Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Now he crouched inside Edie's camper at six in the morning, tools spread around him in precise rows, installing the thing while she slept peacefully in his bed three miles away.
It’s practical, he told himself, disconnecting the old heater—a pathetic unit that should have been condemned years ago. This is practical. She lives in this vehicle. Vehicles require maintenance. I'm simply ensuring adequate functionality.
The lie tasted sour.
He'd been lying to himself for three days now, ever since he'd started this project.
Three days of pre-dawn visits to the camper.
Three days of research and procurement and careful installation work.
Three days of telling himself this was about practicality and efficiency and definitely not about the way his chest had seized when he'd found her shivering in four sweaters during that storm.
The old heater came free with a reluctant groan. He examined it under the weak morning light filtering through the camper's windows. Corroded. Cracked housing. Wiring that looked like it had been repaired with electrical tape and optimism.
She could have died.
The thought hit him like a body check, sudden and brutal. She'd been sleeping in this death trap for years. Traveling alone. Depending on equipment that was one bad night away from catastrophic failure. His hands tightened on the corroded unit until the metal creaked.
Stop, he ordered himself. Focus on the task. Emotion is not productive.
He set the old heater aside and began fitting the new one into place.
The camper was simultaneously cramped and fascinating.
Every inch had been optimized for her particular brand of chaos—storage compartments overflowing with art supplies, fairy lights strung along the ceiling, and postcards covering every available surface.
He recognized some of the locations from her stories.
Phoenix, where she'd painted a community center.
Portland, where she'd done a three-story mural of the city skyline. Austin, Denver, Savannah.
Thirty-seven cities. He'd counted the postcards during his first visit. Thirty-seven places she'd left. Thirty-seven fresh starts. Would Greenwood Hollow become number thirty-eight?
He forced the thought away and focused on connecting the propane lines. The new heater fit perfectly—he'd measured the space four times before ordering—and the connections were clean and secure.
Next up was insulation.
The camper's original insulation was a joke with thin batting that had compressed over years of use, leaving gaps where cold air crept in like unwanted houseguests. He'd ordered closed-cell foam panels, custom-cut to fit the interior walls.
Installing them meant removing the decorative panels she'd painted herself—intricate designs of flowers and birds and abstract patterns that made his chest ache for reasons he refused to examine.
He photographed each section before removing it, documenting the exact placement so he could restore everything precisely.
She'll notice, part of him whispered. She notices everything.
Another part responded: Let her.
He worked in silence, the only sounds his breathing and the occasional scrape of tools. Outside, the parking structure was empty. Practice didn't start until eight. He had two hours before anyone might wonder where he was.
Two hours to make her home safe.
Two hours to give her a reason to leave him.
The insulation went in panel by panel. Each one added another layer of protection, another barrier between her and the cold. By the time he finished, the interior temperature had already risen several degrees despite the heater not yet being operational.
Electrical was last. It was the part that had kept him up at night, researching and planning and triple-checking specifications. The camper's electrical system was a nightmare of spliced wires and overloaded circuits. One bad connection could start a fire. One power surge could—
Stop.
He took several deep breaths until his pulse stopped racing.
The electrical work took longer than anything else. He traced every wire, replaced every connection, installed a new breaker box with proper surge protection. His hands, scarred from years of hockey, moved with unexpected delicacy. This wasn't about strength. This was about precision.
When he finished, the camper's electrical system was safer than most permanent homes. He tested everything twice, then a third time just to be certain. The heater kicked on immediately, filling the small space with warmth. The lights worked without flickering. The outlets registered proper voltage.
Done.
He sat back on his heels and surveyed his work. The camper looked the same—the same chaotic charm, the same personal touches, and the same evidence of a life designed for constant motion. But underneath, it was transformed. Safe. Warm. Functional.
She could leave now.
The thought struck him like a blade between the ribs. She could leave. The camper worked. The heater was better than new. She had no reason to stay in his condo anymore, no practical excuse to sleep in his bed, no justification for the routine they'd built together.
He could tell her tonight. Show her what he'd done. Watch her face light up with that surprised delight that made his heart stutter.
And then watch her pack.
His hands were shaking.
Ridiculous, he thought savagely. I’m being ridiculous. This is her home. I have no right to keep her from it. The repairs were necessary.
But he'd done more than necessary. He'd done optimal. He'd made this cramped metal box as safe as he could possibly make it, which meant she had every reason to return to her life of motion and freedom and thirty-seven cities.
Minus him.
He stood abruptly, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling, as he made a decision.
He wasn't going to tell her. Not yet. He needed more time.
More mornings making her coffee. More evenings eating dinner together.
More nights with her warm weight pressed against him, and her ridiculous hair tickling his chin.
The camper wasn't going anywhere. The repairs would keep. And if she asked—if she specifically asked about the heater or the insulation or the electrical work—he would tell her.
But she wouldn't ask. Because she wasn't thinking about leaving.
Not yet, the dark voice in his head whispered. Not yet. But she will. She always does.
He carefully gathered his tools, restoring the camper to its original appearance. By the time he finished, there was no visible evidence he'd been here at all. Except now, when winter storms hit, she would be warm.
He locked the camper door behind him and walked towards the arena. He had another project to complete.
The mural site was a disaster of cold and inadequate lighting. He had noticed it days ago. She often worked late into the evening, her breath visible in the frigid arena air, and her fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold. She never complained. She just layered on more sweaters and kept painting.
It was intolerable.
He'd submitted a facilities request through proper channels, which had gotten him a response promising "review within 10-14 business days." Unacceptable. He'd escalated to Sam, who'd promised to "look into it." Also unacceptable.
So he'd taken matters into his own hands.
The industrial space heaters had arrived yesterday, along with professional-grade LED panel lights.
He'd arranged for installation during the overnight hours, coordinating with the facilities team to ensure everything was in place before she arrived in the morning.
Now he stood at the edge of the scaffolding area, watching the installation crew finish positioning the last heater.
"This one goes there," he said, pointing to a spot he'd calculated based on her typical working patterns. "Angled thirty degrees east."
"Sir, the heat distribution will be—"
"Thirty degrees east."
The worker adjusted the heater.
"And the lighting?" he continued. "The lumens need to be—"
"4000K color temperature, 5000 lumens minimum, positioned to eliminate shadows on the primary work surface." The crew chief read from his notes. "We've got it, Mr. Stonefist. Third time you've confirmed."
"Fourth."
"Right. Fourth." The man's expression suggested he was reconsidering his life choices. "We'll have it done in twenty minutes."
"Fifteen."
"Fifteen it is."
He watched them work, cataloguing every detail. The lights were positioned precisely as he'd specified—bright enough to prevent eye strain, but warm enough to render colors accurately. The heaters were spaced to create overlapping zones of warmth, ensuring no cold spots in Edie's usual work area.
It’s practical, he reminded himself. An artist needs proper conditions. This is about productivity.
The lie was getting less convincing every time he told it.
The truth was simpler and more terrifying: the thought of her being cold made something in his chest physically hurt. The thought of her straining her eyes in poor lighting made his jaw clench. The thought of her being uncomfortable in any way, for any reason, while he had the power to prevent it—
Mate.
The word surfaced again. He'd been avoiding it. He’d been treating it like a superstition, something orcs whispered about but didn't actually believe.
But the evidence was becoming impossible to ignore.
The compulsive need to feed her. The territorial rage when others got too close.
The way his entire body oriented towards her presence like a compass finding north.
And now this: the sick, desperate need to protect her from every possible harm, no matter how minor.
This wasn't just attraction. This wasn't even love, not in the simple human sense. This was something older and deeper. Something carved into his DNA by generations of orc ancestors who had survived by finding one person and keeping them safe at any cost.
Edie was his mate. And she had no idea.