Chapter 6
KNOX
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implications that I did not fully consider before speaking.
Her pulse flutters visibly in the delicate column of her throat, and I find myself momentarily distracted by the rapid movement, by the fragility of the vessels that carry her lifeblood so close to the surface of her skin.
Humans are terrifyingly breakable creatures, and this one more so than most—she is small even by the standards of her own kind, her bones fine and bird-like beneath her professional clothing, her hands soft and uncalloused and utterly unsuited for the brutal work of survival.
And yet she bandaged my wound without flinching, her fingers steady and competent as they moved across my skin, and she did not run when the attackers came, and she looked at me afterward with something other than fear in her dark eyes.
I need to know if that something belongs to me alone.
"I am asking," I clarify, because she has not answered and the silence is becoming unbearable, "whether you are bound to any other chieftain.
Whether your loyalty—your service—your presence at my side—is compromised by prior obligations.
Whether there is another who holds claim to your time, your attention, your—" I struggle for the appropriate human terminology, sifting through the glossary of corporate vocabulary I have memorized alongside the more ancient words of my ancestors. "Your personal bandwidth."
She makes a sound that is half laugh and half something else entirely, a choked exhalation that brings color flooding to her cheeks and causes her fingers to tighten around the coffee table until her knuckles go white.
"Are you asking if I have a boyfriend? Is that what's happening right now?
The terrifying Orc warlord who just bought out my company and fought off muggers in an alley is sitting on my grandmother's couch surrounded by floral throw pillows and asking about my relationship status? "
"I am asking about your loyalties," I correct, though I am beginning to suspect that my question may have wandered into territory I did not intend to explore.
"A First Mate cannot serve two masters. The position demands absolute dedication, unwavering focus, complete commitment to the cause.
If there is another who commands your attention outside of working hours, I must know the nature and extent of that commitment so that I may factor it into my strategic calculations. "
"Strategic calculations." She repeats the words slowly, as though tasting them, and the corners of her mouth twitch in a way that suggests she is fighting to suppress a smile. "Right. Of course. This is purely a professional inquiry. Nothing personal about it at all."
"Nothing personal," I agree.
She holds my gaze for a long moment, her dark eyes searching mine as though looking for something she cannot name. Then she sighs, and the tension drains from her shoulders, and she releases her death grip on the coffee table to run her fingers through her hair in exhausted surrender.
"No, Knox. There's no boyfriend. No girlfriend.
No situationship or friends-with-benefits arrangement or complicated entanglement with an ex who keeps showing up at my apartment with sad eyes and a bottle of wine.
I am entirely, completely, pathetically single, which you'd probably know already if you'd looked at my personnel file, because my emergency contact is my mother and my listed dependents are a potted fern named Gerald who is honestly not doing great.
" She gestures vaguely toward the windowsill, where a small fern sits in a ceramic pot painted with cheerful daisies, its fronds drooping in a way that does indeed suggest suboptimal health.
"My loyalty, such as it is, belongs entirely to my job and my rent and my student loans and the desperate hope that I'll someday be able to afford health insurance that actually covers dental.
And now, apparently, to you. To the company.
To whatever insane scheme we're cooking up to save everyone from unemployment and prove to the Ashworth bastards that they can't just—"
She stops abruptly, her words trailing off into silence, and I am smiling.
The expression feels strange on my face—Orcs do not smile in the human fashion, our tusks making the gesture difficult and often misinterpreted as a prelude to violence—but I cannot seem to help it.
The relief flooding through me is so intense that it borders on euphoria, a giddy lightness that makes me want to throw back my head and roar my satisfaction to the heavens.
She is unbound. Unclaimed. Available.
The word echoes through my mind like a war drum, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching for her, from pulling her into my lap and claiming her mouth with mine and showing her exactly what it means to belong to an Orc warlord.
This is not the time. This is not the place.
We have battles to fight and enemies to vanquish and a company to save from the circling vultures who would see it dismembered and sold for parts.
The personal will have to wait until the professional is secure.
But it will not have to wait forever.
"Good," I say, and the word comes out rougher than I intend, thick with implications I cannot entirely suppress.
"That is good. I am—pleased—to hear that your dedication to our cause is undivided.
We will need every advantage in the coming weeks, and your sharp mind is the greatest weapon in our arsenal. "
She blinks at me, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and something warmer, something that makes my blood sing with anticipation. "Did you just call my brain a weapon? Is that supposed to be a compliment?"
"The highest compliment I can offer." I rise from the couch, suddenly aware that I have been sitting here far too long, that the hour is late and she needs rest and I need distance before I do something that cannot be undone.
"In my clan, the warriors who win battles are celebrated, but the strategists who plan them are revered.
Your mind is more dangerous than any blade, Cypress Evans.
I am honored to have it fighting at my side. "
She stands as well, and I am struck again by how small she is, her head barely reaching the middle of my chest, her entire body dwarfed by mine in a way that triggers every protective instinct I possess.
I want to wrap myself around her, to shield her from the world that has treated her so poorly, to show her what it means to be valued and protected and cherished by someone strong enough to keep her safe.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I will walk to the door like a civilized creature. Tonight, I will thank her for her hospitality and promise to see her in the morning. Tonight, I will descend the stairs to the street below and walk through the cold city until my blood cools and my mind clears.
"Tomorrow," I say, pausing at the door with my hand on the knob. "We begin our counteroffensive. Arrive early. Bring coffee. And wear something comfortable—we have a war to win, and I will not have my First Mate constrained by impractical footwear."
She laughs, and the sound follows me out into the night, bright and warm and utterly devastating.
The morning arrives with the inevitability of conquest, and I am at the office before the sun has fully risen, pacing the length of the conference room and reviewing the strategic documents spread across the table.
The numbers tell a grim story—the company's market share has been hemorrhaging for months, the previous leadership's incompetence allowing competitors to claim territory that should rightfully belong to us.
The rival firm, Ashworth Capital, has been particularly aggressive, their CEO—a slender human male with the predatory smile of a carrion-eater—positioning his forces to strike at our weakest points.
But weakness can be transformed into strength if one knows how to apply pressure in the correct locations.
Cypress arrives at exactly seven o'clock, a paper cup of coffee clutched in each hand and a messenger bag slung across her body that bulges with what I can only assume are additional weapons for our arsenal.
She has taken my advice regarding footwear—her shoes are flat-soled and sensible, her clothing similarly practical, a soft sweater over dark trousers that allow for ease of movement.
She looks ready for battle, and the sight of her sends a surge of approval through my veins that I am careful to keep from showing on my face.
"Coffee," she announces, setting one of the cups on the table in front of me. "Black, no sugar, strong enough to strip paint. I guessed at your preferences based on your general demeanor, so if I got it wrong, you're welcome to complain and I will pretend to care."
I take a sip. The coffee is terrible, the bitterness overwhelming and the temperature slightly too hot, but she brought it for me and that transforms it into something precious. "It is adequate."
"High praise from the warchief." She settles into the chair beside mine, pulling a laptop from her bag and booting it up with the practiced efficiency of someone who has spent years navigating the bureaucratic trenches of corporate warfare.
"So. Counteroffensive. I've been thinking about our approach, and I have some ideas that might sound crazy at first, but hear me out. "
"I am listening."