Chapter 5
CYPRESS
The fight—if I can even call it that—lasts approximately three seconds.
Knox moves like a freight train given legs and a vendetta, his green form blurring across the alley with a speed that defies every law of physics I remember from high school.
The first attacker doesn't even have time to raise his weapon before Knox's hand closes around his wrist and twists, sending the gun clattering across the pavement with a metallic skitter that echoes off the brick walls.
The second spy backpedals frantically, his boots scraping against the concrete as he tries to put distance between himself and seven feet of enraged Orc, but Knox simply reaches out with his other hand and grabs the man by the front of his tactical jacket, lifting him completely off the ground like he weighs nothing more than an empty briefcase.
I watch as Knox holds both men suspended in the air—one by the wrist, one by the collar.
"You will tell your masters," Knox snarls, "that the Bloodaxe Clan does not negotiate with cowards and thieves.
You will tell them that Knox Bloodaxe remembers every slight and repays every insult tenfold.
You will tell them that this company is under my protection, and any further attempts at interference will be met with the full fury of Orcish vengeance. "
He releases them simultaneously, and both men hit the ground in undignified heaps of limbs and tactical gear, scrambling over each other in their desperate haste to flee.
They don't even pause to retrieve their fallen weapons—they simply run, their footsteps echoing through the alley and fading into the distance with a rapidity that would be comical if my heart weren't still trying to beat its way out of my ribcage and make a break for the subway on its own.
Knox watches them go, he's heaving with each breath, his hands still curled into fists at his sides and the tendons in his forearms standing out like cables beneath his green skin.
The streetlight catches his tusks, and I notice for the first time that they're slightly chipped at the tips, small imperfections that speak to a lifetime of conflict and conquest, and something about those tiny flaws makes him seem suddenly more real than he did a moment ago—less like a force of nature and more like a person who has weathered his share of battles and carries the scars to prove it.
"That was..." I trail off, pushing my glasses up my nose with trembling fingers and trying to find words adequate to describe what I just witnessed.
My vocabulary, usually so reliable in moments of corporate crisis, has apparently fled for the hills along with the would-be muggers, leaving me with nothing but inarticulate amazement and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of how very small I am standing next to him. "That was really something."
Knox turns to look at me, and the battle-fury in his eyes softens into something almost approaching concern as he takes in my shell-shocked expression and white-knuckled grip on my tablet. "You are unharmed, Cypress Evans?"
"Me? I'm fine. I didn't do anything except stand here and try not to faint." I laugh, and the sound comes out higher and more hysterical. "You're the one who just fought off two armed men with your bare hands. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"
He looks down at himself, apparently conducting some kind of internal damage assessment, and I follow his gaze to the small tear in the sleeve of his incredibly expensive suit jacket.
The fabric has been sliced cleanly, probably by a blade I didn't even see in the chaos of the brief confrontation, and beneath the ruined silk I can see a thin line of dark blood welling up from a shallow cut on his forearm.
"A scratch," he says dismissively, flexing his fingers to demonstrate that the arm still functions properly. "Nothing of consequence. The healers of my clan have treated far worse."
But I'm already stepping forward, my professional instincts overriding my common sense as I lift his arm to examine the wound more closely.
The cut isn't deep, but it's still bleeding sluggishly, dark droplets staining the torn fabric of his jacket and dripping onto the pavement below. Orc blood smells like copper.
"That needs to be cleaned and bandaged. When did you last have a tetanus shot?
Do Orcs even need tetanus shots? God, I have no idea how any of this works, but you're bleeding on your Armani and I refuse to let you get an infection on my watch because I'm pretty sure that would reflect poorly on the company's liability insurance.
" I'm babbling, the words tumbling out of my mouth without any input from my higher brain functions, and I can't seem to stop them no matter how firmly I tell myself to shut up and act like a normal human being.
"My apartment is just up the street. Two blocks.
I have a first aid kit and some butterfly bandages and at least three different kinds of antiseptic because I'm paranoid about cuts getting infected ever since I read that article about flesh-eating bacteria. "
"You wish to tend my wound yourself? This is not necessary. The cut will heal within hours. Orc physiology is highly resistant to—"
"I don't care about Orc physiology. I care about the fact that you just saved my life, or at least saved me from a very unpleasant mugging, and the least I can do is make sure you don't bleed all over the subway platform on your way home.
" I grab his uninjured hand before I can think better of it, my fingers wrapping around two of his because that's all I can physically encompass, and I start tugging him toward the street with a determination that probably looks ridiculous given our relative sizes.
"Come on. My apartment has better lighting than this alley, and I need to sit down before my knees give out completely. "
He could resist me easily—could plant his feet and refuse to move and I would have about as much success relocating him as I would have pushing the Empire State Building across Fifth Avenue—but instead he allows himself to be led, falling into step beside me with a bemused expression that makes his tusks catch the streetlight at an angle that is, I notice despite my best efforts not to notice, surprisingly attractive.
The briefcase is retrieved from where he dropped it, tucked securely under his uninjured arm, and we make our way out of the alley and onto the main street like the world's most mismatched pair of combat survivors.
My apartment is exactly where I said it would be, two blocks north in a walkup that hasn't been renovated since the Reagan administration, and I lead Knox up three flights of narrow stairs that creak ominously under his weight and seem to shrink around his shoulders with every step we climb.
The building was not designed to accommodate seven-foot Orc warlords, and I wince every time his tusks scrape against the ceiling or his shoulder catches on the peeling wallpaper, but he navigates the cramped space with surprising grace, ducking and angling his body through the tight turns like a man who has learned to exist in a world built for creatures half his size.
I fumble with my keys at the door to 3B, my hands still shaking from the adrenaline aftermath of the alley encounter, and Knox waits patiently behind me while I drop the keyring twice and finally manage to fit the correct key into the lock on my third attempt.
The door swings open to reveal the tiny studio I've called home for the past four years, and I'm suddenly acutely aware of every dirty dish in the sink and every romance novel scattered across the coffee table and every piece of laundry I didn't quite manage to fold before I left for work this morning.
"It's small," I say, which is the understatement of the century and possibly the decade.
"I mean, it's fine for me, but you might want to watch your head on the ceiling fan, and the kitchen is basically a closet, and I'm pretty sure the radiator has been possessed by demons since last winter, but it's home and it has a first aid kit, which is the important thing right now. "
Knox steps inside, and the apartment immediately feels like it's shrunk by approximately fifty percent, his presence filling the space in a way that makes my carefully arranged furniture look like dollhouse accessories.
He surveys the room with those piercing golden eyes, taking in the overstuffed bookshelves and the tiny kitchen alcove and the window that overlooks the fire escape I sometimes sit on when I need fresh air and a moment of peace, and I find myself holding my breath waiting for his judgment on the space where I spend most of my non-working hours.
"It is a good nest," he says finally. "Small, but defensible. One entrance, clear sightlines, elevated position for tactical advantage. You have chosen your dwelling wisely, Cypress Evans."
"I chose it because it was the only thing I could afford within walking distance of a subway station, but sure, let's go with tactical advantage.
" I gesture toward the floral sofa that my grandmother left me when she passed, a overstuffed monstrosity in shades of pink and green that looks like it was designed by someone who really loved English gardens.
"Sit down before you put your tusks through my ceiling, and try not to break anything.
That couch has survived two moves and a flood, but I don't know if it can handle an Orc warchief. "