Chapter 17
QUINN
Istand on the sidewalk outside Lanek's shop, clutching the world's ugliest meat pie against my chest like a shield, trying to remember how to breathe.
The pastry is lumpy. Burnt around the edges. The lattice top collapsed into itself halfway through baking because I've never worked with lard-based dough before and had to watch six different tutorial videos just to approximate the technique.
It looks like something a drunk toddler assembled during an earthquake.
But it's here. I'm here. And I'm either about to fix the biggest mistake of my life or make it infinitely worse.
The lights are on inside the butcher shop, which means he hasn't left yet. Which means I still have time.
I hope.
I raise my fist and knock on the heavy steel door, the sound barely audible over the pounding of my own heartbeat.
Silence.
Maybe he didn't hear me. Maybe he's in the back. Maybe he saw me through the window and decided he's done dealing with the psychotic baker who keeps changing her mind.
I knock again, harder this time, my knuckles stinging against the metal.
"Lanek?"
More silence.
Oh god. What if he's already gone? What if I spent four hours burning this stupid pie and he's already packed up his truck and driven off to start fresh somewhere that doesn't have a neurotic human woman who punishes him for being what she claims to want?
I'm about to knock a third time when I hear the heavy thud of footsteps inside.
The deadbolt turns.
The door swings open.
And there he is.
All six feet eight inches of him, filling the doorway like a mountain, making my knees go weak. He's wearing a plain black t-shirt that stretches tight across his chest, and his hair is disheveled like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly.
He looks exhausted.
He looks devastated.
He looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters.
"Quinn." His brow furrows. "What is that?"
"It's a meat pie." The words tumble out too fast, defensive and shaky.
"A traditional Orcish savory pie. I looked up the recipe.
Well, seven recipes. They all contradicted each other, so I kind of improvised, which is why it looks like this, but the filling is venison and root vegetables with bone broth reduction, and I know it's burnt, but I've never worked with suet before and the oven temperature was—"
"Quinn."
I stop talking immediately, my mouth snapping shut.
He steps aside, holding the door open wider. "Come inside."
I hesitate for a fraction of a second before stepping past him into the shop, hyper-aware of how close I have to get to fit through the doorway. His body heat radiates against my shoulder, and the familiar scent of woodsmoke and cold steel wraps around me.
I missed this.
I missed him.
More than I thought possible.
He closes the door behind me and turns, his expression unreadable. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his tusks and the rigid set of his jaw.
He's waiting for me to speak.
To explain.
To justify why I'm standing in his shop at ten o'clock at night holding a burnt offering like some kind of deranged supplicant.
I thrust the pie toward him, my hands shaking.
"I wanted to apologize. For how I reacted.
For what I said. You did everything I asked, and I didn't even have the decency to thank you in person.
So I made this. As a peace offering. It's traditional, right?
Meat pies? I read that Orcish courtship involves sharing hunted protein, and I can't exactly hunt, but I can bake, except apparently I can't bake savory things because this turned out looking like roadkill, but I tried, and I just—"
"Stop."
I stop.
Lanek reaches out slowly, his giant hands closing carefully around the pie dish, lifting it from my trembling grip. He studies it with the same intense focus he applies to butchering a perfect cut of ribeye.
He's going to tell me it's garbage. He's going to throw it away. He's going to laugh and explain that this clumsy human attempt at Orcish tradition is an insult to his entire culture.
Instead, he lifts it closer to his face, his nostrils flaring as he inhales deeply, taking in the scent with the same careful assessment he uses when evaluating meat quality.
"Venison," he says quietly, his voice dropping to that low, rumbling timbre that makes my stomach flip. "Turnips. Carrots. Black pepper and..." He pauses, his brow furrowing slightly. "Rosemary?"
"Thyme, actually." I fidget with my cardigan, twisting the fabric between my fingers. "The recipe said sage, but I thought thyme would complement the gamey flavor better without overpowering the natural taste of the meat."
His eyes lift to mine slowly, pinning me in place that steals the breath from my lungs. Something dangerous and possessive flickers in their depths, something primal that makes my pulse hammer against my throat. "You made me a meat pie."
"Yes."
"You researched traditional Orcish recipes." It's not a question. It's a statement of fact delivered in a tone that suggests he's cataloging evidence, building a case against my carefully maintained defenses.
"Seven of them," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "I cross-referenced them to find common ingredients and techniques."
"You worked with suet for the first time."
"It was disgusting." I wrinkle my nose at the memory, the unpleasant, waxy texture still fresh in my mind. "I had to wash my hands four times before they stopped feeling greasy."
The corner of his mouth twitches, the barest hint of a smile threatening to break through his carefully controlled expression. "You hate savory baking."
"I do. Passionately. There's no precision. No delicate balancing of sugar ratios. Just... throwing meat and vegetables into dough and hoping it doesn't explode."
"And you made this for me anyway."
"Yes."
He sets the pie down carefully on the nearest stainless steel counter, his movements slow and deliberate, and turns back to face me. The air between us thickens, charged with something electric and inevitable.
"Why, Quinn?"
The question hangs in the air, deceptively simple.
I could deflect. Make a joke. Rebuild the walls I spent three days constructing between us.
But I came here to be honest.
To be brave.
To stop running from the one thing I want more than anything.
"Because you changed for me." My voice cracks on the words.
"You spent three days learning municipal zoning laws.
You stood in that alley and recorded evidence instead of ripping those men apart with your bare hands.
You gave me what I asked for, even though every instinct you have was screaming at you to do the opposite.
You respected my agency. My boundaries. My needs. And I didn't even say thank you."
"You sent an email."
"An email isn't enough." I take a shaky step closer. "You deserve more than a cowardly email. You deserve someone who can meet you halfway. Who can acknowledge when you've done something extraordinary. Who can bake you a terrible meat pie and stand here and tell you that I was wrong."
His expression shifts, something raw and vulnerable breaking through the careful control. "Wrong about what?"
"About pushing you away. About thinking I could just go back to my side of the alley and pretend you didn't completely upend my entire world.
About believing I could function without you.
" The tears I've been fighting all night finally spill over, hot and furious against my cheeks.
"I was standing in my kitchen tonight, staring at that stupid rolling pin, and I realized something.
You didn't just change your behavior, Lanek.
You changed your entire worldview. You suppressed centuries of cultural instinct because I asked you to.
Because you wanted to be the partner I needed.
And I couldn't even walk twenty feet to tell you how much that means to me. "
He moves closer, closing the distance between us with one long stride, but he doesn't touch me. His hands hang at his sides, clenched into tight fists, trembling with visible restraint.
"I would change anything for you, Quinn. My methods. My traditions. My entire approach to protecting what is mine. I would rewrite every instinct I have if it meant keeping you."
"I know." I reach up, wiping furiously at my wet cheeks. "I know you would. And that's what makes this so much worse. Because I pushed you away for doing what I asked. I punished you for being perfect."
"I kidnapped a man and threatened him with a cleaver. That is not perfect."
"No, but you stopped. You listened when I told you it was too much.
You adjusted. You adapted. You became what I needed without losing what makes you you.
" My hands twist in the fabric of my cardigan, desperate for something to hold onto.
"And I was too scared to admit that maybe I need both.
The modern partner who respects my choices and the primal Orc who would burn the world down to keep me safe. "
His entire body goes rigid.
"Say that again."
"I need both." The admission comes easier this time, stronger.
"I need the Lanek who researches zoning laws and the Lanek who pins me against brick walls and tells me I'm his.
I need the butcher who brings me perfect cuts of wagyu and the warlord who terrifies food critics into leaving tips.
I need all of you, Lanek. Not just the parts that fit neatly into my world. "
For one horrible, endless moment, he just ganders at me, his expression utterly unreadable, those dark eyes searching my face for something I don't know how to give him.
Then his gaze flicks past me, deliberately breaking our connection, landing on something just beyond my shoulder.
I turn instinctively, following his line of sight, and my heart stops completely.
There's a massive duffel bag sitting at the base of the stairs, positioned like a silent declaration. Packed full to bursting. The military-grade canvas stretched tight. Zippers straining against the sheer volume of contents crammed inside, threatening to split at the seams.
Ready to go.
The air leaves my lungs in a violent rush, like someone's punched straight through my ribcage and squeezed.
"Where are you going?"
The question comes out smaller than I intended, barely above a whisper, but it echoes in the sudden awful silence between us.
He doesn't answer immediately, his jaw working visibly like he's physically chewing through words, trying to find the right ones, the ones that won't shatter whatever fragile thing still exists in this space.
"Lanek." My voice comes out sharper this time, higher, edged with the kind of panic that makes my throat tight and my hands shake. "Where are you going?"
"Away."
"What?"
"I am leaving, Quinn." He moves past me, crossing to the duffel bag and lifting it with one hand like it weighs nothing. "You asked for peace. So I am giving it to you."
"No." The word tears out of me, raw and desperate. "No, you can't leave. You can't just—"
"I can." He turns back to face me, and the devastation in his eyes nearly breaks me.
"I will not stay here and torture you with my presence.
I will not be the reason you cannot sleep at night.
I will not force you to see me every day and remember that I am too much. Too violent. Too possessive. Too Orc."
"That's not—"
"You were right to end it." His voice is steady, resolved, and it's the steadiness that terrifies me most. "I pushed too hard.
I claimed you before you were ready. I let my instincts override your comfort.
You deserve better than a mate who has to fight his own nature every day just to avoid scaring you. "
"Stop calling yourself my mate like it's past tense."
"It is past tense. You ended it."
"Because you kidnapped someone!"
"And I have learned from that mistake." He hefts the bag higher on his shoulder.
"I have found a new location for the butcher shop.
Across the city. Far enough that you will not have to hear the bone saw.
Far enough that my presence will not disrupt your peace.
You will keep your bakery. Your pastel aesthetic.
Your quiet mornings. Everything will return to exactly how it was before I arrived. "
I acknowledge him, my entire world tilting violently sideways.
He's leaving.
He's actually leaving.
Not because he wants to. Not because he stopped caring.
Because he thinks it's what I want.