Chapter 12 Korgan #2
He huffs again. "Send me details of the production company's actions. If I'm supporting this publicly, I want ammunition for why the clan is 'concerned about the ethical treatment of our kinsman in human media.'"
I grin at my phone.
"Sending now."
We disconnect. I forward him the files, then send my message to the journalist.
My phone goes off immediately—middle-of-the-night journalist apparently keeps weird hours. The response is three words: Holy shit. Call me.
Instead, I record a video.
Prop my phone against a stack of books, frame myself in the shot. I look like hell—haven't slept, hair tangled, still wearing the clothes I confronted Hammond in.
Good. Polished is for liars.
Press record.
"My name is Korgan Dongoran. I'm the bachelor on the current season of Heart of the Horde, and I'm done pretending this show is anything other than manipulative garbage."
Deep breath.
"The woman you've been told is manipulative and calculated—Trinity Lewis—was framed. The producers edited her confession footage, fabricated text conversations, and coordinated with a rival contestant's agent to destroy her reputation for ratings."
I hold up the thumb drive.
"I have proof. Original footage, email threads, editing scripts. All of it. And I'm releasing everything to the press right now, along with this statement:"
My voice steadies.
"Trinity Lewis is the most honest person I've met in a decade. She's brave and funny and builds things, actual things, not just images or narratives. She makes bread that tastes like home and handles crisis with more grace than I've ever managed."
"And I love her."
The words feel strange in my mouth. Orcs don't use that word lightly. It's a vow, not a feeling.
"I should have said it when she needed to hear it. Should have stood with her instead of calculating political angles and worrying about clan approval."
"But I'm saying it now, publicly and irrevocably. I love Trinity Lewis. I'm courting her with full clan support—"
Provisional support, but close enough.
"—and I challenge anyone who spread lies about her to face me directly."
I lean into the camera.
"That includes you, Hammond. You, Carlisle. And you, Melissa, since your agent coordinated this mess with your full knowledge."
Stop recording.
Send it to the journalist with a note: Embargo until 6 AM. Give Trinity's video time to breathe first. Then release this with the files.
My phone explodes with notifications—messages from producers, missed calls from Hammond, all-caps texts from people who are strangers.
I silence it, open Trinity's video one more time.
Watch her stare into the camera and dare me to show up.
I'm fighting. Not just for my bakery or my reputation. For us.
I grab my keys.
Time to stop making grand gestures from a distance and actually be where she needs me.
Even if she tells me to leave. Even if I'm too late.
At least I'll fail in person.
Trinity's room is on the opposite side of the compound. I've memorized the route of guard rotations, camera blind spots, the service hallway that maintenance uses.
I don't use any of it.
Walk straight through the main corridor, past the cameras, through the common area where early-rising contestants freeze mid-coffee. Let them stare. Let them film.
Her door is locked. I knock, three sharp raps that echo down the hallway.
Nothing.
"Trinity." Keep my voice low but clear. "It's me."
Silence stretches. My chest tightens. Maybe she's asleep. Maybe she's ignoring me. Maybe—
The lock clicks.
She opens the door six inches, eyes red-rimmed and fierce. Still wearing yesterday's clothes, hair escaping its bun in wild curls. Beautiful and exhausted and looking at me like I'm a problem she hasn't decided how to solve.
"What."
Not a question. A challenge.
"I have proof. The footage was edited. Text messages fabricated. I confronted the producers an hour ago, sent everything to the press. It goes public at six."
Her expression doesn't change. "You have proof."
"Yes."
"And you're telling me now. After I spent twelve hours thinking I'd destroyed everything. After I made that video alone—"
"I know." My hands flex at my sides. "I was strategizing. Being tactical. Being an idiot."
"Yeah." She grips the door edge hard enough her knuckles go white. "You were."
"I'm sorry."
"For what, specifically? For making me think you'd abandoned me? For letting me fight alone while you played political chess? For—"
"All of it." I meet her eyes. "For being too afraid of clan disapproval to stand with you when it mattered. For choosing honor protocols over the woman I love."
She blinks. "What did you just say?"
"I love you. Told my clan elder an hour ago. Recorded a video for the press. Threatened three producers and a rival contestant. Probably violated six different contracts."
Trinity stares.
"Also contacted a journalist and sent him all the evidence, so by breakfast everyone will know you were framed and I'm courting you with clan support, which means—"
She yanks me inside by my vest and kisses me hard enough to stop words.
I stumble backward into her room, door slamming shut behind us. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me down to her level. The kiss tastes like rage and relief tangled together, her mouth fierce against mine.
When she finally pulls back, breathing hard, her eyes are wet.
"You absolute bastard." But she's smiling. Sort of. Crying and smiling simultaneously. "You made me wait twelve hours for the grand gesture?"
"I'm slow. You knew this."
"I knew you were stubborn and literal and occasionally thick-headed, but I didn't know you were—" She kisses me again, softer this time. "—completely willing to burn everything down for me."
"Seemed appropriate. You did it first."
She laughs against my mouth, the sound shaky. "Your clan actually supports this?"
"Provisionally. Borgat's drafting a statement about ethical treatment of orcs in human media and progressive inter-species relations."
"He's spinning it."
"He's a politician. Of course he's spinning it." I cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears. "But the support is real. And permanent. Once an orc elder makes a public declaration, backing down would be more shameful than the original controversy."
"So you trapped him into approving us."
"Essentially, yes."
Her smile widens. "That's brilliant. Ruthless and slightly manipulative, but brilliant."
"I learned from watching you handle the producers." I kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. "Your video was perfect. Honest and sharp and brave."
"I was terrified."
"Didn't show."
"Liar." But she's leaning into me now, arms wrapping around my waist. "I thought I'd lost you. Thought you'd decided I wasn't worth the political headache."
"Trinity." I pull back enough to look at her properly. "You're worth everything. The clan drama, the contract violations, the public scandal. All of it."
She makes a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and buries her face in my shoulder.
I hold her. Let her shake. Let myself shake too, adrenaline finally catching up.
We stand like that for a long moment, breathing together in her small room with its stripped bed and flour-dusted suitcase. Evidence of packing. She was ready to leave.
"Were you going to run?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods against my chest. "Had a car scheduled for seven. Figured I'd go out on my terms, not wait for them to eliminate me dramatically."
"Would've chased you."
"To my bakery?"
"To wherever you went." I tilt her chin up. "Would've shown up covered in road dust, probably still arguing with Borgat on the phone, definitely without a plan. But I would've come."
Her eyes search mine. "You really sent everything to the press."
"Email's probably hitting inboxes right now. Journalist seemed excited. Used the phrase 'Pulitzer-worthy exposé.'"
"And the producers?"
"Scrambling. Possibly lawyering up. Definitely panicking."
She grins, sharp and satisfied. "Good."
Then she's kissing me again, and this time it's different. Not frantic or desperate. Intentional. Her hands slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.
I walk her backward until her knees hit the bed. She sits, pulling me down with her. The mattress creaks under our combined weight.
"Trinity." I'm trying for restraint, for gentleness. "You haven't slept. You're exhausted—"
"I'm awake." She tugs at my vest buckles. "Very, very awake."
"The cameras—"
"Are in the hallways. Not in here." She gets one buckle open. "Production rules. Privacy in sleeping quarters."
"Someone could interrupt—"
"Korgan." She cups my face, makes me look at her. "I spent twelve hours thinking I'd never get to touch you again. And now you're here, telling me you love me, that you went to war for me—"
"Metaphorically."
"—and I want you. Right now. No more waiting, no more strategy. Just us."
Her hands shake slightly. Nerves or adrenaline or both.
I cover her hands with mine. "You're sure."
"Completely." She kisses my jaw, my throat, the sensitive spot behind my ear she discovered in the pavilion. "Unless you're too busy planning our next tactical move—"
My mouth covers hers to shut her up. Push her gently backward onto the bed, covering her body with mine. She makes a pleased sound, legs wrapping around my hips.
"No more strategy," I murmur against her mouth. "Just this."
"Finally."
We take our time. Strip each other slowly despite the urgency humming between us. Her sweater comes off first, revealing soft skin and freckles I want to memorize. My vest joins it on the floor, then my shirt.
She traces the ritual scars across my chest, fingertips gentle. "These mean something."
"Coming-of-age marks. Each one represents a trial."
"How many trials?"
"Twelve."
She kisses the nearest one. "Tell me about this one."
"Trinity—"
"I want to know you. All of you."