Chapter 8
Kael
The afternoon dragged on, and I couldn't stop thinking about what Sarah had told me.
My dad called me his little lawyer.
I'd heard the tremor in her voice when she said it. Seen the way her hands had stilled on the counter, like she was bracing herself against the weight of the memory. She'd been eight when her father died. Eight years old, and she'd lost the person who believed in her most.
No wonder she was so damn assertive. So controlled. So unwilling to let anyone see her vulnerable.
It wasn't bossiness. It was armor.
And I'd been too stupid to see it until now.
I grabbed the axe and headed back outside, needing to do something with my hands before I did something foolish like go back inside and pull her into my arms. She'd been quiet since our conversation—awkward, withdrawn, avoiding eye contact.
Every time I moved too close, she found an excuse to put distance between us.
I worried I'd scared her. Not physically—Sarah Potter didn't scare easily. But emotionally? Intimately?
She'd never let anyone close enough to be vulnerable. Never had time to develop the kind of connection where she could let go. And now here I was, a seven-foot Orc who'd thought about kissing her in the kitchen, and she probably thought I was just another complication she didn't need.
I split logs with more force than necessary, the crack of wood echoing through the clearing. The physical work helped. Gave me something to focus on besides the memory of how she'd looked at me—like she wanted something but didn't know how to ask for it.
I don't know how to just... let go.
Her words kept circling back, haunting me.
I stacked the split wood against the side of the cabin, then moved on to clearing debris from the porch. Swept away leaves and pine needles. Checked the roof for loose shingles. Tightened the hinges on the door. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off Sarah.
It didn't work.
I kept seeing her face when she'd talked about her father. The way her voice had gone soft and sad. The way she'd admitted she'd never had time for relationships because she was too busy proving herself, building her practice, being strong enough that no one could hurt her.
Any male would be lucky to have you.
I'd meant it. Every word.
She deserved someone who would make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable. Someone who would see her strength and not ask her to be less. Someone who would take the time to know her—really know her—and show her that pleasure and connection didn't have to be terrifying.
Not me. Obviously not me. We were from different worlds, different species, and this whole situation was temporary.
But as I stood there looking at the cabin, I couldn't help thinking it wasn't a bad place. Isolated, yes. Rough around the edges. But peaceful. Quiet. The kind of place where you could breathe without constantly watching your back.
I could live here.
The thought came unbidden, and with it came an image I had no business entertaining: Sarah curled up on that ratty sofa with a book. Me chopping wood in the clearing. Both of us sharing meals at that small table. Waking up together in the mornings.
Living here. With her.
I shoved the thought away so hard it felt like a physical blow.
No. Absolutely not. That wasn't—we weren't—this was just five days. Five days until the autopsy cleared my name, and then we'd go back to our separate lives. She'd go back to her law practice in Franklin, and I'd go back to... whatever the hell I did before all this.
I couldn't even remember what that was anymore.
Exhausted, I sank down onto the porch steps and dropped my head into my hands. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Beautiful. Peaceful.
And all I could think about was Sarah.
The way she'd looked at me in the kitchen. The way she'd pulled away, not in fear but in recognition of the connection between us. The way she'd admitted she'd never let anyone close enough to truly know her.
I wanted to be that person. The one she trusted. The one she let in.
And that was the most dangerous thought of all.
By the time I came back inside, Sarah had soup simmering on the stove and was standing at the counter with a skillet, butter sizzling as she assembled sandwiches.
"What are you making?" I asked, moving closer to watch.
"Grilled cheese." She glanced up at me, then quickly back down at the bread, her cheeks pinkening. "It's simple, but it's comfort food. Figured we could both use some of that."
I had no idea what grilled cheese was, but I wasn't about to admit it.
I just nodded and leaned against the counter, watching her work.
She moved with the same precision she brought to everything—measured, controlled, efficient.
But there was something softer about her now, something almost... domestic.
When she plated the sandwiches and ladled soup into bowls, I carried everything to the small table. The first bite of grilled cheese stopped me cold.
Crispy, buttery bread. Melted cheese that stretched when I pulled the sandwich apart. The combination of textures and flavors hit me like a revelation, and I couldn't stop the sound of appreciation that escaped my throat.
Sarah looked up from her soup, eyebrows raised. "Good?"
"Good?" I stared at the sandwich. "This is—why has no one told me about these?"
She laughed—actually laughed—and the sound did something strange to my chest. "It's just grilled cheese, Kael."
"Just?" I took another bite. "This is—"
"Bread and cheese?"
"This is incredible." I finished the first sandwich in three more bites.
"You want another?"
"Yes. Absolutely. How many did you make?"
"Two for each of us—"
"Not enough." I reached for my second sandwich. "Make more."
Her lips twitched. "You're very bossy."
"I'm motivated." I bit into the second sandwich. "There's a difference."
She got up, shaking her head but smiling, and started assembling more sandwiches. "You know, most people don't eat grilled cheese like it's a religious experience."
"Most people are fools." I watched her work, fascinated by the efficiency of her movements. "How many are you making?"
"Four more."
"Make it six."
"Kael—"
"Sarah." I met her eyes. "I will eat every single one. Trust me."
She did. And I did. By the time I'd finished my sixth sandwich, she was watching me with open amusement, her earlier tension completely gone.
"You're ridiculous," she said, but there was warmth in her voice.
"I'm satisfied." I leaned back in my chair. "And you're smiling. So I'd say this was a successful dinner."
Her smile softened. "Yeah. It was."
She started cleaning up—rinsing dishes in the basin, wiping down the counter with the same methodical care she brought to everything. I moved to the fireplace and began stoking the fire for the night, adding logs and adjusting them until the flames roared back to life.
The temperature had dropped with the sun, and the cabin was already getting chilly. The fire would keep the main room warm, but the bedroom would be cold.
I was acutely aware of her moving through the small space behind me. The soft pad of her feet on the wooden floor. The rustle of fabric as she reached up to put dishes away. The quiet hum she made under her breath—unconscious, unguarded.
Every movement drew my attention like a magnet. I tried to focus on the fire, on the practical task of keeping us warm, but my senses wouldn't cooperate. I could smell her—not just the vanilla and steel, but the faint sweetness of her skin, the warmth of her body in the cooling air.
I heard her breathing. Steady. Calm.
And beneath it all, I caught the subtle shift in her scent that told me she was aware of me too. Not afraid. Not uncomfortable.
Aware.
It was torture.
"Fire's set," I said, standing and brushing ash from my hands. "Should keep the cabin warm through the night."
"Thank you." She dried her hands on a towel and turned to face me, and the firelight caught in her dark hair, painting it with gold. "You didn't have to do all that work today. The wood, the repairs..."
"I wanted to." The words came out rougher than I intended. "You've done enough. Let me help."
She studied me for a long moment, and I wondered what she saw. A fugitive Orc who'd eaten eight grilled cheese sandwiches? A male who couldn't stop staring at her? Someone who was trying very hard not to want things he had no right to want?
"You should take the bed," I said, breaking the silence before it could stretch too long. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"Kael, you're seven feet tall. You won't—"
"I'll fit."
"Your knees will hang off."
"They'll survive."
"That's ridiculous—"
"What's ridiculous is you sleeping on a ratty couch while I take the only bed." I crossed my arms. "Not happening."
"I'm perfectly capable of—"
"Sarah." I stepped closer, and her breath caught. Just slightly, but I heard it. "Take the bed. Please."
She looked up at me, and for a moment I thought she might argue. But then she nodded, her throat working as she swallowed.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Thank you."
She moved past me toward the bedroom, and I caught another wave of her scent—warm, sweet, and laced with something that made every instinct I had roar to life.
I wanted to follow her. Wanted to close the distance between us and show her exactly what that scent did to me.
Instead, I turned back to the fire and tried to convince myself that sleeping on a too-small couch with my knees hanging off was exactly where I needed to be.
Away from her. Away from temptation.
Away from the most dangerous thought of all: that maybe, just maybe, she wanted me to follow.
I lay on the couch, knees hanging off the edge exactly as predicted, staring at the ceiling beams illuminated by dying firelight.
The cabin was small enough that I could hear everything from the bedroom—the creak of the mattress as Sarah shifted, the rustle of blankets, the soft exhale that told me she was just as awake as I was.