Chapter 13 #2
"Mr. Stonefist?" The crew chief's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "We're done."
Tarmek blinked. The lights blazed overhead, bathing the mural site in warm, even illumination. The heaters hummed softly, already raising the temperature of the surrounding air.
"Test the systems," he ordered.
"Already did. Everything's functional."
"Test them again."
After a barely audible sight, the crew chief ran through the systems a second time. Lights on. Lights off. Lights on. Heaters cycling through their settings. Everything worked perfectly.
"Acceptable," he said finally.
"High praise." The sarcasm was subtle but present. "Anything else?"
"The invoices go to me. Not team accounting. Personal account."
That earned a raised eyebrow. "This is... a personal expense?"
"Yes."
"For the team's mural artist."
"Is there a problem?"
"No, sir. Just confirming."
The crew gathered their equipment and departed, leaving him alone with his obsessive improvements.
He walked the perimeter of the work area, checking sight lines and temperature zones.
Everything was exactly as he'd planned. When Edie arrived—soon, based on her usual schedule—she would find her workspace transformed.
Warm, well-lit, and optimized for her comfort and productivity.
She would probably ask questions. He would deflect. Blame facilities. Claim ignorance. She would see through him immediately. But she wouldn't say anything, because she had a gift for understanding what people weren't ready to discuss.
She'd accept the lights and the heaters with that warm smile that made his lungs forget how to work, and she'd go back to painting, and she wouldn't force him to admit what he was doing.
What he was becoming.
Pathetic, he thought. I’m completely pathetic.
But he couldn't stop.
The door at the far end of the arena opened, and his entire body went alert.
He knew it was her before he saw her—something about the way she moved, light and chaotic, her footsteps never quite even.
Then she appeared around the corner, coffee cup in hand, wearing one of his hoodies over her paint-splattered overalls.
The hoodie dwarfed her, the hem nearly reaching her knees, the sleeves rolled up three times to free her hands.
She looked ridiculous. She looked perfect.
"Oh!" She stopped dead, staring at the transformed workspace. "What—when did—"
"Facilities upgrade," he said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. "Approved last week."
"Last week? But I was here last night, and there was definitely no—" She gestured at the gleaming LED panels. "Professional lighting situation."
"Overnight installation. More efficient."
"More efficient." She repeated the words slowly, her eyes narrowing. "Uh-huh."
She knows, he thought. Of course she knows.
But as he suspected, she didn't press. Instead, she walked to her scaffolding, set down her coffee, and tilted her face up towards the lights.
"These are really nice," she said softly.
"Standard equipment."
"Sure they are." She turned to look at him, and her expression was soft and knowing and almost sad. "Thank you, Tarmek."
"I didn't—"
"Thank you."
He stopped trying to deflect.
"You're welcome."
She smiled at him—not the playful grin she used for teasing, but something more vulnerable.
Then she climbed up the scaffolding and started preparing her paints, humming something off-key under her breath.
He stood there for longer than was reasonable, watching her work in the warm, well-lit space he'd created for her.
Mate, his instincts whispered again.
Yes, he finally admitted to himself. Yes, she is.
Now he just had to figure out how to keep her.
Practice was a disaster. Tarmek missed three passes, overshot two goals, and nearly decapitated Kowalski with a slap shot that went wildly off-target. By the time they broke for water, the entire team was staring at him like he'd grown a second head.
"Cap." Rognar skated up beside him, expression carefully neutral. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"Because you just shot the puck into the upper stands. Twice."
"I'm aware."
"And you're usually... not that." Rognar made a vague gesture. "Off."
"I'm having an inconsistent practice. It happens."
"Does it? Because I've known you three years, and I've literally never seen you—"
"Rognar."
"Right. Shutting up." But the forward’s expression said he'd be revisiting this conversation later.
He skated to the bench and grabbed his water bottle, forcing himself to focus. The problem was obvious. His thoughts kept drifting to Edie, to the camper, to the lights and heaters and all the other ways he was trying to build a cage of comfort around her.
Not a cage, he corrected himself. A home. A reason to stay.
But what if she didn't want a home?
What if all his careful provisions just made it easier for her to leave—knowing her camper was safe, knowing she could return to her nomadic life whenever she chose?
"Hey." A hand landed on his shoulder, and Kowalski looked unusually serious. "Whatever's eating you, don't bring it to the ice. We've got games next week."
"I know."
"Do you? Because that last shot could've killed me."
"It was six feet wide."
"Five and a half. I measured."
Despite everything, he felt his lips twitch.
"I'll do better," he said.
"You always do." Kowalski squeezed his shoulder once, then skated away.
He finished his water and returned to practice with renewed focus. He couldn't control Edie. He couldn't make her stay or force her to want what he wanted. But he could control this. The ice. The puck. The familiar rhythm of the game.
By the end of practice, his performance had improved to acceptable levels. Not his best, but not the disaster of the first hour. Coach gave him a long look but said nothing.
Small mercies.
He showered and changed quickly, then headed towards the mural site without consciously deciding to do so. His body knew where it wanted to be.
Edie was still perched on the scaffolding, brush in hand, working on a section that depicted the team in motion. The figures were rough still, shapes and shadows rather than detailed portraits, but he could already see the energy in them. The way she'd captured the violence and grace of hockey.
She must have heard him approach, because she glanced down and smiled.
"How was practice?"
"Fine."
"Liar. Kowalski texted Fen, and Fen texted everyone. Apparently you tried to assassinate him with a slap shot."
"It was five and a half feet wide."
"Still counts as attempted murder in some jurisdictions."
He grunted. She set down her brush and climbed down the scaffolding with the careless grace of someone who'd spent years working at heights. She crossed the space between them and stood on her tiptoes to examine his face.
"What's going on in there?" She tapped his forehead. "Lots of brooding happening. I can tell."
"I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood. You have resting brood face."
"That's not—"
"It's a condition. Very serious. The only cure is telling me what's wrong."
He should deflect. Change the subject. Return to the comfortable pattern of their interactions—her teasing, him resisting, the slow dance of attraction and denial.
But standing here, looking at this impossible woman who'd crashed into his life like a paint-covered meteor, he felt all that control crumble.
"I don’t want you to leave," he said.
Her breath caught.
"I know that's—" He stopped, then tried again. "You have every right to go. But I—"
"Tarmek."
"I couldn't make myself tell you. Because once you knew how I felt you would go, and I'm not—"
"Tarmek."
He fell silent. She reached up and cupped his face in her paint-stained hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"You ridiculous, beautiful, completely insane orc," she said softly. "Did you really think I didn’t know?"
"I—"
"I stay because I want to stay. Not because of logistics. Not because my camper doesn't work. Because of you."
Something cracked in his chest.
"You're not leaving?" His voice came out rough. Uncertain.
"I'm not leaving." She smiled, and it was the softest smile he'd ever seen on her face. "Not today, anyway. Maybe not for a while. We'll figure it out as we go."
"I don't like 'figuring it out as we go.'"
"I know. It's one of the many things that drives me crazy about you." She tugged him down until their foreheads touched. "But that's what we're doing. Okay? And no more unilateral decisions about my safety. We do this together."
"I can't promise not to worry about your safety."
"I'm not asking you to stop worrying. I'm asking you to include me in the worrying. Partnership, remember? That means both of us."
Partnership.
He hadn't thought of it that way. He'd been so focused on providing, protecting, and building walls around her that he'd forgotten to include her in the process.
Orc instincts, he realized, weren't always right.
They told him to protect his mate at any cost—but they didn't account for a mate who needed autonomy as much as safety.
"I'll try," he said finally.
"That's all I'm asking."