Chapter -2
LANEK
The door slams behind her, and I'm left standing in the cold bite of my walk-in with a half-butchered elk carcass and the lingering scent of vanilla bean cutting through the iron tang of blood.
I set the cleaver down on the steel table, my hand still steady.
Well.
That is interesting.
I've seen plenty of humans in the fifteen years since I moved to the city.
Worked alongside them, served them at the counter, nodded politely when they complained about the smell or the sight of hanging meat through my front windows.
Most of them look at me with either nervous politeness or outright fear, their eyes skittering away from my tusks, my bulk, the evidence of what I do for a living.
Not her.
Quinn Hayes stormed into my shop like she owned all five feet and change of fury wrapped in a flour-dusted apron and a dress that belongs in a museum dedicated to human courtship rituals from seventy years ago.
She didn't flinch when I turned around. Didn't step back when I moved closer.
Just planted her feet in those ridiculous little shoes and glared up at me like I'm the one being unreasonable.
In my freezer.
In my shop.
After she barged through my back door without knocking.
I pick up the cleaver again, testing its weight in my palm.
The bone saw incident was unfortunate. I'll admit that.
I didn't account for the wall being quite so thin, or for the fact that my new neighbor apparently works hours that rival my own.
The building inspector assured me the structure could handle the equipment, but he clearly didn't consider the acoustic properties of century-old brick when a blade hits frozen bone at precisely the wrong angle.
Still.
The way her cheeks flushed, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the absolute fearlessness in her voice when she called me out—
My mouth curves despite myself.
That is not fear. That is territorial fury, and it's possibly the most attractive thing I've witnessed in years.
I return to the elk, methodically working through the shoulder joint.
The rhythm of butchery usually clears my head, the clean separation of muscle from bone, the satisfaction of a perfect cut.
Today my mind keeps circling back to the image of Quinn Hayes standing in my workspace, backlit by the harsh fluorescents, looking like some kind of avenging pastry angel.
You destroyed my cake.
The genuine devastation under the anger in her voice makes my hands still for a moment.
I know that feeling. The hours of careful work obliterated by something outside your control.
I've lost entire sides of beef to power outages, watched a week's worth of dry-aging ruined by a faulty temperature gauge.
It's a specific kind of frustration that only craftspeople understand.
And she is a craftsperson. I saw it in the precision of her movements, the paint-splattered apron, the dusting of what looked like sugar across her cheekbone.
She didn't storm over here because she's delicate or easily offended.
She came because I damaged something she created, something that mattered.
I respect that.
The shoulder separates cleanly, and I move to the hindquarter, my hands working on autopilot while my thoughts drift to territory I haven't explored in longer than I care to admit.
Orc courtship is straightforward. Honest. When you find someone worth pursuing, you prove you can provide, protect, and match their strength.
You don't play games. You don't hint. You demonstrate value through action.
Quinn Hayes has fire. She has skill. She holds her ground even when facing down someone twice her size in an unfamiliar space.
In my mother's generation, a woman like that would have had suitors lined up around the block.
The thought makes me pause, cleaver hovering over the femur.
I'm getting ahead of myself. Way ahead. She's my neighbor. She's human. She's currently furious with me, and rightfully so. The last thing I need is to make this situation more complicated by indulging in the part of my brain that recognizes a worthy mate when he sees one.
Even if she did look magnificent covered in righteous anger and powdered sugar.
I finish the primary breakdown and start portioning the cuts. Shanks for osso buco. Backstrap for medallions. The ribs will go into the smoker later this week. My hands move efficiently, but my mind refuses to settle.
The proper thing to do is apologize. Truly apologize, not the half-hearted attempt I made when she was already leaving. Maybe offer to compensate her for the ruined cake. That's what a reasonable person would do.
But I'm not just a reasonable person. I'm an Orc, raised in a traditional family, taught that actions speak infinitely louder than words. An apology without substance is meaningless. If I'm going to make this right, I need to do it properly.
I need to show her I'm not just some careless neighbor with loud equipment and poor timing.
I glance at the cuts laid out before me. The tenderloin gleams under the lights, marbled with perfect fat, aged to ideal tenderness. It's destined for a high-end restaurant downtown, part of my weekly standing order, but—
No. Not the tenderloin.
My eyes drift to the aging room, to the carefully monitored racks where I keep my personal projects.
The dry-aged tomahawk steaks have been hanging for forty-five days, developing the concentrated flavor and butter-soft texture that only time and patience can create.
I was saving them for the family gathering next month, planning to show off the quality of the new shop's capabilities.
But this is more important.
I move to the aging room, feeling the temperature shift from freezing to carefully controlled coolness.
The tomahawks hang in a row, each one a work of art.
Thick ribeye caps still attached to eighteen inches of pristine bone, the meat dark and dense from the aging process.
I select the best one, running my thumb along the marbling, checking the texture.
Perfect.
Quinn Hayes doesn't know it yet, but in about twenty minutes, she'll receive a courtship gift that would make my grandmother weep with pride.
I take my time with the preparation. This isn't just any cut of meat; this is a statement.
I trim the excess fat cap, leaving just enough to baste the meat during cooking.
Clean the bone until it's pristine white.
Wrap the whole thing in butcher paper with the kind of precision I usually reserve for competition entries.
The silver platter is in the storage room, part of the display equipment I brought from my old location. I polish it until my reflection stares back at me, tusks and all, then arrange the wrapped steak with the bone positioned just so.
Presentation matters. My father taught me that. Anyone can throw meat on a plate. A craftsman makes it an experience.
I check the clock. Nearly six AM. Quinn's bakery is open, which means she's likely back in her kitchen right now, frantically trying to salvage the wedding cake I inadvertently destroyed.
The thought makes guilt twist in my gut, but I push it aside.
I can't undo the damage, but I can demonstrate that I understand the value of her work, that I respect her craft even if we practice different trades.
The alley is quiet when I step outside, the platter balanced in one hand.
Dawn light filters between buildings, painting everything in soft grey.
Her back door is painted a cheerful yellow that seems almost aggressive in its brightness, complete with a pastel welcome mat that reads "SWEET DREAMS START HERE" in looping script.
I set the platter down carefully, centering it on the mat. The wrapped steak gleams against the silver, the bone extending past the edge like a promise. For a moment I consider adding a note, some explanation of what this means, but I discard the idea immediately.
Either she'll understand or she won't.
Either way, I'll know.
I'm back in my shop, elbow-deep in breaking down a side of pork, when I hear her door open. My hands still on the blade, my ears straining despite myself. The sound of her footsteps. A pause. Then—
Silence.
I keep working, to maintain the steady rhythm of separation and portioning, but every nerve in my body is attuned to the space beyond my wall. Is she pleased? Confused? Will she storm back over here demanding to know what kind of game I'm playing?
Minutes pass. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Nothing.
I finish the pork shoulder and move to the grinder, feeding trim into the machine for breakfast sausage.
The mechanical whir fills the space, but underneath it I'm listening, waiting, wondering if I miscalculated entirely.
Maybe human courtship doesn't work like this.
Maybe leaving premium cuts of meat on someone's doorstep is threatening rather than flattering.
Maybe I should have just written a check and called it even.
Maybe I'm a thirty-two-year-old butcher who just made a complete fool of himself over a woman I spoke to for less than five minutes.
The grinder jams, pulling me back to the present. I shut it down and clear the blade, forcing my attention to the work in front of me. This is what I know. This is what I'm good at. Clean cuts, honest labor, the satisfaction of transforming raw material into something valuable.
Not courtship. Not navigating the complicated space between neighborly apology and genuine interest. Not trying to impress a human woman who probably thinks Orcs are barbaric at best and dangerous at worst.