Chapter 16
LANEK
The steel door clicks shut behind me, and the silence of my shop wraps around me like a suffocating blanket.
I make it exactly four steps inside before my control shatters completely.
My fist connects with the concrete wall of the freezer corridor with a sickening crunch that reverberates up my entire arm.
Pain explodes across my knuckles, sharp and clarifying, and I welcome it.
I pull back and hit the wall again, harder this time, feeling the concrete crack under the force of the blow.
A third time. A fourth.
Blood streaks across the grey surface, and my hand throbs in protest. I can't care about something as insignificant as split knuckles when every primal instinct in my body is screaming at me to turn around, to go back outside, to eliminate the threat to my mate the way my ancestors have eliminated threats for thousands of years.
With violence. With finality. With absolute, brutal certainty.
But I don't.
I stand here, breathing hard, staring at the damaged wall and my ruined hand, because she asked me not to.
Because she needs me to be something other than what I am.
Because she deserves a partner who can function in her world, not a relic from a bloodier age who solves every problem with his fists.
The freezer hums quietly around me, and I rest my forehead against the cold concrete, closing my eyes.
I did what she asked. I used her laws. I used her methods. I recorded evidence and recited statutes and let those pathetic criminals run away instead of tearing them apart with my bare hands.
And it felt wrong. Every single second of it felt wrong.
But her voice in my head, telling me she needed a partner who respected her agency, was louder than my instincts.
Barely.
I push away from the wall, flexing my damaged hand experimentally. The knuckles are split and swelling rapidly, but the bones are intact. It will heal. Everything heals eventually.
Except the look on her face when she told me she was done.
That might be permanent.
I move through the dark shop on autopilot, pulling my phone from my pocket with my good hand. The video footage is clear, damning, and thoroughly documented. I pull up my email and attach the file, addressing it to Quinn's bakery account exactly as I promised.
Then I open a second email and send the same footage to the police department, along with a detailed written statement of what I witnessed. I include timestamps, descriptions of the individuals involved, and the exact legal violations I observed.
My newly hired corporate lawyer—an efficient, no-nonsense human woman who didn't even blink when a massive Orc walked into her office three days ago—receives the third copy, along with instructions to pursue every available legal remedy against both the hired criminals and the developer who likely sent them.
I hit send on all three emails and set the phone down on my cutting block.
Done.
The threat to Quinn's business is being handled through proper legal channels. Her building is protected. Her lease is secure. The developer will face consequences that actually matter in human society—fines, lawsuits, potential criminal charges.
Not broken bones and fear.
Not the Orc way.
The Quinn way.
I should feel satisfied. Accomplished. Proud that I managed to protect her while still respecting her boundaries.
Instead, I feel hollow.
I look around my shop, taking in the gleaming stainless steel surfaces, the custom-built cutting blocks, the carefully organized tool racks.
I spent months setting up this space. I chose this location specifically because the neighborhood felt right, small businesses, tight-knit community, people who valued craftsmanship over corporate efficiency.
I chose it because the bakery next door smelled like vanilla and butter, and the tiny human woman who ran it had fire in her eyes when she yelled at me about noise ordinances.
I didn't realize it at the time, but I recognized my mate the moment she stepped into my life.
And I ruined it.
I ruined it by being what I am, a traditional Orc who doesn't understand human subtlety, who thinks courtship involves leaving premium cuts of meat on doorsteps, who resorts to violence and intimidation because those are the tools my culture gave me.
She deserves better.
She deserves someone who naturally fits into her world, who doesn't have to spend three agonizing days teaching himself an entirely foreign legal system just to have a basic conversation about tenant rights.
Someone who doesn't have to actively suppress the urge to commit felonies every time a threat appears.
Someone human.
Quinn Hayes deserves a partner who makes her life easier, not harder. Who complements her business instead of disrupting it with bone saws and bloody aprons. Who can take her on normal dates to normal restaurants without terrifying the waitstaff.
And I am not that person.
I never will be.
The most loving thing I can do for her is remove myself from her life entirely. Let her find someone appropriate. Someone who doesn't make her cry or force her to draw boundaries or put her in the impossible position of choosing between her principles and her feelings.
The decision settles over me like a lead weight, heavy and suffocating, but I know it's the right one.
I move through the shop, methodically shutting down equipment and securing inventory. My hand throbs with every movement, blood still seeping from the split knuckles, but I ignore it. I have packed wounds in the field before. This is nothing.
The industrial refrigeration units hum quietly as I check the temperature controls one final time.
The custom smoking chamber I had installed last month sits dark and unused.
I was planning to surprise Quinn with a specialty applewood-smoked salmon, something delicate enough to complement her pastries without overwhelming them.
I won't be here to make it now.
I climb the stairs to my apartment above the shop, each step feeling heavier than the last. The space is sparse, I never bothered to fully furnish it.
A bed. A table. A single chair. The oversized couch I ordered specifically because I imagined Quinn curled up on it, small and soft against the dark leather, reading while I prepped ingredients in the attached kitchen.
Foolish.
I yank my largest duffel bag from the closet and start throwing clothes into it with mechanical efficiency. I don't have much. A week's worth of work clothes. The ruined suit I wore to ask her on a proper date. A few personal items.
The silver rings that decorated my tusks when I first arrived in this city sit in a small wooden box on the bedside table. I wore them during my apprenticeship, during my journeyman years, during the grueling process of becoming a master butcher in the traditional Orc style.
I haven't worn them since the day Quinn told me the thick metal made me look even more intimidating.
I pick up the box, running my thumb over the carved lid. My father made this box. His father made the rings. They represent generations of tradition, of pride, of cultural identity.
But they scared her.
I set the box in the bottom of the bag and continue packing.
My phone buzzes on the bedside table. Probably the lawyer confirming receipt of the footage. I ignore it and grab my travel documents from the desk drawer. My butcher's certifications. My business licenses. My lease termination clauses.
I knew when I signed the commercial lease that there was an early exit option if I provided ninety days' notice and paid a penalty fee. At the time, I thought it was a waste of negotiating capital—why would I ever need to leave?
Now I'm grateful for the foresight.
I can relocate the business. Find another neighborhood. Start over somewhere Quinn's scent doesn't linger in every breath of air I take. Somewhere I won't torment myself by watching her thrive without me.
The phone buzzes again. Then again, insistent and demanding.
I growl low, and snatch the device up with more force than necessary. I'm ready to silence it completely, ready to throw it across the room if that's what it takes to finish this packing without further interruption. But the screen stops me cold, freezing me in place like I've been struck.
Not the lawyer.
Quinn's name.
My heart hammers violently against my ribs, the sound loud in my ears as I peer at the notification banner. An email. The subject line is completely blank, offering no hint of what might be inside, no clue to prepare myself.
I shouldn't open it. Every rational part of my brain knows this. I should let her have space. Let her move on without me haunting her life. Let myself move on to wherever the hell Orcs go when they've failed this spectacularly at courting.
But I'm not that strong.
I've never been that strong where she's concerned.
I tap the message with a thumb that feels too large and clumsy, my hands suddenly unsteady.
No text. Just a single image attachment, loading slowly on my screen.
I open it, and my breath catches hard.
It's a photograph of the rolling pin she was holding in the alley, the heavy marble one she grabbed to defend herself. She's laid it on her kitchen counter next to a handwritten note.
The note reads: Thank you for letting me fight my own battles. And for giving me the weapons to win.
Below that, in smaller text: I'm sorry I didn't say it out loud.
I see the image until my eyes burn, reading the words over and over, trying to extract meaning from every loop and curve of her handwriting.
She's thanking me.
She's apologizing.
But she's doing it from a distance. Through a screen. Without asking me to come back.
Because she still needs space.
Because I still terrify her.
Because even when I do everything right, I'm still fundamentally wrong for her world.
I set the phone down carefully and return to packing, moving faster now. The sooner I leave, the sooner she can fully heal from the damage I caused. The sooner she can find someone appropriate.
The thought makes me want to put my fist through another wall, but I resist.
Barely.
I'm zipping the duffel closed when a soft, hesitant sound cuts through the silence.
A knock.
Quiet. Timid. Nothing like the aggressive pounding I'm used to from delivery drivers or suppliers.
I freeze, every muscle in my body going rigid.
The knock comes again, slightly louder this time, followed by a voice so quiet I almost miss it.
"Lanek?"
Quinn.
My heart stops completely.
She's here. At my door. After everything. After I gave her space and respected her boundaries and did everything she asked.
She came to me.
I drop the duffel and cross the apartment in three long strides, taking the stairs down to the shop level so fast I nearly lose my footing. My damaged hand throbs in protest, but it doesn’t matter. Who cares about anything except getting to that door.
I reach the front entrance and stop, forcing myself to take one steadying breath before I unlock the deadbolt.
She could be here to yell at me again. To tell me the footage wasn't enough. To inform me that she's filing a restraining order.
She could be here for a thousand reasons that have nothing to do with forgiveness.
But she's here.
And that's enough.
I turn the lock and pull the door open.
Quinn stands on the sidewalk in the dim glow of the streetlights, looking impossibly small and fragile. She's still wearing the flour-dusted clothes from earlier, her hair escaping its messy bun in soft curls around her face. Her eyes are red-rimmed and puffy.
She's been crying.
Because of me.
"I..." She stops, swallows hard, and tries again. "I got your email. With the footage."
"Good." My voice comes out rougher than I intended. "The police have a copy as well. And my lawyer. The developer will face consequences."
"I know. I mean, I figured. Because that's what you said you'd do." She wraps her arms around herself, and I have to physically restrain myself from reaching for her. "You kept your word. You handled it exactly the way I asked."
"Yes."
"And then you just... walked away. You didn't demand credit. You didn't wait around for thanks. You didn't try to insert yourself into the solution. You just gave me the tools I needed and stepped back."
"That is what you wanted."
"It is." She nods, her eyes filling with fresh tears. "It's what I wanted. What I needed. Proof that you could respect my agency. That you could be a partner instead of a... a warlord."
I say nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the but that inevitably follows.
"And I was standing in my kitchen," she continues, her voice trembling, "staring at that stupid rolling pin, realizing that you gave me what I asked for. You changed. You actually changed. And I didn't even have the guts to say thank you to your face."
"You sent an email. That was sufficient."
"No, it wasn't." She takes a shaky step forward.
"It wasn't sufficient. It wasn't fair. You spent three days learning an entirely foreign legal system because I told you I needed you to.
You suppressed every instinct you have because I asked you to.
You proved that you could put my needs above your traditions.
And I couldn't even walk twenty feet to tell you that I see it. That I appreciate it. That I—"
Her voice breaks completely.
I can't stand it anymore.
I close the distance between us in one long stride, reaching for her, but I stop myself at the last second. My hands hover uselessly in the air between us, desperate to touch her but terrified of overstepping again.
"Tell me what you need, Quinn." The words come out raw and broken. "Tell me what you need, and I will do it. Anything. Everything. Just tell me."
She looks up at me, tears streaming down her face, and whispers four words that bring me to my knees.
"I need you, Lanek."