Chapter 5 #3
I find myself smiling, the baker in me responding to his genuine appreciation.
"It's all about the dough development and proofing time.
Too little and they're dense, too much and they lose their shape.
And the key to the filling is using both cinnamon and a touch of cardamom, plus brown sugar instead of white. "
"You speak of this with passion."
"Baking is my passion. Has been since I was eight years old and my grandmother helped me make bread."
"Tell me."
The simple command, delivered in his direct way, opens something in me.
I find myself talking about my grandmother's kitchen, the way she'd let me stand on a stool to reach the counter, how she'd guide my small hands as we kneaded dough together.
About learning that baking isn't just following recipes.
It's understanding ingredients, reading dough, adjusting for humidity and altitude and the mood of your oven.
Korgan listens with complete attention, asking occasional questions that show he's really hearing me. When I mention my bakery, the struggles with overhead costs and competition from chain stores, his expression grows serious.
"This show," he says. "The publicity will help?"
"That's the hope. Local press coverage, social media attention. Maybe some food bloggers will notice. It could make the difference between staying open and..."
"And losing what you have built."
"Yeah."
He nods slowly, understanding passing between us. "I also have much to lose. My standing with the clan council. Political alliances that took years to establish. If this fails..."
"What happens if it fails?"
"Exile, possibly. Or worse, irrelevance. Being dismissed as someone who chases human approval instead of orc respect."
"But you're here anyway."
"As are you."
We look at each other across the small table, two people who've both risked everything for a chance at something better. The shared understanding creates an intimacy that has nothing to do with the romantic setting and everything to do with recognizing yourself in someone else's struggles.
"The cinnamon rolls," Korgan says suddenly. "You made them for me specifically?"
Heat rises in my cheeks. "Yes."
"Why?"
The question is so direct, so without artifice, that I can't hide behind politeness or deflection. He deserves honesty.
"Because you were kind to me yesterday. Because you see competence and respect it. Because when you said my bread smelled honest, it was the most genuine compliment I'd received in months." I pause, gathering courage. "And because I wanted to know what you'd think of something I made just for you."
Something changes in his face. The careful control slips, revealing something warmer, hungrier.
"Trinity."
The way he says my name, low and rough, makes something flutter deep in my stomach. He reaches across the table, his large hand covering mine.
"I have not thanked you properly."
"For what?"
"For seeing more than the performance. For treating me as..." He searches for words. "As someone worth knowing."
His thumb traces across my knuckles, the touch gentle but electric. I should say something, but my brain has apparently decided that forming coherent thoughts is optional when Korgan Dongoran is touching me and looking at me like I'm something precious.
"I want to know you," I manage. "All of you, not just the version they want for cameras."
"That could be dangerous."
"How so?"
"Because the real version might disappoint. Or worse—might want things that complicate everything."
"What kinds of things?"
Instead of answering, he stands and moves around the table to sit beside me on the small bench. The space that had seemed comfortable for two suddenly feels intimate, his broad shoulders blocking out part of the garden, his warmth radiating against my side.
"This," he says quietly. "Wanting to be close enough to touch without reason. Wanting to taste more than your baking."
My breath catches. "Korgan..."
"I should not want these things. Not with cameras watching, not when both our futures depend on how this appears to others. But I find myself caring less about appearance and more about..."
"About what?"
"About the way you laugh when you think no one is paying attention. The concentration on your face when you work. The kindness you show without expecting recognition."
Each word hits me like a small shock. This is not the careful, strategic conversation I expected. This is raw honesty that makes my heart race.
"I care about those things too," I whisper. "About how you try so hard to understand human customs even when they don't make sense. About the way you protect people without making them feel weak. About how your hands are so gentle despite being strong enough to..." I gesture helplessly.
"Strong enough to hurt."
"But you don't. Hurt people, I mean. You're careful."
"With you, I am careful."
The admission hangs between us, loaded with meaning. His hand moves from mine to trace the line of my jaw, fingers rough with calluses but impossibly tender.
"We should not do this," he says, even as he leans closer.
"Probably not."
"The cameras—"
"I don't care about the cameras."
It's true. In this moment, with his light golden eyes fixed on mine and his breath warm against my skin, the rest of the world has faded to background noise.
There's only this: the space between us growing smaller, the way he's looking at me like I'm something he wants to protect and devour simultaneously.
"Trinity," he breathes, and then his lips are on mine.
The kiss is nothing like the practiced smoothness I've experienced with other men. It's uncertain at first, almost questioning, like he's asking permission even as he takes it. Then I respond, pressing closer, and something ignites between us.
His hands frame my face, thumbs stroking along my cheekbones as he deepens the kiss. There's hunger in it now, barely leashed control that makes me feel like I'm standing too close to a fire. When I part my lips, inviting him in, the sound he makes is purely desperate.
God, when was the last time someone kissed me like this? Like they needed it to breathe?
I slide my hands up his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt, the rapid beat of his heart. His braided hair is silk-soft when I touch it, so different from the rough warrior image he projects.
When we finally break apart, both of us are breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel the fine tremor in his hands where they still cup my face.
"This complicates everything," he says.
"I know."
"The show, our reasons for being here..."
"I know."
"I should regret it."
"Do you?"
His thumb brushes across my lower lip, and his eyes follow the movement with an intensity that makes my toes curl.
"No. I regret only that we are not alone. Truly alone."
Before I answer, voices approach from the direction of the house.
Korgan immediately puts space between us, straightening his shirt with military precision.
I run my hands through my hair, trying to finger-comb it back into something presentable, acutely aware that my lips feel swollen and my cheeks are probably flushed.
"Trinity? Korgan?" A production assistant appears at the edge of the pavilion. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need you back inside for the elimination ceremony."
Right. The elimination ceremony. Because this is still a reality show, and people go home, and everything that just happened was probably captured by hidden cameras for national television.
Reality crashes back with uncomfortable force.
Korgan stands first, offering me his hand to help me up. The gesture is courteous, appropriate for cameras, but his fingers linger against mine a beat longer than necessary.
"After you," he says formally.
I gather the empty plate that held the cinnamon rolls. When did we finish them all? We start toward the house. But as we walk, I catch him glancing at me sideways, like he's trying to memorize something.
My lips still tingle from his kiss. My heart still races from the way he'd looked at me, like I was something worth risking everything for.
This definitely complicates everything.
But as we rejoin the group of contestants, all of them buzzing with nervous energy about who might be sent home tonight, I find I don't care about complications. For the first time in months, something feels possible. Risky and uncertain and potentially devastating, but possible.
And maybe that's worth a little complication.