Chapter 7
QUINN
The industrial sink hisses and steams around the charred metal tray, the acrid smell of burnt sugar and melted wiring thick in the air.
My heart pounds so hard, my hands trembling as I grip my worktable for support.
The overhead lights flicker once, twice, then stabilize, casting harsh shadows across the wreckage of my pristine kitchen.
The fire is out.
My oven, my temperamental, ancient, irreplaceable oven that I've babied and coaxed and threatened for three years, sits dark and silent, its door hanging open like a broken jaw.
Smoke curls lazily from the interior, and I can see the blackened, twisted remains of what was supposed to be tomorrow's sourdough starter.
"Quinn."
Lanek's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, low and urgent and edged with something that sounds like barely controlled panic.
Before I can respond, he's on me, massive hands gripping my shoulders and turning me forcefully to face him.
I brace myself to see him wince, but the thick, deep green skin of his palms is already beginning to seal over the worst of the blisters, a perk of Orc biology I've never been more grateful for.
"Are you hurt?" The question comes out as a growl, rough and guttural, entirely stripped of his usual careful human politeness. "Did the smoke get in your lungs? Did any sparks touch you?"
"I'm fine, I just—"
"You're shaking." His hands slide down my arms, thumbs pressing gently against my wrists to check my pulse. "Your heart rate is elevated. You're in shock."
"I'm not in shock, I'm just—" My voice cracks traitorously. "That's my entire livelihood in that oven, Lanek. I can't afford to replace it. I already got the rent increase notice last week, and now this, and I have three wedding cakes due next weekend, and—"
"Breathe." He pulls me forward, tucking my face on him, one broad palm cradling the back of my head while the other wraps around me.
The rumbling sound intensifies, vibrating through his entire torso, and I realize with a jolt that he's purring.
Actual, literal, deep-chested Orc purring, the kind that's supposed to calm distressed mates.
It's working.
I hate that it's working.
My fists clench in the ruined fabric of his suit jacket—custom-tailored, probably obscenely expensive, now streaked with soot and reeking of smoke.
The lapels are singed at the edges where he stood too close to the flames, and there's a torn seam across one massive shoulder where the fabric simply couldn't contain the flex of muscle when he grabbed the burning tray.
He threw himself between me and the fire without hesitation. Bare-handed. Didn't even flinch.
The adrenaline that's been screaming through my system since the first spark suddenly shifts, transmuting from panic into something else entirely. Something hot and reckless and utterly overwhelming.
"Lanek," I manage, my voice muffled.
"I've got you, little baker. You're safe. I won't let anything hurt you."
His hands are moving now, sliding up and down my spine in slow, possessive sweeps, mapping the curve of my waist and the line of my ribs like he's checking for structural damage.
The touch is careful, controlled, but there's a tremor in his fingers that betrays how badly he wants to grip tighter, hold harder, pin me against him until he's certain I'm unharmed.
"I need you to talk to me," he rumbles. "Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me if you breathed in too much smoke. Tell me—"
"Stop."
"—if you feel dizzy or nauseous or—"
"Lanek."
"—because smoke inhalation can present delayed symptoms and I need to know if—"
I grab the ruined lapels of his expensive suit and yank him down to my eye level with every ounce of strength I possess.
He's so startled by the sudden movement that he actually lets me, dropping into a half-crouch so that our faces are inches apart.
His eyes are wild, pupils still blown, breath coming hard and fast.
"Stop talking, Lanek."
For a single, frozen heartbeat, he just gazes at me. Then his gaze drops to my mouth, his expression shifts from protective panic into something dark and hungry and almost feral.
"Quinn—"
I kiss him.
It's graceless and desperate and probably tastes like smoke and terror. I shove up on my toes, fisting my hands tighter in his lapels, and crush my mouth against his. He makes a sound, half-growl, half-groan and then his arms lock around me like steel bands, hauling me completely off the floor.
The kiss turns molten.
His tusks press against my cheeks, smooth silver rings cool against my overheated skin.
One massive hand cups the back of my skull, fingers threading through my hair and scattering the carefully tied ribbon, while the other splays across my lower back, holding me pinned against the solid wall of his chest. He tastes like black coffee and woodsmoke and something darker, something primal that makes my brain short-circuit entirely.
I wrap my legs around his waist on pure instinct, my vintage skirt riding up scandalously, and he groans into my mouth like I've just given him everything he's ever wanted.
The rumbling purr intensifies until I can feel it vibrating through my body, a physical sensation that floods my system with heat.
"Quinn," he breathes against my lips, his voice wrecked and ragged. "Are you sure—"
"Don't you dare ask me if I'm sure right now." I bite his lower lip, hard enough to make him hiss. "Don't you dare try to be a gentleman."
"I'm trying to give you an out. You're in shock. You're scared. I don't want you to do something you'll regret when—"
"Lanek." I pull back just enough to catch his eyes, my hands sliding up to frame his face.
"I have spent three months being furious at you.
I have yelled at you, sabotaged you, thrown raw meat at your customers, and fantasized about breaking your kneecaps with my standing mixer.
And the entire time, underneath all of that, I have wanted this.
Wanted you. So unless you're about to tell me you don't actually want me back, stop giving me outs I don't need. "
His pupils dilate until there's barely any grey left.
"Don't want you back?" He laughs, a dark, disbelieving sound.
"Little baker, I have wanted you since the moment you walked into my shop covered in powder, yelling about noise ordinances.
I've wanted you every single time you glared at me over the alley fence.
I've wanted you so badly it's made me insane. "
"Then stop talking."
"You're going to regret this tomorrow." His breath is hot against my mouth, his grip on my waist tightening like he's already bracing for the moment I change my mind.
"Probably." I dig my nails into his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle flex beneath his shirt.
"You're going to blame me for taking advantage of your post-crisis emotional state." There's something almost desperate in the way he says it, like he's trying to convince himself as much as me.
"Definitely." I tilt my head back, exposing my throat, watching the way his eyes track the movement like a predator.
"And you're still going to hate me for ruining your aesthetic and making too much noise at dawn." His thumb traces the line of my jaw, gentle despite the roughness of his calloused skin.
"Undoubtedly." I slide my hands into his hair, gripping tight. "Now are you going to keep listing reasons why this is a bad idea, or are you going to kiss me again?"
He kisses me again.
This time there's no hesitation, no careful control.
He turns and walks us backward through the kitchen, his mouth never leaving mine, until my back hits the wall next to the walk-in cooler.
The impact punches the air from my lungs, but before I can even gasp, he's already there, one hand braced against the wall above my head while the other grips my thigh, holding my leg hitched high around his hip.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is a low, guttural rasp, his forehead pressed against mine. "Tell me this is a terrible idea and I'll walk away right now."
"Don't you dare walk away."
"Quinn—"
"I mean it, Lanek. If you try to be noble right now, I will actually stab you with a cake server."
He laughs, breathless and ragged, and kisses me again with bruising intensity. His hand slides higher up my thigh, callused fingers rough against my skin, and I can feel the massive breadth of him pressed against me, all hard muscle and barely leashed strength.
This is insane. This is reckless. This is everything I swore I wouldn't do.
The adrenaline is still flooding my system, mixing with three months of unresolved sexual tension and the overwhelming, intoxicating reality of being completely caged by six-foot-eight of possessive, protective Orc who just threw himself between me and a literal fire without thinking twice.
"You're so small," he mutters against my throat, his tusks scraping lightly against my pulse point. "So soft. I could break you without even trying."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." I tug his hair, forcing him to look at me. "You grabbed a burning metal tray with your bare hands to keep me safe, Lanek. You're not going to hurt me."
Something fierce and possessive flares in his eyes. "You're right. I won't." His hand flexes on my thigh, grip tightening. "But I'm also not going to be gentle."
"Good."
He makes a sound that's almost a snarl and kisses me hard enough to bruise, his entire body pressing me into the wall.
I feel all of him, the overwhelming physicality of his presence, the shocking heat of his skin through the smoke-damaged suit.
My head spins with the sheer intensity of it, the way he's surrounding me completely, consuming all my air and space and rational thought.
His hand slides from my thigh to my hip, then higher, fingers splaying across my ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the flour-dusted fabric of my dress. I arch into the touch, shameless and desperate, and he groans like I'm killing him.
"We need to stop," he rasps, even as his hand moves higher, palm cupping me through the vintage cotton. "Your kitchen is a disaster. You're in shock. This is—"
"The best decision I've made all week."
"Quinn—"
"Stop trying to talk me out of this." I roll my hips against him deliberately, and his breath stutters. "Unless you actually don't want—"
He cuts me off with another kiss, this one almost violent in its intensity. His hand tightens on my breast, thumb circling with just enough pressure to make me gasp into his mouth, and the rumbling purr in his chest drops into a register I can feel in my bones.
"I want," he growls against my lips. "I want so badly I can barely think straight. But you deserve better than being pressed against a wall in your destroyed kitchen because you're high on adrenaline and fear."
"What if I don't want better right now? What if I just want you?"
His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breathing harsh and uneven. "You're going to regret this."
"Then let me regret it." I slide my hands under his ruined jacket, pushing it off his shoulders, my palms flattening against the overheated skin beneath his shirt. "Let me have this. Please."
The please breaks him.
He shoves the jacket off completely, letting it drop to the flour-dusted floor, and then both hands are on me, gripping my hips and lifting me higher against the wall. I lock my ankles behind his back, my skirt bunched around me, and the full, overwhelming reality of his size finally registers.
He's enormous.
Not just tall, not just broad, but fundamentally, structurally massive in a way that makes every logical part of my brain scream that this is physically impossible.
His hands span my entire waist. His shoulders are wider than my arm span.
The ridge of him pressed against me through our clothes is proportional to the rest of him, thick and insistent and utterly terrifying.
I should be scared.
I'm not scared.
"Lanek," I breathe, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
"I know." His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. "I know, little baker. We'll make it work. I promise we'll make it work."
"How—"
"Carefully." He kisses my throat, teeth scraping gently. "Slowly. I'll take care of you."
"I don't want slow."
"You need slow."