Chapter 5 Oren
Oren
Friday finally rolls around, and I wake two hours before dawn with every muscle locked and my jaw already clenching around the first failure of the day. I didn’t sleep. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I slept.
My body’s still wired, every muscle tense, my cock already hard as hell from the dreams that kept me up all night.
Fuck, the images won’t let go. Ella’s naked against moss-lit stone, her thighs spread wide to show me just how drenched she is for me.
I dream of pinning that sweet human under me, her wrists caught in one hand while I drive into her until she’s screaming my name.
I’d mark her everywhere. Bite her neck and savor the exact moment she surrenders, her body clutching me so tightly I nearly lose my mind.
By dawn, I’m wound tight, all adrenaline and zero outlet. I stare at the ceiling in the dark, my skin buzzing, jaw clenched so hard I can practically hear my teeth cracking. I try to tell myself it’s just another day, but my body knows better.
Tonight’s my dinner date. My first one, ever. And the most important night of my life.
A few days ago, I finally sat down and read the file on Ella.
I didn’t read very far before my blood went cold.
The in-depth file spelt out in great detail all the shit she went through in her short life.
I had to set the tablet down twice because the words made my hands shake with fury.
Fuck, how did she survive that hell with her spirit still intact?
It doesn’t fucking matter now that Ella has me.
I’ll protect my mate with everything I am. This is my job now. My purpose.
The ancient Orc blood in my veins is screaming for my normal routine, for the discipline of morning training, but I skip it.
I haven’t missed a dawn session in ten years, not even the time I shattered my fibula in three places.
But today, the idea of sparring or running drills feels…
wrong. Maybe it’s because I need every reserve of willpower for tonight.
Maybe I just need to be here, alone, in my own space, with nothing to distract me from the weird chemical fire in my chest.
I pace. I pace until the tile in the entry is worn from my heel, and then I pace some more.
Each turn brings me back to the kitchen, then the living room, then the kitchen again, like a dog tracing the limits of its leash.
The house is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the whisper of my own breathing.
There’s a clock on the wall, a gift from Aric when I moved in, and I check it every five minutes.
The hands barely move. Time has never passed so slowly in my life.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Not just her face or her hair or her storm-glass eyes, but the way she moves—fast and bright and a little reckless, like a swallow in a windstorm.
The way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching.
I see the delicate twitch of her mouth when she’s fighting a smile, the restless fingers that can’t sit still, the neat little scar on her chin that only shows when she tilts her head just so.
I see all of it, and every time, my pulse slams the inside of my neck so hard I worry I’m going to black out.
This is the part where I would usually lose myself in a fight, or a run, or a two-hour session of punishing deadlifts in the gym.
But I’ve banned myself from all of that today.
I have a mission, and for once, it involves not destroying something, but building it.
I’m not sure I’m equipped for the task, but fuck it, if the universe wants to see me squirm, I’m not going to give it the satisfaction of quitting.
I take inventory of the house. Everything is, by my standards, fine. By human standards, it’s probably Spartan, but I’ve read three books on “domestic comfort” in the last twenty-four hours, and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to have “cozy accents.” Which I don’t. Fuck.
The kitchen is spotless, but it isn’t enough.
The air smells faintly of the cleaning solvent I used last night, and for some reason, this offends me.
I dig out the citrus spray from under the sink and spritz it liberally on every hard surface.
Then I scrub the counters until my arms burn.
I rearrange the spice rack three times before giving up and alphabetizing it.
I mop the floor with the same precision I use to polish my grandfather’s war axe.
The act of cleaning is almost meditative, but it does nothing for the static in my veins.
Next is the living room. I check every surface for dust. I check the dust for dust. I use a microfiber cloth on the TV screen, the windowsills, and the tops of every doorframe.
I remove every book from the shelf, wipe them down, and re-shelve them in order of descending height.
When I find one out of place, I fight the urge to snap it in half.
Instead, I set it aside and glare at it for a full thirty seconds before reshelving it perfectly.
After a while, my hands are trembling and my shoulders ache.
I strip off my shirt, which is now damp with sweat, and throw it in the wash.
I clean the washing machine dial with a toothbrush before starting the load.
I clean the toothbrush after. At some point, I become aware that this is all insane, but I can’t stop.
If I stop, I’ll have to think. I don’t want to think.
I move to the bathroom. Even though I know it’s already immaculate, I check every tile, every grout line, every inch of the shower glass. There’s a stray hair in the sink, so I clean the sink three times. I check the towels for softness. I switch them out with fresh towels, just in case.
Back in the kitchen, I open the fridge. It’s full.
I close it. Then I reopen it, convinced I saw something out of place.
The yogurt cups are not facing the same way.
I rotate them so the labels all line up perfectly, then step back and check my work.
This process takes five full minutes. I don’t care.
When it’s right, I close the fridge and stare at the steel surface, admiring my handiwork and wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
The worst part is it doesn’t help. I’m still a goddamn mess. When I pass the mirror in the hallway, I barely recognize myself: shirtless, sweat-slick, dark circles around my eyes. I look like I’ve been on a three-day bender, not prepping for a dinner date.
The clock says ten-seventeen. Fuck. She isn’t coming until after seven tonight, and there’s nothing left to clean.
I stand and survey the battlefield. The house is immaculate. I have run out of things to fix.
I set my jaw. If I can’t subdue it with force, maybe I can outlast it. I make a plan: shower, eat something, maybe do a little research on “conversation starters” so I don’t end up talking about Orc siege tactics for two hours. Then maybe a short nap, just to reset my brain.
But first, the shower. I take my time, scrubbing every inch, letting the hot water scald my skin. It feels good, burning away some of the excess energy. I stand under the spray until my muscles unclench.
The steamy water cascades down my chest, slicking my skin with a sheen that makes me look like some kind of glistening fucking god.
My hand strokes my cock—hard, throbbing, and already leaking pre-cum like a broken faucet.
I’m thinking about Ella. Fuck, just her name makes my dick twitch like it’s got a goddamn mind of its own.
Her tits, those perfect fucking melons, bouncing in my mind’s eye.
I imagine squeezing them, pinching her nipples until she gasps, until her pussy pulses wet and needy for me.
Her lips, those pouty, sinful lips wrapped around my cock, sucking me deep like she’s starving for it.
I groan, my hand moving faster, the rhythm of my fist matching the filthy images in my head.
Her hips, curved like she was sculpted just for me. I imagine her riding me, her tight, dripping cunt swallowing my dick whole, her moans echoing in my ears as she takes every inch. Her ass, round and bouncing, begging to be slapped, grabbed, fucked raw.
My breathing is ragged, my balls tightening as I pump my cock faster, harder.
Then the fantasy changes. I picture her on her knees, looking up at me with those deep green eyes, her tongue darting out to lick the tip of my dick before she deep-throats me.
I can almost feel her throat clenching around me, her gagging noises mixing with her moans as she takes me deeper, deeper.
“Fuck, Ella,” I growl, my hand a blur now.
My cock is rock-hard, veins bulging, the head slick with pre-cum.
I’m so close, so fucking close. I imagine lifting her against my body and slamming into her wet and pulsating pussy.
Her tight walls gripping my shaft like a vice as her screams of pleasure ring in my ears.
My balls tighten, and I know I’m about to lose it.
I imagine coming inside her, my hot fucking load shooting deep into her pussy, filling her up until she’s dripping with me.
The thought is enough to send me over the edge.
My cock jerks in my hand, and I’m coming, ropes of cum splattering against the shower wall as I groan her name like a fucking animal.
“Ella! Fuck!” I shout, my knees buckling as I ride out the orgasm, my hand still pumping my cock until there’s nothing left. I lean against the wall, panting, my heart racing, my skin slick with sweat and water.