Chapter 5
QUINN
Ilock the door because I need exactly thirty seconds to process what just happened without the possibility of another customer walking in to witness my complete mental breakdown.
Lanek is still standing in my bakery, all six-feet-eight-inches of tattooed, blood-apron-wearing Orc, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
"You," I start, then stop because my voice comes out somewhere between a squeak and a whisper. I clear my throat and try again. "You just threatened a food critic."
"I didn't threaten anyone." He sounds genuinely confused by the accusation. "I simply pointed out that her review standards were inconsistent and her criticism was based on personal preference rather than objective quality markers."
"You told her there's the door!"
"Because she was being unreasonable." He says this like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "She came in here looking to tear you down, not to actually evaluate your work. That's not professional behavior."
My hands are shaking. I press them flat against the counter to steady myself, which does absolutely nothing because the adrenaline racing through my system has nowhere to go. "Do you have any idea what she could do to my business? One bad review from Miranda Ling and I might as well close up shop!"
"Then she shouldn't write bad reviews based on lies."
"That's not how this works!"
"It's how it should work." Lanek moves closer, and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "If she writes a dishonest review, I'll write a public response detailing exactly why her criticism was unfounded. I have a very active presence on the artisanal food forums."
Of course he does. Of course this massive, cleaver-wielding Orc has an active presence on food forums.
"You can't just—" I stop, pressing my fingers against my temples where a headache is starting to build. "This isn't your problem. You shouldn't have gotten involved."
"You're my neighbor."
"Exactly! Your neighbor! Not your responsibility!"
"In my culture, neighbors defend each other's territory." He says this with the kind of absolute certainty that makes me want to scream. "Especially when one neighbor is clearly being targeted by a threat she shouldn't have to face alone."
"A food critic isn't a threat—"
"She made you cry."
I freeze. "I wasn't crying."
"Your eyes were wet. You were holding your counter so tight your knuckles went white. She was hurting you with her words, and you were trying not to show it."
The observation is so unexpectedly perceptive that I forget to be angry for a second.
I was trying not to show it. I've spent years building up my customer-service armor, learning how to smile through awful interactions, how to de-escalate difficult customers without losing my composure.
But Miranda had gotten under my skin, found exactly the right pressure points to make me doubt everything I've built.
And Lanek noticed.
"That still doesn't give you the right to interfere," I manage, but the words come out weaker than intended.
"I disagree." He crosses those massive arms over his chest, and I notice for the first time that there's still a faint smear of blood on his forearm, probably from whatever he was working on before he decided to stage a dramatic intervention in my bakery.
"You work too hard to let someone like her tear you down because she's having a bad day and decided to take it out on an easy target. "
"I'm not an easy target!"
"You're a small business owner working alone in a neighborhood where the rent keeps going up and the competition keeps getting more corporate. Yes, Quinn, you're an easy target. That's why you need someone watching your back."
The way he says my name, all rough and certain, makes my stomach do a complicated flip. I tell the feeling to absolutely not, under any circumstances, become a thing.
"I don't need a bodyguard," I insist, even though part of me, a part I'm absolutely not acknowledging, found the entire interaction with Miranda intensely satisfying.
Watching her face cycle through confusion and outrage while Lanek calmly dismantled her criticism was possibly the most gratifying thing I've experienced in months.
But I can't tell him that.
"I'm not offering to be your bodyguard." Lanek tilts his head slightly. "I'm offering to be your neighbor. A real one. The kind who doesn't let people hurt what's mine to protect."
"I'm not yours to protect!"
"You work next door to my shop. You share my alley. You breathe the same air when we're both working early mornings." He lists these facts like they're completely reasonable justifications for territorial protection. "That makes you mine."
My brain short-circuits somewhere around "that makes you mine" because what the hell kind of logic is that?
"That's not, you can't just claim people because they happen to work near you!"
"I'm not claiming you." He sounds genuinely puzzled now. "I'm protecting you. It's different."
"How?!"
"Because claiming you would require you to accept my courtship gifts, and you keep rejecting them."
"The steaks," I say slowly. "You actually thought those were courtship gifts."
"They were prime cuts. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to source wagyu that well-marbled? I had to call in three favors."
"I thought you were threatening me!"
Now he looks genuinely offended. "Why would I waste quality meat on a threat? If I wanted to threaten you, I would have left something much less expensive."
This conversation has officially spiraled beyond my ability to process.
I'm standing in my locked bakery, arguing with an Orc about the proper etiquette of meat-based threats versus courtship gifts, while my ruined wedding cake sits in the back and Miranda Ling is probably already typing up a one-star review that will tank my business.
I need to get him out of here before I do something stupid like start laughing hysterically or, worse, start crying for real.
"You need to leave," I say firmly. "I have a cake to remake, and you probably have carcasses to dismantle or whatever it is you do all day."
"I'm not leaving until I'm sure you're alright."
"I'm fine!"
"You're shaking."
Damn it, I am. My hands are trembling against the counter, and my breathing is too fast, and I can feel the stress-tears building behind my eyes because today was supposed to be straightforward and instead it turned into a complete disaster.
"That's none of your business," I manage, but my voice cracks halfway through.
Lanek moves before I can process what's happening. He circles the counter in two huge strides and suddenly he's right there. I crane my neck back to see his eyes. He smells like woodsmoke and black pepper and cold steel, and the combination should not be as appealing as it is.
"Quinn." His voice has gone very quiet, very gentle. "Let me help."
"I don't need—"
"I know you don't need help. You're capable of handling your business on your own.
But that doesn't mean you have to." He pauses.
"My family has owned butcher shops for six generations.
I know how hard it is to maintain quality when everyone wants you to cut corners and lower prices.
I know what it's like when critics come in looking for problems instead of merit.
And I know how lonely it gets when you're working alone and you feel like the whole world is trying to push you out. "
The words hit harder than expected. I've spent so long trying to project confidence and capability that I forgot what it feels like to have someone actually see the stress underneath.
"I have to remake that cake by two o'clock," I say, which isn't really a response to anything he said but is the only coherent thought I can form.
"Then I'll leave you to work." He doesn't move. "But first, you're going to eat something."
"I don't have time—"
"You're shaking because your blood sugar is too low and your adrenaline is too high. You can't pipe delicate decorations with unsteady hands." He says this with the absolute authority of someone who works with precision tools for a living. "Sit. I'll be back in three minutes."
Then he's gone, moving toward my front door with surprising speed for someone his size.
"Lanek, you can't just—"
But he's already unlocked the door and disappeared into the morning, leaving me standing alone in my bakery with my mouth hanging open and absolutely no idea what just happened.
True to his word, he's back in under three minutes, carrying a small wrapped bundle that he sets on my counter with surprising care.
"Eat," he commands, then turns and walks back out before I can argue.
I gaze at the bundle for a long moment before carefully unwrapping it. Inside is a thick sandwich on dark rye bread, filled with what looks like rare roast beef, sharp cheese, and some kind of horseradish spread. It's still warm.
My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I've been awake since four AM and haven't eaten anything except half a croissant and three cups of coffee.
I take a bite.
It's perfect. The beef is tender and perfectly seasoned, the cheese is sharp enough to cut through the richness, and the horseradish adds exactly the right amount of bite. It's the kind of sandwich that reminds you that food can be simple and still extraordinary.
I eat the entire thing standing at my counter, then spend thirty seconds hating myself for enjoying something he made, then another thirty seconds wondering if accepting food from him counts as accepting courtship gifts in Orc culture.
Then I stop thinking about Lanek entirely and focus on the wedding cake that absolutely needs to be remade in the next eight hours.
I'm three hours into reconstruction, carefully re-piping the rosettes I'd perfected before Miranda's arrival, when I hear the now-familiar sound of Lanek's bone saw firing up next door. The wall vibrates, my hand jerks, and I nearly smear an entire row of delicate pink flowers.
That's it.
I set down my piping bag with deliberate care, wipe my hands on my apron, and march straight out my back door into the shared alley.
The afternoon sun has turned the narrow space between our buildings into a heat trap, and I can smell the mingled scents of sugar and smoke and steel.
Lanek's back door is propped open with a concrete block, and I can see him through the gap, working at his massive cutting table with his back to me.
"We need to talk," I announce, stepping into his workspace without invitation.
He turns, cleaver still in hand, and raises one eyebrow. "About?"
"About boundaries. About noise ordinances. About you deciding that my business is somehow your responsibility." I plant my hands on my hips, which probably looks ridiculous given that I barely come up to his chest, but I commit to it anyway. "You can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?"
"This! The threatening critics thing! The protective neighbor thing! The leaving me perfect sandwiches thing!"
"You ate it." He sounds pleased.
"That's not the point!"
"What is the point?" He sets the cleaver down and gives me his full attention, which is somehow more intimidating than when he was holding a weapon.
"Because from where I'm standing, you came over here to yell at me, which means you want my attention, which contradicts your statement about boundaries. "
"I came over here to establish boundaries, not to—" I stop, because he's moving closer and I'm backing up on instinct until I hit the brick wall of the alley. "What are you doing?"
"Establishing boundaries," he says calmly, then braces one massive hand on the wall beside my head, effectively caging me in.
My heart kicks into overdrive. He's not touching me, not restricting me, but his sheer size and proximity make the narrow alley feel even smaller. I could duck under his arm easily if I wanted to. I could tell him to back off and he would.
I don't do either of those things.
"This is inappropriate," I manage, but my voice has gone breathy and uncertain.
"Is it?" He tilts his head, studying me with that same intense focus he'd used in my bakery. "Because you're not moving away."
"I'm trying to have a professional conversation—"
"There's nothing professional about the way you're looking at me right now, little baker."
The nickname should annoy me. It absolutely should. Instead, it does something warm and liquid to my insides that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.
"You're imagining things."
"Am I?" His free hand lifts, and I see with frozen fascination as he brushes his thumb across my cheekbone, collecting a smudge of flour I didn't know was there.
"You smell like sugar and stress. You've been working yourself too hard, taking on too much, refusing help because you think accepting it makes you weak. "
"I don't think that—"
"You do." His thumb traces a slow path along my jaw, and I forget how to breathe. "You think if you show any vulnerability, the whole thing will collapse. So you work alone and you fight alone and you pretend that you don't need anyone."
"I don't need—"
"I know. You don't need a bodyguard or a protector or someone to defend your territory. But maybe you want it anyway."
The accuracy of the observation steals my breath. Because he's right. I've spent so long insisting on my independence, on my capability, on my ability to handle everything myself, that I forgot what it feels like to have someone actually offer to share the weight.
And Lanek isn't offering out of pity or obligation. He's offering because he sees value in what I do, because he respects the work, because in his straightforward, literal Orc way, he's decided that I'm worth protecting.
"This is a bad idea," I whisper, but I don't move away.
"Probably," he agrees. "But you're still not leaving."
"You're blocking the exit."
"My arm isn't touching you. You could leave whenever you want." His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and I feel the touch all the way down to my toes. "So why aren't you?"
Because standing here in this narrow alley with a massive Orc caging me against rough brick while the afternoon sun bakes the air around us feels more solid and real than anything has in months.
Because the careful control I've maintained is cracking under the weight of his attention.
Because I'm tired of fighting everything alone, and he's offering something I didn't know I wanted.
"Let me help," he says again, quieter this time. "Not because you need it. Because I want to."
I should say no. I should duck under his arm and march back to my bakery and maintain the professional boundaries that will keep this situation from spiraling into complete chaos.
Instead, I hear myself say, "How?"
His smile is slow and devastating. "However you'll let me, little baker."