Tusked Me Silly

Chapter 1

ROMEE

Istand at the gravel entrance of Whispering Pines Wellness Retreat, rolling my shoulders back and adjusting the lapels of my charcoal blazer for the third time in as many minutes.

The fabric sits perfectly crisp against my white silk shell, tailored to the millimeter because presentation is half the battle in corporate event planning.

My tablet rests against me like body armor, and I've already triple-checked the welcome station setup behind me, tasteful linen draping, branded water bottles with the Horde Tech logo arranged in perfect geometric rows, and a selection of artisanal granola bars that cost more per ounce than my morning espresso.

Everything is immaculate. Everything is controlled.

The welcome station gleams behind me, each element positioned with obsessive precision.

The branded water bottles catch the morning light at identical angles, their geometric arrangement so flawless it borders on meditative.

The linen draping frames the station like a gallery display, not a single wrinkle disrupting its pristine fall.

Even the granola bars, those ridiculously overpriced artisanal confections, sit in their tiered display with the solemnity of crown jewels.

Every detail has been vetted, rehearsed, and contingency-planned to within an inch of its life.

My tablet contains no fewer than seventeen spreadsheets, three backup timelines, and a crisis management protocol document that's thirty-two pages long.

My clipboard holds printed copies of everything because technology fails and I refuse to be caught off-guard.

My blazer is pressed, my hair is secured with enough bobby pins to withstand a minor hurricane, and my flats are polished to a mirror shine despite the gravel crunching beneath them.

This is what competence looks like. This is what happens when you refuse to accept mediocrity.

I exhale slowly, feeling the knot of tension beneath my sternum.

Control is everything when you're operating at this level—control over the logistics, control over the narrative, control over yourself.

I've built my entire career on the principle that with enough planning, enough attention to detail, nothing can spiral beyond management.

Nothing can escape my grip.

I inhale the pine-scented mountain air and mentally walk through the itinerary I've spent the last three months constructing with the precision of a military operation.

Nine a.m. arrival and welcome refreshments, nine-thirty trust-building exercises at the lakeside pavilion, eleven-fifteen guided meditation in the zen garden, twelve-thirty farm-to-table lunch featuring locally sourced kale and quinoa bowls.

I even built in buffer time for the inevitable stragglers who can't read a clock.

This retreat has to be flawless. Absolutely, undeniably flawless.

There's no margin for error, no room for the kind of small missteps that less meticulous planners might brush off as minor hiccups.

Every detail matters—from the precisely calibrated temperature of the welcome refreshments to the exact timing of the sunset reflection off the lake during the evening bonfire meditation session.

One wrong move, one scheduling conflict, one mediocre meal, and the entire carefully constructed narrative collapses.

The Horde Tech executives will notice. They'll remember.

And they'll take their business elsewhere, to some other event planner who couldn't orchestrate a proper team-building experience if their life depended on it.

But I can. I will. I have to.

My agency is courting a partnership with a massive tech conglomerate, and landing that contract means a corner office, a salary bump that would finally let me stop eating instant ramen three nights a week, and my name on the door.

All I have to do is prove I can handle high-profile corporate clients with grace, efficiency, and zero disasters.

Horde Tech Software's three-day team-building retreat is my audition, and I refuse to fumble it.

I glance at my watch. Eight fifty-seven.

The luxury charter bus should be cresting the mountain road any second now, carrying twenty-three software engineers who desperately need to disconnect from their screens and reconnect with nature and each other.

I picture them already—pale, slightly hunched from too many hours at their desks, blinking owlishly in the sunlight as they shuffle off the bus clutching their phones like security blankets.

I can absolutely work with that. I've faced worse, far worse, actually.

Three years ago, I coordinated a product launch for a pharmaceutical company where the CEO's dog somehow made it into the keynote presentation, live on stream, and I still managed to spin it as a "humanizing moment" that boosted engagement by twelve percent.

Last month, I salvaged a merger announcement when the projector actually caught fire and I had everyone laughing about it by the time the fire department arrived.

Whatever's about to step off this bus, whatever complication or disaster is looming, I've already solved it a dozen times over in my head.

I just don't know it yet. The key is staying flexible, staying sharp, and never letting them see the panic underneath the polish.

I roll my shoulders back, feeling the familiar tension settle into something more manageable. This is what I do. This is what I'm good at.

The distant rumble of an engine filters through the trees, and I straighten, squaring my shoulders and summoning my most welcoming-yet-authoritative smile.

The one I practiced in the mirror this morning until my cheeks ached.

Professional warmth with clear boundaries.

I smooth my ponytail, making sure every strand is locked into submission, and grip my tablet tighter.

The charter bus rounds the final curve, and I catch the gleam of polished chrome and tinted windows.

Right on schedule. I mentally pat myself on the back and step forward, my sensible flats crunching against the gravel as I position myself directly in the center of the welcome area.

The perfect greeting spot, visible but not overbearing.

The bus hisses to a stop, its air brakes releasing with a prolonged, pneumatic sigh that seems to echo through the trees.

I lift my chin with practiced precision, rolling my shoulders back one final time as I prepare to deliver my carefully rehearsed opening line about fresh starts and collaborative synergy, the one I've perfected to hit that exact sweet spot between inspiring and professional, warm yet unmistakably in control.

The doors fold open with a mechanical groan, hydraulics grinding as they spread wide to reveal the darkened interior of the vehicle.

For a moment, nothing but shadow and silence.

I wait, tablet pressed firmly against me, my smile locked in place, ready for whatever corporate middle management is about to stumble down those steps.

And I freeze.

The figure that emerges does not shuffle forward with the awkward gait of someone stiff from six hours on a charter bus.

Does not blink owlishly at the sudden brightness of the clearing, adjusting to daylight like a confused office worker emerging from a fluorescent-lit conference room.

Does not clutch a phone to their ear or fumble with luggage or exhibit any of the standard behaviors of tired, road-worn executives.

No. This figure moves with absolute, terrifying purpose.

He fills the doorway, shoulders so broad they nearly brush both sides of the frame as he ducks his head to clear the top.

He straightens to his full height, and the sun disappears behind him, casting me in sudden, complete shadow.

My brain stutters, trying to process the sheer scale of an Orc standing less than ten feet away from me.

He's massive. Six-ten, maybe taller, with shoulders that could carry lumber and a chest that strains against a plain black T-shirt that looks like it was sewn from industrial canvas.

His arms are corded with muscle that shifts visibly beneath green-gray skin as he stretches, rolling his neck with an audible crack that echoes across the gravel lot.

His jaw is a brutal slab, jutting forward with two thick tusks that curve upward from his lower lip, and his eyes—dark, sharp, utterly unimpressed—sweep across the pristine welcome station with the kind of dismissive assessment usually reserved for overpriced airport sushi.

My mouth goes absolutely parched, as though someone has reached down my throat and wrung out every drop of moisture with deliberate malice.

It's a physical sensation, sharp and undeniable, the kind of primal response my body produces when faced with something that fundamentally challenges my ability to manage the situation.

I can feel my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, and for just one mortifying, unprofessional second I lose the thread of the meticulously organized script I've prepared for this exact moment.

The clipboard in my hands suddenly feels very light, very fragile, and entirely inadequate against the sheer physical presence of these figures now disembarking from the bus like an invading force.

Behind him, more Orcs pour off the bus. A shorter one with scars crisscrossing his forearms. A stocky female with her hair braided into a thick plait that swings past her waist. A lean male with a shaved head and a necklace made of what I desperately hope are not actual teeth.

Every single one of them is built like they bench-press refrigerators for fun, and every single one of them is scanning the retreat with expressions ranging from mild skepticism to outright hostility.

This is decidedly not a gathering of pale, sedentary software engineers hunched over their keyboards in some climate-controlled office building.

This is something else entirely, something primal and visceral that my carefully curated corporate experience has left me utterly unprepared to handle.

This is a horde, plain and simple, and every instinct my body possesses demands to reassess my entire strategy.

My carefully constructed itinerary flashes through my mind, trust falls, guided meditation, kale bowls, and I feel the first hairline crack appear in my professional composure.

I shove it down, locking my knees and forcing my spine to stay ramrod straight.

I am Romee Lin. I have managed bridezillas, corporate mergers, and a disastrous charity gala where the mayor got drunk and tried to fistfight the ice sculpture. I can handle this.

I clear my throat with deliberate precision, the sound sharp enough to cut through the palpable tension radiating from the assembled mass of green-skinned bodies.

I step forward with measured confidence, my sensible flats crunching against the gravel with each purposeful stride, and I raise my tablet higher, a laminated shield of organizational superiority clutched against me like armor.

The device's screen catches the morning sunlight, gleaming with all the polish and promise of a perfectly constructed event timeline.

I plaster on my brightest smile, the one I've perfected over eight years of managing increasingly impossible situations.

It's the smile that's survived bridezillas in white dresses, corporate merger negotiations that threatened to combust, and that particularly memorable evening when the mayor decided the ice sculpture was a suitable opponent for hand-to-hand combat.

The expression stretches across my face with unyielding determination, all teeth and professional charm, even as every muscle in my jaw screams in protest at the effort required to maintain it.

"Good morning, everyone," I announce, my voice crisp and authoritative, pitched to carry across the assembly without wavering.

"Welcome to Whispering Pines Wellness Retreat.

I'm Romee Lin, your event coordinator for the next three days, and I'm genuinely thrilled to be here facilitating what promises to be an absolutely transformative experience for all of you. "

The words tumble out in their carefully rehearsed order, each syllable practiced and perfected, because this is what I do, I command situations through professional will and an itinerary so comprehensive it borders on architectural.

The massive Orc, the one who stepped off first, the one whose shadow I'm still standing in, reaches out with one enormous hand, plucks the laminated welcome itinerary from the display stand beside me, and looks down at it. His expression doesn't change. He doesn't even blink.

Then, with slow, deliberate precision, he grips the laminated card between his massive fingers, one set of claws at the top edge, another at the bottom, and applies pressure with the casual confidence of someone who has never encountered resistance in his life.

The cardstock doesn't stand a chance. It splits with a sharp, decisive crack that echoes across the gravel courtyard like the snap of a bone, and both pieces drift downward in a lazy, almost mocking descent.

They land at my feet with a whisper of defeat, curling slightly as they settle, the color-coded schedule I spent three meticulous weeks perfecting now reduced to two sad, crumpled halves.

I stare at the ruined pieces, my gaze tracing the fragments of carefully organized itineraries, the perfectly color-coordinated time blocks, the morning meditation sessions highlighted in soothing pastels.

My eye begins to twitch—a small, involuntary betrayal that I absolutely cannot afford to have happen right now, not in front of this massive, impassive Orc and certainly not in front of whatever witnesses might be watching from the edges of the assembled crowd.

The Orc continues to regard me with an expression of complete indifference, his dark eyes flat and utterly devoid of any semblance of apology or contrition.

When he finally speaks, his voice emerges like the grinding of tectonic plates—deep, resonant, and fundamentally immovable.

"No kale," he rumbles, each word a stone dropping into still water, and I can feel every carefully maintained shred of my professional composure trembling dangerously in its wake.

My fingers tighten around my tablet until the edges dig into my palms, and I feel my professional smile stretch so tight it might crack my molars. Deep breath. Slow, controlled, murderous deep breath.

I am going to need a lot more coffee.