Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Jordan
“I converted this about three years ago,” he explains, unlocking the heavy door. “Figured the neighbors wouldn’t appreciate a table saw running at two AM when I can’t sleep. So I do finish work in the spare bedroom, but this is where it goes from raw material to something functional.”
When the lights flick on, my breath catches.
It’s not just a workshop—it’s a cathedral of wood.
Tools hang in perfect order from pegboards that cover every wall.
Stacks of lumber are arranged by type and size like a library, each piece labeled and stored with obvious care.
Half-finished projects occupy the workbenches: a rocking chair with intricate carved details, an ornate mirror frame that looks like something from a fairy tale, and a dining table that could seat eight.
“Forge,” I whisper, turning in a slow circle. “This is incredible.”
His scent is stronger here, saturating the space like he’s marked every surface as his own. Cedar, smoke, and lemon oil—it creates an intoxicating combination that makes me want to press my face against his neck and just breathe him in.
When I look up at him, his pupils have dilated, and I realize he can probably smell my arousal. The thought should embarrass me, but instead it sends a thrill down my spine. His enhanced senses mean he knows exactly what effect he has on me.
His posture is taller, prouder, as he moves around this space. More grounded, more confident, like stepping into his domain transforms him into exactly who he’s meant to be.
“This is where I think best,” he says, running his palm across a scarred workbench. “Where I remember I can make things that last.”
I trail my fingers across the smooth surface of the rocking chair, marveling at the craftsmanship. “You made this?”
“For my grandmother. She’s been complaining about her back lately, and I thought she might like something custom-made for her.
” His voice goes soft with affection. “She’s not a blood relative, but she raised me after I came through the Rift alone, taught me everything about being an orc that the Integration Zone couldn’t teach. ”
The love in his voice makes my chest tighten with affection. “I’m sure she’ll treasure it.”
“I hope so.” He moves to a shallow drawer under the main bench and lifts out a cloth bundle tied with twine. “Before we start anything… I made something for you. Two things, actually.” He holds the bundle out with careful hands. “I know we agreed not to give each other any grand gestures, but—”
“Forge.” I reach for the package before he can second-guess himself. “Show me.”
I untie the twine and peel back the soft red cloth to reveal a bookmark carved from mahogany, my initials etched in graceful script along one edge. Beneath it rests a letter opener shaped to fit a smaller hand than his, the mahogany wood polished to a warm glow.
“These are beautiful,” I breathe, running my thumb along the smooth surface of the bookmark. “When did you make them?”
“Since we pulled this experience out of the Ziploc. I wanted…” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “I wanted you to have something that might remind you of tonight. Of this. I looked up your law firm online and saw a picture of your office—everything’s mahogany.”
The realization hits hard. No one has ever made me something so personal, so thoughtful.
David’s gifts were always expensive and impersonal—jewelry chosen by a sales associate, flowers ordered through his assistant.
These pieces, carved by Forge’s own hands from the same dark wood that fills my office, feel infinitely more precious.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it completely. “I love them.”
His smile is radiant, made wicked by the glimpse of his tusks catching the light—sharp, primal, and yet somehow inviting, a reminder of just how much raw power is restrained behind his gentle demeanor.
“Jordan,” he says quietly, his hand finding mine. “I need to tell you something.”
My heart hammers, instinctively knowing this isn’t about woodworking. “Okay?”
“I’m falling in love with you.” The words are simple, direct, and they hit with the same intensity as a caress—heated, intimate, impossible to ignore. “Maybe I already have. I know it’s fast, I know we’re still figuring this out, but I needed you to know.”
I should be terrified. Instead, I feel like I can finally breathe.
There are words on the tip of my tongue, and I know I should say something, but this is too important to rush.
I scan my body for clues about how I’m feeling because I don’t know if I can trust my mind.
Or maybe it’s my body I don’t trust. Luckily, they’re both screaming the same thing at me—TELL HIM.
“I love you too,” I whisper, the truth of it undeniable. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The workshop’s quiet wraps around us like a shelter while my pulse pounds in my ears. “It scares me how much, but I do.”
The truth leaves me trembling, raw and exposed, but also alive in a way I’ve never been. It’s like stepping into fire and finding out it doesn’t burn—it consumes, it transforms.
This male should never play poker because his emotions are so easy to read.
His expression shifts from surprised to awed and then settles into sheer happiness.
His gorgeous amber eyes seem to light from within, and he’s smiling so widely, showing off so much of his tusks, that they would scare someone who didn’t know it wasn’t aggression, but a sign of supreme happiness.
He steps closer and embraces me in a tight hug. It’s not sexual so much as a statement of how much affection he has for me. His fingers thread through my hair, then cradle my head as he bestows the sweetest kiss on me.
“I’ve wanted to say that for a while.” He pulls back to look at me. “I hope it won’t bother you if I say it a few more times.”
He’s so loveable as he says it five more times, once with amazement that he gets to have those three syllables on his lips, then with increasing fervor, until he finally gives it one silly iteration (probably after realizing how lovesick he sounds).
It breaks the tension, and we pull apart, laughing.
“Although I’m better with legal briefs than actual sharp objects, can you show me what you’re working on? I need to… touch something solid right now… other than you.”
The calm look on his face tells me he gets it, that he understands I need to break the moment until I regain my bearings. “What did you have in mind when you planned this adventure?”
He pulls a piece of pine toward us, smooth and pale. “Something simple. A cutting board. Something you can use.”
“Will I still have all my fingers at the end of this?”
“I’ll be right there with you every step of the way,” he promises. “Besides, we’re starting with hand tools. The most dangerous thing you’ll encounter is a splinter.”
He selects a plane from the wall display, explaining how it works as he demonstrates on a scrap piece. The motion is fluid, graceful, sending thin curls of wood spiraling to the floor.
“The key is working with the grain, not against it,” he says, positioning my hands on the tool. “Feel how the wood wants to give way in one direction?”
He steps behind me, his chest warm against my back as he guides my hands. The plane glides across the surface, and I feel the satisfaction of watching the wood become smoother with each pass.
“Like this?” I ask, aware of his proximity, of the way his breath stirs the hair at my temple.
“Perfect.” His voice has gone rougher. “You’re a natural.”
We fall into a rhythm—push, glide, lift—his hands covering mine, his body bracketing me as we work.
At some point, I stop thinking about the technique and start focusing on his heat behind me, the controlled strength in his movements, the way his scent wraps around me until thinking becomes optional.
“This is addictive,” I admit when we finally step back to examine our progress. The board still has some rough edges, and it’s wavy where I pressed too hard, but it’s undeniably real, shaped by our combined effort.
“That’s what I love about it,” he says, leaning against the workbench. “Firefighting is all about emergencies—fast, intense, over in minutes or hours. But this? This lasts. This becomes part of someone’s life.”
My phone buzzes against my hip. Once, then twice. Riley’s name lights the screen with “Henley—URGENT.”
Six months ago, I would have answered immediately, would have been halfway to the office before the second ring. Now, I glance at Forge—who’s watching me with patient amber eyes, no pressure, no expectation—and I make a choice.
“Riley? What’s the emergency?”
“Jordan, thank God. We’ve got movement on the Henley case. Opposing counsel filed an emergency motion, and the judge wants responses by Monday noon. I can meet you at the office—”
“Email me the motion,” I interrupt calmly. “I’ll review it tomorrow morning and have a response plan to you by ten AM.”
Silence. “You’re… not coming in?”
“Not tonight. This can wait.” I meet Forge’s eyes as I speak, seeing approval and pride in his expression. “Handle anything that truly can’t wait until Monday, and send me everything else.”
“Okay. I’ll… I’ll send you the files.”
“Thanks, Riley.”
I end the call and set the phone face down on the workbench.
“That felt different,” Forge observes.
“It was different. Two months ago, I would have been in my car before she finished explaining.” I pick up the cutting board we made together, running my fingers along the smooth edge. “I’m learning that calling something an emergency doesn’t always make it so.”
“And how does it feel?”
“Liberating.” I look around his workshop, at the evidence of his patience and skill, at the life he’s built with his own hands. “You know what else feels liberating?”
“What’s that?”
“The idea of introducing you to my colleagues as my boyfriend, not just as my date.”
His stillness tells me the words hit exactly as I intended them to.
“Boyfriend?” he repeats, something like wonder in his voice.
“My firm’s anniversary gala is next Friday,” I say, stepping closer to him. “Black tie, all the senior partners, biggest clients. Very public, very professional.” I take a breath. “I want you there. Not as a random plus-one, but as the male I’m building something with.”
The smile that spreads across his face is brilliant. “That’s a big step.”
“It is. And I’m not scared anymore.” The honesty surprises even me. “I want my colleagues to meet the male who thinks my dedication is something to admire, not something to compete with.”
“Are you sure? These are the people you work with every day—”
“I’m sure.” As I reach for his hands, I note the calluses and small scars that speak of years of careful craftsmanship. “I’ve spent enough time hiding the parts of my life that matter. I’m done with that.”
He studies my face in the warm workshop light. “I’d be honored to go with you.”
“Fair warning—it’s going to be fancy. Tuxedos and champagne and probably some very boring speeches about billable hours.”
“I clean up okay,” he says with a grin. Suddenly, he goes very still, warm copper eyes searching my face. “Jordan…”
“What?”
“Are you sure about this? About us? Because once I meet your colleagues, once this becomes public in your professional world, it will change things for you. There’s no taking it back.”
The question deserves an honest answer. Standing in his workshop, surrounded by everything he’s built with patience and skill, it suddenly feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
He leans down and kisses me then, soft and full of promise. When we break the kiss, I’m breathing unsteadily and his eyes have gone dark with heat.
“We should probably clean up here,” he says softly, though his hands linger at my waist. “Before we get too distracted.”
“I suppose we should,” I agree, though I make no move to step away. His intense gaze holds mine, and I can see the question forming before he asks it.
“I’m sure about you,” I tell him honestly. “I’m sure about this. About us.”
I think about the cutting board we made together—rough around the edges but solid, built to last. Maybe that’s what love really is. Not the perfect fairy tale I used to dream about, but something real and imperfect and strong enough to weather whatever comes next.
Something worth building together, one careful step at a time.