peels back the corner, and I close my eyes against the sting—against the warmth of his knuckles grazing my skin.
"It's not bleeding." His thumb traces the edge of the medical tape, pressing it back down. "Just inflamed."
I should move, put space between us.
I don't.
"The safe house?" His voice is quiet. He's still looking at the bandage, not me. "How'd it happen?"
I don't have to answer. He's not asking as her protector, not gathering intel. He's just asking.
"I was half asleep when it happened." The words come easier than I expected. "They'd put on some stupid action movie. Explosions. Gunfire. I didn't realize the bangs weren't coming from the TV until Greer was already down."
His hand stills on my shoulder.
"I don't even remember getting hit. Just the window shattering. Daniels shoving me toward the back door. Running."
I gave Carver the facts. The timeline. What I saw, what I heard, who fired first. But I've never told anyone what it felt like. Standing here in the dark with his hand still warm on my shoulder, it just falls out.
His fingers curl. Not into a fist—into a grip. Holding my shoulder, holding on.
Then he lets go and steps back, his hands dropping to his sides.
"Humans," he says quietly, "are the most violent animals on this planet."
Not some humans. Not those humans.
Humans.
The rage coiled tight inside him. He's not just angry that someone hurt me.
He's angry that my species keeps proving what his kind already knew about us.
"Inside," he says. His voice is wrecked. "I'll change the bandage and make food."
He doesn't mention the wound. But when we walk back to the cottage, he puts himself between me and the open yard.
I let him.
***
Inside, he changes the bandage first. He's careful, but there's a tremor in his fingers that wasn't there yesterday. Neither of us mentions it.
When he moves toward the stove, I catch his arm.
"You've cooked every meal. Let me."
He looks at my hand on his arm, and I let go.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to. You let me outside. Let me do this."
He looks at me, then steps back.
I find leftover pasta from whatever Maya made in the fridge, plus two chicken breasts.
Orcs eat meat—lots of it, from what I've seen.
I grill the chicken, slice it thick, serve it over the reheated pasta.
The portion I set in front of Diesel is twice the size of mine, but it still looks small in front of him.
He picks up his fork. I raise my eyebrows.
"Edible," he says after the first bite.
Good enough. I'll take it.
I sit down across from him and start on my own plate.
The chicken came out better than I expected—crispy on the outside, still juicy.
I'm three bites in when I glance up and realize his plate is already half gone.
He's not shoveling it in, exactly, but each forkful is substantial, and they're disappearing fast.
He finishes before I'm halfway through, sets down his fork, and reaches for his water.
My stomach drops. I underestimated. Badly. That plate was barely an appetizer for someone his size.
He doesn't complain.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
He pulls it out and reads the screen. His face goes blank. Too blank.
"What is it?"
"Nothing." He pockets the phone.
I know it's not nothing. I know because his shoulders have tightened, because he's not looking at me anymore.
The world outside is still out there, still hunting.
I don't push. I'm not sure I want to know.
When I finish, he takes both plates to the sink.
"I'll clean up. Leave the dishes."
"Diesel—"
But he's already grabbing his jacket from the hook by the door.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere far." He shrugs into the leather, still not looking at me. "Just need to take care of some business. I'll be right outside."
The back door opens and closes. He's gone.
I stand in the kitchen, trying to figure out what I did wrong. The food wasn't enough—was that it? Or was it the phone call? Or something I said in the garden, something that's only now catching up to him?
I don't leave my dishes.
I wash them, then keep going. Wipe down the counters, clean the stovetop, put away the pasta. The kitchen is surprisingly neat for an orc who eats like a wild animal. Everything in its place, surfaces clear, dish towels folded on the oven handle.
The appliances are new—stainless steel, modern. But the cabinets are older, solid wood with brass hardware. He's been working on this place, updating it piece by piece.
An orc of many talents.
Too bad we had to meet like this.
I get ready for bed in the dim lamplight, curtains drawn like he told me the first night. No overhead lights after dark. When I'm done, I stand in the doorway of the bedroom.
I should offer to switch. He's been on that couch since I arrived, and his back has to be screaming.
But this room has one door. One window. If someone came, I'd have time.
The living room has three entry points.
That's what I tell myself.
I hear the back door open, his boots cross the kitchen, then the creak of the couch as he settles in for another night.
I close my door, and my hand hovers over the lock.
I don't turn it.
Through the thin walls, the springs groan. A sound that might be pain.
I should give him his bed back.
Tomorrow.
I close my eyes.
Tonight, for the first time in months, I don't dream of the safe house.
I dream of calloused hands. The smell of pine. A voice that scrapes through me, gravel and stone.
The thought jolts me half-awake. When did I start feeling safe? When did I let my guard down enough to dream about something other than gunfire and shattering glass?
Dangerous, whispers the voice in my head. This is how it starts. You feel safe, you depend on him, and then—
Through the wall, the couch creaks. A low grunt of pain.
I close my eyes tighter and pretend I don't want to feel his hands on me again.