Chapter 4 Ella #2
I’m officially knocked on my ass. He shoves them toward me like a challenge.
I take them automatically, because what else does one do when handed a botanical battering ram by a seven-foot warlord?
“Uh,” I say, because words are apparently optional now.
He grunts, looking even greener around the gills. “For you. I am told this is the appropriate… gesture.”
I stare at the flowers, then at him. Oren Arch, heir to the biggest Orc settlement in the country, is sweating over a fistful of plants. He looks anywhere but at my face.
“I—thank you,” I manage, searching for the right script. “They’re… wow. Is this, like, an Orcish tradition, or—?”
He cuts me off, voice low and urgent. “Human mating ritual. According to research, it is customary for a male to bring the female flowers to signify intent.” He glances at the bouquet like it’s a ticking bomb. “I don’t understand the logic. Flowers die quickly. Seems inefficient.”
I clamp my lips together to stop a giggle, but a strangled noise escapes anyway. “You Googled how to court a human, didn’t you?”
His ears turn a darker green, which I suspect is the Orc version of blushing. “I consulted several sources.”
The silence stretches. I realize he’s waiting for a verdict, so I hold the bouquet up to my face and inhale the sweet scent. It’s not just the roses, but there’s something clean and wild about it, like walking into a thunderstorm.
“They’re lovely,” I say.
He nods, visibly relieved, then clears his throat. “Would you like to walk with me? The forest behind the house is—” He pauses, searching for words. “—less crowded.”
I clutch the flowers closer. My first impulse is to jump his bones. There’s something in his eyes I can’t read, and it tugs at me like a loose thread.
“Sure,” I say. “Just let me drop these off and freshen up.”
He nods, and I dash inside. My brain runs wild as I run down to my room. Did I just get asked on a date? Is this a date? I want it to be a date. Damn. I’m losing my freaking mind.
My heart’s pounding like I just sprinted up the mountain, and my brain is short-circuiting.
But all I can think about is Oren’s hands, how careful he was with the flowers, and the way his gravelly voice goes soft when he talks to me.
My thighs squeeze together as a weird, fluttery heat flows through my body.
Yeah. I want to see what a date with a seven-foot Orc is like. I want to see what happens if I let him get close. I want to tangle those big hands in my hair and see if he kisses as intensely as he stares. I wonder what his tusks will feel like against my lips.
I touch up my lip gloss, fluff my hair, and check the mirror. Screw it. I’m going all in. Bring on the date, the forest, and whatever the hell else Oren Arch thinks is “normal” courting ritual.
I rush up the stairs to find Oren pacing the front hall.
His arms are at his sides now, hands unclenched, but there’s a tightness in his jaw like he’s clamping down on an invisible enemy.
He glances at my hands, and for a second, I think he’s going to bail, but instead, Oren steps close and offers me his palm, broad and scarred and steady.
I drop my hand into his, feeling dwarfed by the sheer size of him, and holy cow, the contrast is enough to make my brain do a backflip.
His grip surprises me. It isn’t crushing.
More like careful. Like he’s handling glass.
The heat from his skin slides straight up my arm, and I swear my knees threaten to go full noodle mode. I can’t help but stare at his hand wrapped around mine. Who knew a giant Orc warlord could hold a woman like she’s precious?
My stupid heart absolutely loses its mind.
He leads me down the slope behind the house, toward a line of ancient trees.
The world here is impossibly green, and the air hums with wet moss and sap.
Every few yards, I catch a flash of bioluminescent lichen or the gold of a humming bug that’s three times the size of anything I’ve seen in the human world.
We walk for a while in silence. I’m the one who cracks first. “Where are we going?”
He grunts, but it’s a little less threatening than usual. “My favorite place.”
There’s a hint of pride in his voice. I look sideways at him, and he’s scanning the underbrush. “Did you grow up here?”
He shakes his head. “My family moved to the settlement after the civil agreement. I was raised in the western barrens, near the old fort.” He says it like I’m supposed to know where that is, and I nod sagely. “We did not have a forest. Only rocks and sky.”
“Do you like it here?”
He walks a few paces before answering. “I do.” He opens his mouth then closes it while shaking his head.
We hit a break in the trees, and he stops so abruptly I nearly rear-end him. The clearing is ringed with glowing moss and thick with mushrooms that pulse blue at the edges. In the center is a stump twice as wide as my bed. Oren sits on it, testing the weight before gesturing for me to join.
I perch next to him, careful not to let our bodies touch. He’s radiating heat like a furnace, and my skin picks up the charge even with a solid two inches of daylight between us.
For a while, we just sit, watching the bugs trace wild shapes in the air. I can hear his breath, slow and deliberate.
“Why did you take this job?” he asks suddenly. The question sounds like an accusation, but his eyes are weirdly gentle.
I bite my lip, surprised. “Honestly? I needed a job that came with housing to get away from my mother.” I pick at a loose thread in my jeans, ready to pour out my entire life story, while a little voice in the back of my mind tells me to shut up, insisting this is definitely second or third date material.
“I read the report on you.” My heart jumps, realizing he already knows about my background. “I’m sorry for what you had to go through.”
“Did every Orc on the settlement read that freaking report?” I grumble, wondering if everyone already knows about my sad life.
“No.” A horrified look passes across his green face.
In fact, he goes a little greener. “Only the Security Council read that report.” He takes my hand in his, and sparks shoot down my spine.
“No one else will ever know your personal business. You’re part of our Orc family now, and we protect what’s ours. ”
Those words bring tears to my eyes. “Thank you.” I lean close and place a soft kiss on his cheek.
We fall into another silence, but this one isn’t heavy. More like the world holding its breath. The bugs dance. The moss glows. Oren’s profile is sharp against the last rays of sun, his tusks gleaming white in the light.
Out of nowhere, he says, “You’re very direct.”
I snort. “So are you.”
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes crinkle at the edges. “That is not always a compliment among my people.”
“It’s not always a compliment among mine, either.” I shrug. “But I’d rather someone tell me the truth. Even if it’s not pretty.”
He watches me for a long moment. It’s not creepy, just intense. Like he’s trying to memorize me, catalog every reaction.
I feel myself blushing and glance away, looking for something to fidget with, and land on a patch of moss clinging to the side of the stump. I brush it with my thumb, and it lights up, a gentle green pulse that spreads outward in concentric circles.
Oren leans closer, inspecting the effect. “It reacts to touch,” he says. “Defense mechanism.”
“It’s beautiful.” I keep brushing it, and the light shivers under my hand.
He’s close now, much closer than before. I can feel his breath on my cheek, smell the faint tang of smoke and soap and something spicy. My skin goes hot, but I don’t move away.
He doesn’t touch me. Not exactly. But his hand lands on the moss a few inches from mine, dwarfing it. We both sit like that for a minute, touching but not touching, and the moss glows twice as brightly where our fingers almost meet.
“I’ve never done this before,” he says, voice low.
“Me neither,” I answer, and my own voice is much smaller than I want it to be. “We can learn together.”
He looks at me, really looks, and something in his eyes softens. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me, or at least do something dramatic, but instead he just nods.
I blink, and the moment is gone. He clears his throat, as if embarrassed by how close we just got. “Would you have dinner with me at my home on Friday? Just the two of us.” The way he says it, it sounds like a battle plan disguised as a question.
My brain does a backflip. Heck yes, I want to have dinner with him. But reality butts in. “I’d love to, but it has to be after seven. Aric’s got that big settlement conference, so I promised to watch Ainsley until he’s home.”
Oren’s answering grunt is pure relief. “Seven-thirty. I’ll cook.” His eyes go hot and dark, pinning me to the spot, and my insides do a triple somersault. I swear my ovaries are singing.
“Deal.” My voice is barely a whisper, but he hears it. There’s no mistaking his smile this time. It’s hungry, and it’s all for me.
The next morning, I step out on the front porch to find a pink cardboard box, tied up with a cord, sitting on the table.
There’s a note on it that reads, “a little something sweet for my sweet girl.” My heart does a somersault in my chest as I open the box to find little pink donuts inside.
Not the glazed hockey pucks from gas stations back home, but little Orc pastries stuffed with tart berry jam, dusted with something that looks radioactive and tastes like sugar on steroids.
I eat three before my stomach starts aching.
The day after that, there’s another little pink box on the front porch.
This time it’s a book. An actual first edition of the fantasy novel I asked Brielle to order for me.
Oren’s note today reads, “I heard this was your favorite.” And I know my heart officially belongs to the Orc prince. That’s not even the craziest part.
A few hours later, I’m rolling Ainsley down the quiet path that runs behind the library, all mellow sunlight and mossy stone.
The baby is finally asleep, cheek smushed against the side of the stroller, which means I can actually hear myself think.
What I hear, though, is footsteps. Heavy ones.
Like, massive boots made for curb-stomping heavy.
My spine lights up with panic. Shit. I pretend to check my phone while scanning reflections in the glassy lanterns.
There’s a shadow trailing us, maybe half a block back.
I find an Orc, probably six-foot-something and built like a linebacker, but I can’t see much else of him.
My pulse jumps. I pick up the pace, heart doing a square dance in my chest.
The footsteps close in. I’m already plotting how to weaponize the stroller when the Orc calls out, “No need to run, Miss Blume.” He slows but my pulse doesn’t.
My heart’s hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I grip the stroller handle, ready to turn and swing this thing like a battering ram if the Orc even thinks about creeping up on me from behind.
I glance over my shoulder and get an eyeful of the guy.
Orc, definitely, but not one I recognize.
He’s huge, biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt, veins popping like he’s just come from deadlifting a minivan.
His tusks are smaller than Oren’s but still sharp enough to do damage.
The dude’s got a permanent scowl and a scar that runs right down his jaw like a knife slash.
He keeps his hands up, palms out. “Seriously, not here to hurt you. Prince Oren sent me to protect you and the baby.”
Damn. Now I have a protection detail. I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe.