Chapter 6
LANEK
The moment she says it, how, I know I've won something crucial, even if I don't fully understand what.
Her blue eyes are wide and uncertain, her breathing shallow, and the powdered sugar still dusting her cheek catches the afternoon light filtering into the alley.
She smells like vanilla and butter and something sharper underneath, something that might be fear or anticipation or both.
I want to answer her. I want to lean down and show her exactly how I plan to help, starting with kissing that stubborn mouth until she stops thinking in careful, controlled strategies and just feels. But the second I shift my weight forward, her entire body goes rigid.
Then she ducks under my arm and bolts.
I don't chase her. That would be exactly the wrong move.
Instead, I stay where I am, watching her sprint across the alley in her flour-dusted vintage dress, fumbling with her keys before disappearing through her back door.
The deadbolt slides home with a definitive click that echoes in the narrow space.
I exhale slowly, rolling my shoulders to release the tension coiling through my muscles.
My hand still tingles where I touched her face, where I felt the rapid flutter of her pulse under impossibly soft skin.
She's terrified. Not of me, exactly, but of what I represent, of losing control, of admitting she wants something she can't neatly categorize and manage.
In Orc culture, this would be simple. She's responding to my presence, challenging my strength, testing my resolve.
The courtship would proceed with clear, direct steps, proving my ability to provide, to protect, to claim.
But Quinn isn't Orc. She's human, and clearly I've been going about this entirely wrong if I've scared her into literally running away.
I return to my shop, already planning my next move. Traditional Orc courtship isn't working. The premium cuts of meat, the protective presence, the direct physical approach, it's all too much, too fast, delivered without the context she needs to understand my intentions.
I need to adapt. Which means I need human advice.
Augustine, my primary supplier for exotic game, arrives the next morning with a delivery of venison. He's a lean, weathered human in his fifties who's been providing quality meat to my family for two decades. More importantly, he's been married to the same woman for thirty years.
I wait until he's finished unloading before cornering him in my walk-in freezer.
"I need advice," I say bluntly.
August looks up from his invoice pad, eyebrows rising. "About meat?"
"About courting."
His expression shifts from surprise to poorly concealed amusement. "You're asking me about women?"
"Human women specifically." I cross my arms, uncomfortable but determined. "I've been following traditional Orc protocols, but I think I'm scaring her."
"Scaring her how?"
I describe the situation as accurately as I can—the noise complaint, the gifted steaks, the territorial protection, yesterday's confrontation in the alley. August listens without interrupting, though his mouth keeps twitching like he's fighting a smile.
When I finish, he's silent for a long moment.
"Lanek," he finally says, "you can't just... drop raw meat on a woman's doorstep and expect her to understand it's romantic."
"It's a prime cut. The marbling alone—"
"I know, I know. It's excellent quality." He holds up a hand. "But humans don't think like that. You need to take her on a date. A proper human date."
I frown. "What constitutes a proper human date?"
"Flowers. Nice clothes. You pick her up, you take her somewhere pleasant, you have a conversation, you walk her home. You court her with attention and romance, not livestock."
"I don't have livestock. I have professionally butchered—"
"Lanek." Augusts's tone is patient but firm. "Do you want advice or not?"
I nod.
"Good. Here's what you do."
The suit is custom-made because nothing off the rack fits my shoulders.
The tailor, a nervous human woman who kept measuring my chest circumference three times like she didn't believe her tape measure, promised it would be ready by Thursday.
She delivered it Wednesday night with a note that said Good luck tucked into the breast pocket.
I shower thoroughly, using the unscented soap that won't compete with Quinn's vanilla and butter smell.
I trim my facial hair, polish the silver rings on my tusks, and carefully work my way into the suit.
The fabric stretches across my shoulders and back, custom-tailored to accommodate my build without restricting movement.
The charcoal color complements my skin, and the white shirt underneath is crisp and foreign against my neck.
I look like I'm attending a funeral. Or possibly getting married. But August insisted that "dressing up shows respect and serious intentions," so I'm committed to the attempt.
The flowers are harder. The florist stared at me for a full minute when I walked in before stammering something about variety and color preferences.
I have no idea what Quinn likes, so I default to choosing blooms that match her aesthetic, soft pinks, creamy whites, pale yellows, all arranged in a delicate bouquet that looks absurdly fragile in my hands.
I arrive at her bakery at exactly six o'clock, which August assured me was an appropriate closing time.
Through the front window, I can see Quinn wiping down tables, her hair escaping its ribbon, her apron smudged with what looks like chocolate.
She moves with quick, efficient grace, humming something under her breath.
I should knock. I should announce myself. Instead, I stand there holding flowers like an idiot, suddenly uncertain. What if she refuses? What if the direct human approach is just as unwelcome as the Orc methods? What if I've misread everything and she actually wants me to leave her alone?
Before I can spiral further, Quinn glances up and sees me through the window.
She freezes mid-wipe, eyes going wide.
I lift the bouquet slightly, an awkward half-wave that feels monumentally stupid the second I do it.
Her expression cycles through surprise, confusion, and something that might be panic before settling on cautious curiosity. She sets down her cloth and walks to the front door, unlocking it but not opening it fully. Just a crack, her face visible in the gap.
"Lanek?"
"Quinn." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "I came to ask if you would accompany me to dinner."
She blinks. "Dinner?"
"A proper human date." I hold out the flowers. "I've been informed that my previous courtship methods were... culturally inappropriate. I'm attempting to adapt."
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "You're asking me on a date?"
"Yes."
"Right now?"
"If you're available."
She stares at the bouquet like it might explode. "Lanek, I—"
That's when the oven alarm starts shrieking.
Quinn's head whips around, and through the door I can see smoke beginning to pour from the back kitchen. Her face goes pale.
"Oh no. No, no, no—" She abandons the door, sprinting toward the kitchen.
I don't think. I shove through the entrance, dropping the flowers on the nearest table, and follow her. The smoke is thicker now, acrid and wrong, pouring from the ancient industrial oven against the far wall. Quinn is frozen in front of it, hands pressed to her mouth, looking absolutely stricken.
"The thermostat's been broken for weeks," she's saying, voice rising with panic. "I couldn't afford to fix it yet, I was just being careful, I thought I could manage—"
Through the oven's window, I can see flames licking up around a metal baking tray, the fire spreading to the built-up grease along the heating elements. It's not catastrophic yet, but it will be if the flames reach the gas line.
"Get back," I order, already moving forward.
"Lanek, don't—it's too hot—"
I ignore her, yanking open the oven door. Heat blasts out in a wave that would make most people stagger back. I've spent years working in temperature extremes, subzero freezers, open flame searing stations, the violent heat of rendering fat. This is manageable.
The tray is engulfed, flames spreading across whatever she'd been baking.
I reach in bare-handed, gripping the metal edges.
The heat sears into my palms immediately, but I've handled worse.
I yank the tray free in one violent motion and pivot toward the industrial sink, shoving the burning metal under the faucet and cranking the water to full blast.
Steam explodes upward as water hits fire. The flames die with a hiss and angry sizzle, leaving behind charred, smoking remnants and a tray warped from the heat. I keep the water running, dousing every ember until I'm certain nothing will reignite.
Only then do I turn off the faucet and step back.
Quinn is still frozen where I left her, staring at me with an expression I can't quite read. Her eyes drop to my hands.
"Lanek. Your hands."
I glance down. The palms are bright red, already blistering in places where I gripped the metal longest. It hurts, but it's superficial. Nothing that won't heal.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine!" She rushes forward, grabbing my wrists with surprisingly strong fingers. "You just grabbed a burning tray with your bare hands, you absolute—why didn't you use an oven mitt?"
"No time. The fire was spreading."
"So you just—" She makes a frustrated noise. "Sit. Now. Before you go into shock or something."
"I'm not going into shock from minor burns."
"Sit down, Lanek, or I swear I will climb you like a tree and force you into a chair."
The mental image that creates is intensely distracting. I sit.