Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Riona
The Monday planning meeting runs until half-past six.
The text message from Vraag arrives the moment I walk through my door.
Security patrol complete two hours ago. May I come by now?
His formal phrasing makes me smile. Whatever this is between us—courtship, relationship, cultural experiment—he still communicates as if he’s filing an official report. Yet there’s something endearing about it, a glimpse of the careful consideration he brings to everything.
I would love company. I’ll unlock the door for you.
Though I’ll come as quickly as possible, please don’t leave the door unlocked for me!!!!
Four exclamation points. Then I remember who I’m texting with. Before I can reassure him, he adds, Your door is your perimeter. Protect it.
Apologies. I’ll wait for your knock.
My first reflex is to bristle—I’ve been managing my own perimeter, as he would call it, for a long time.
But the reflex passes before it fully forms. He isn’t telling me I can’t handle it.
He’s telling me he’ll wait. There’s a difference, and I’m learning to feel the difference in my body before I have to think it through.
I glance around my apartment with suddenly critical eyes. Dishes in the sink, teaching materials spread across the coffee table, laundry basket visible in the hallway. Not exactly the picture of romantic readiness.
By the time his gentle knock sounds at my door fifteen minutes later, I’ve managed to create the illusion of order.
My hair is brushed, dishes are stacked neatly in the dishwasher, and the most obvious clutter is tucked away.
I’m still wearing my comfortable clothes, soft leggings and an oversized sweater, but at least I’ve traded my fuzzy socks for bare feet.
When I open the door, the sight of him still makes my breath catch.
Out of his security uniform, dressed in dark jeans and a simple charcoal Henley that stretches across his broad chest, he looks both more approachable and somehow more imposing—his size no longer an official attribute but a personal quality.
“Hi,” I say, absurdly shy despite having kissed this male beneath the stars just two nights ago. Now it's Monday and he's standing in my doorway and my heart is doing the same ridiculous thing it did then. “Come in.”
He steps inside, ducking slightly to clear the doorframe. The apartment suddenly feels smaller with his presence filling it—not uncomfortably, but completely, as if the space has been waiting for his arrival.
“I brought something,” he says, holding out a small cloth-wrapped bundle. “Thunder root tea. Marga’s altered concoction using Earth herbs.”
The gesture touches me. “Thank you. Would you like some now?”
He nods, following me to the kitchen where he watches me heat water with the stillness of someone who doesn’t half-attend anything.
“You don’t have to supervise the tea,” I say, reaching for two mugs.
“I am not supervising,” he replies. “I am ensuring proper execution.”
Glancing back at him, I arch a brow. “It’s water. Not a tactical operation.”
“All operations benefit from proper execution,” he says gravely.
That earns a laugh from me, some of the lingering tension easing as I lean back against the counter. “You’re very serious about everything, aren’t you?”
“Only the important things.”
“Like patrols. Training. Duty.” I tilt my head, studying him. “You talk about those a lot.”
His brow furrows slightly. “As opposed to…?”
“As opposed to where you’re from,” I say. “I’d love to know more about your home. What it was like before you came here.”
He’s quiet for a moment, something thoughtful passing through his expression. Then he gestures toward the living room. “May I show you?”
I follow him, curious, as he settles onto my couch and retrieves a small sketchbook from the inside pocket of his jacket. The book looks almost delicate in his massive hands, yet he handles it with surprising care.
“I don’t share these often,” he says. “They were… suggested. Memory exercises, the integration counselors called them.”
I sit beside him, close enough that our thighs touch, and focus on the pages as he opens the book.
The sketches steal my breath. Mountain landscapes unlike any on Earth. Vast stone structures carved into cliff faces. Interior halls with soaring ceilings and intricate carvings, each scene rendered with remarkable precision and quiet emotion.
“This was the StoneWatch central hall,” he says, indicating a wide chamber filled with orcs gathered around multiple fire pits. “Where clan decisions were made.”
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, leaning closer. “Is that you?”
My finger hovers over a figure near one of the fires. Something about the stance is unmistakable—the watchfulness, the contained strength.
“Yes,” he says, surprised.
“I’d recognize you anywhere,” I reply. “Even in another world.”
His eyes meet mine, and the moment stretches—quiet, charged, intimate in a way that feels deeper than touch.
“I’ll get the tea,” I say softly, reluctant to break it.
When I return with two steaming mugs, the sketchbook is set carefully aside. I hand him his cup and sit beside him again, closer than before.
“Thank you for showing me,” I say.
“Few humans ask about what was,” he replies. “Most are concerned only with what comes next.”
“But memory is part of who we are,” I counter. “Your world shaped you. I want to understand all of you, not just the parts that fit neatly into this one.”
His free hand moves to touch my face, massive fingers gentle against my cheek. “You continue to surprise me, Riona Walker.”
“Good,” I say, leaning into his touch. “I’d hate to become predictable.”
His thumb traces my lower lip, and I inhale sharply. Without conscious thought, I turn my face to press a kiss against his palm.
The simple gesture shifts something between us. The tea is forgotten as he sets his mug aside, his gaze never leaving mine. When he leans forward, I meet him halfway.
This kiss differs from our previous ones—no hesitation, no uncertainty, just immediate connection that makes my heart race.
My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through the thin fabric of his shirt.
His arms encircle me, drawing me closer until I’m practically in his lap.
His tusks press gently against my cheeks, an alien sensation that now feels perfectly right.
I’ve learned to angle my head just so, allowing our mouths to fit together despite our differences.
The rumbling purr building in his chest vibrates against my palms: deep, unguarded, nothing like his voice.
I’ve read about this. What I wasn’t prepared for is knowing I caused it.
That my hands on his chest, my mouth on his, my body in his lap—that’s what’s making him sound like that.
Like he can’t help it. Like I got past something he keeps very carefully locked.
It’s the most powerful I’ve ever felt in my life.
When we finally separate, both slightly breathless, his eyes have darkened to a deep amber. “We should be careful,” he murmurs, though his hands remain on my waist. “Integration protocols suggest—”
“I don’t care about integration protocols,” I interrupt, feeling unexpectedly bold. “Not here. Not between us.”
His expression shifts, something primal flickering behind his control. “What do you care about, then?”
“This,” I whisper, kissing him again with newfound courage. “Us. Whatever we’re creating together.”
His restraint visibly weakens as I shift fully onto his lap, my knees on either side of his thighs. The new position makes our height difference less important, bringing us nearly eye to eye. His hands span my waist, nearly encircling it completely, the heat of his palms burning through my sweater.
“You test my control, little teacher,” he growls, the sound sending a shiver of excitement down my spine.
“Maybe your control doesn’t need to be so perfect,” I suggest, fingers tracing the strong column of his neck. “Not with me.”
His response is a deeper kiss that obliterates thought.
One large hand cradles the back of my head while the other slides lower, following the curve of my hip with reverent exploration.
The gentle scrape of his tusks against my skin as his mouth travels from my lips to my jaw to my throat leaves a trail of exquisite sensation.
“Your scent changes when you want me,” he murmurs against my collarbone. “Did you know that?”
The observation should embarrass me, but instead it sends heat pooling low in my belly. “Orc senses,” I manage. “Unfair advantage.”
His chuckle rumbles through me like distant thunder. “I need every advantage I can get with you.”
My sweater suddenly feels too warm, too constricting. Without overthinking, I reach for its hem, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion. Vraag goes perfectly still beneath me, his eyes taking in the simple cotton bra now exposed to his view.
“Is this okay?” I ask, suddenly uncertain despite my boldness.
His large hands settle on my ribs, just below my breasts, thumbs tracing gentle arcs against my skin. “More than okay,” he assures me, voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re beautiful, Riona.”
The simple compliment, delivered with such reverence, melts something inside me. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his. “I want to feel your skin against mine,” I confess. “Can we?”
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “Courtship includes a compatibility assessment,” he explains, his formal phrasing at odds with the heat in his eyes. “Though typically after more ceremonial stages.”
“I think we’ve established that we’re creating our own path,” I remind him, fingers finding the hem of his shirt. “May I?”