Chapter 8
THRALL
Ileave Romee tangled in my sheets because if I stay one more minute, I'm canceling the entire retreat and keeping her locked in that cabin for the next three days.
My instincts are roaring at me to mark her again, to make absolutely certain every creature within a fifty-mile radius understands she's claimed, but I walk away because she needs rest and I need to think.
Except thinking proves impossible when my whole body is still humming with the memory of her coming apart under my hands, her voice breaking on my name, the perfect way her smaller frame fits against mine like she was designed specifically for this purpose.
I've had lovers before. Orc women who understood the physicality, who matched my strength with their own.
This is different. This is a fragile human who stood toe-to-chest with me and demanded compliance, who trusted me with her body despite the very real logistical concerns, who yielded and fought and surrendered all at once in a way that's currently making it difficult to focus on basic motor functions.
I make it back to my cabin, shower in water cold enough to hurt, and dress in fresh clothes that immediately feel wrong because they don't smell like her citrus and espresso scent. My Orc hindbrain is actively complaining about the separation, which is both unprecedented and deeply irritating.
I have a company to run. Investors to appease. A mandatory corporate retreat to endure for exactly forty-eight more hours before I can return to my properly climate-controlled office and remember how to function like a modern, civilized businessman instead of a territorial nightmare.
Instead, I'm writing a note that reads like a ransom demand and leaving a pen worth three thousand dollars on her pillow like some kind of deranged courting gift.
I scrub my hands over my face, feel the unfamiliar smoothness where I trimmed my tusks years ago to fit better into boardrooms, and move.
The morning session starts in twenty minutes, which means I need to prevent my executives from staging a full-scale mutiny the second Romee isn't there to enforce compliance with aggressive hand gestures and weaponized scheduling.
The main lodge is crawling with Orcs when I arrive, all of them looking deeply resentful about the 8am start time and the distinct lack of coffee strong enough to justify consciousness.
My VP of Engineering, Garak, is attempting to organize a "sick day" rebellion in the corner, his voice carrying across the space.
"I'm saying we claim food poisoning. All of us. Simultaneously. What's she going to do, take our temperature?"
"She'll know," Vrok from Marketing counters, looking genuinely nervous. "She always knows. Yesterday I tried to skip the meditation session and she appeared out of nowhere with a yoga mat and a deeply threatening smile."
"The smile is worse than the airhorn," someone else mutters, and there's a general murmur of agreement.
I clear my throat.
The entire room goes silent and turns toward me with expressions ranging from apprehension to outright fear, which is gratifying but also mildly concerning given that I theoretically pay these people to challenge my ideas and innovate fearlessly.
"Morning session starts in fifteen minutes," I announce, my voice carrying easily across the space. "Romee has the morning off. I'll be running today's activities."
The relief that floods through the room is palpable and immediately insulting in its transparency.
These are supposed to be the brightest technological minds in the sector, yet they're visibly brightening at the prospect of my involvement like I'm somehow a preferable alternative to Romee's meticulously organized itinerary.
"Does that mean we can finally skip the trust exercises and the whole circle-sharing nonsense?" Garak asks hopefully, his scarred face already brightening with premature optimism. "I've got actual code to review, and frankly, my emotional availability is at approximately negative three percent."
I lean against the lodge doorframe, my amber eyes sweeping across the gathered executives with cold amusement.
"No."
The collective deflation is almost audible. Whatever slim hope had kindled in their expressions dies a swift, brutal death.
The collective groan is extremely unprofessional, and I make a mental note to discuss organizational culture in our next board meeting, right before I cancel every single team-building mandate our investors have forced into the corporate bylaws.
I'm about to continue when Vrok's nostrils flare, his head tilting in that particular way Orcs do when they catch an unexpected scent. His eyes widen fractionally, then snap to me with a look of dawning realization that I do not appreciate.
"Boss," Vrok starts carefully, his massive frame shifting with unspoken questions, "did you actually—"
"Fifteen minutes. Conference room. Now."
They scatter with gratifying speed, their expensive loafers thundering against the hardwood floors as they scramble to obey.
Even the most senior among them, the ones who've built empires and survived hostile takeovers, know better than to linger when that particular edge enters my voice.
It's the same tone I use in board meetings when someone has fundamentally misunderstood the quarterly projections.
It's the tone that reminds them why they answer to me.
Vrok, however, remains planted in place, his nostrils still flaring, his amber eyes tracking the exact spot where Romee had been standing moments before.
He's connecting dots I'm not interested in him connecting, and his mouth is opening with the kind of intrusive question that will require me to explain things I have absolutely no intention of explaining.
I level him with a stare cold enough to freeze the lake outside.
I manage to set up the first session, a brutally boring slideshow about communication styles that Romee prepared with color-coded charts and footnotes, when the door to the lodge opens and every functioning brain cell I possess immediately ceases operations.
Romee walks in wearing my shirt.
Not one of her aggressively tailored blazers or her perfectly pressed slacks.
My black t-shirt, the one I discarded on the cabin floor last night, hanging off her smaller frame like a dress.
It hits her mid-thigh, the neckline slipping off one bare shoulder, and her legs are completely exposed and unmarked except for a faint bruise on her inner thigh that I absolutely put there.
Her hair is still damp from a shower, pulled into a messy knot at the base of her neck, and she's holding her tablet against her chest like a shield, but her cheeks are flushed and her lips are slightly swollen and she smells like me.
Not just like she borrowed my soap. Like I marked her, thoroughly and repeatedly, until my scent soaked into her skin and announced to every Orc in this room exactly what happened in my cabin last night.
Garak, who was slouched disrespectfully in his chair and halfway through composing what was probably a scathing email, sits up ramrod straight.
Vrok actually stands, his posture shifting into something that reads as deep, automatic deference.
The low-level chaos that normally characterizes any gathering of Horde Tech executives dies completely, replaced by an almost reverent silence.
She pauses in the doorway, clearly registering the sudden attention, her grip tightening on the tablet.
"I'm not interrupting, am I?" she asks, her voice still carrying that clipped, professional tone, but there's an edge of uncertainty underneath that makes my chest tighten with the need to cross the room and remove any source of her discomfort, including my own employees.
"Not at all," I manage, keeping my voice level. "We were just starting the communication styles presentation."
She nods and moves toward the back of the room, clearly intending to observe, but Vrok immediately vacates his chair, gesturing toward it with a level of courtesy I have never once witnessed in three years of employment.
"Please, take my seat. You shouldn't have to stand."
Romee blinks at him, visibly startled, but Vrok is already moving, and Garak is shoving his notebook and coffee out of her path with uncharacteristic consideration, and the Orc sitting next to the now-empty chair actually pulls it out for her like we're at some kind of formal dinner instead of a corporate retreat.
She sits slowly, her eyes narrowing in confusion, as she scans the room, taking in the shifted postures, the attentive silence, the complete lack of the usual mutinous grumbling.
Her gaze lands on me, sharp and questioning.
I keep my expression neutral and click to the next slide, even though my instincts are currently screaming with satisfaction at the visible proof that my people recognize and respect my claim.
The session proceeds with an efficiency that would be remarkable if it weren't so obviously motivated by the fact that Romee is sitting in the back of the room wearing my scent like a declaration.
Every question I pose is answered immediately and thoughtfully.
Every activity is completed without complaint.
When I assign partner work, the executives organize themselves into teams without a single argument or attempt to abandon the exercise early.
It's unsettling. It's also deeply, primitively satisfying in a way I'm not entirely comfortable examining.
Romee notices, of course. She's too observant not to.
She watches them, her tablet balanced on her bare knees, her brow furrowed in concentration as she takes notes on something that's probably related to future retreat optimization but could just as easily be a detailed list of questions she's planning to interrogate me with later.
The thought of "later" sends a fresh wave of possessive heat through my system that I have to actively suppress before it becomes obvious to the entire room.