Tusked Up By My Boss

Chapter 1

ORLA

The vein in my left temple pulses in time with the cursor blink on my monitor. Three rhythmic throbs per second. I count everything now because counting is the only thing keeping me from driving my stapler through Jenkins's eye socket when he misses another deadline.

The screen glows up at me with its smug little message in sans-serif font: "Heart rate elevated. Are you exercising?"

No, Fitbit. I'm reading an email chain where fifteen people have replied all to say "thanks" with no other content. This is what a slow death looks like, and you're tracking every accelerated heartbeat.

I silence the notification. The office around me hums with the quiet efficiency I've cultivated over three years as Senior Operations Manager.

No loud phone voices. No personal conversations that bleed into work time.

No chaos. The copy machine whispers instead of screams. The fluorescent lights don't flicker because I requisitioned LED replacements in Q2.

Even the coffee maker operates on a schedule I personally programmed.

This floor is my kingdom. My spreadsheet. My fortress of productivity.

My shoulders sit somewhere up near my ears. They live there now. I've forgotten what it feels like to drop them.

"All senior staff to Conference Room A," Linda from reception announces through my desk phone. Her voice cracks on the intercom, and I make a mental note to request a system upgrade. "CEO wants everyone. Now."

I smooth my already smooth pencil skirt, check my reflection in my black monitor screen. Eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Not a hair out of place in my bob. Posture that could balance books. Good.

Conference Room A smells like lemon Pledge and desperation. I take my usual seat at the far end, the one with the clear sightline to both doors and the projection screen. Strategic positioning. I cross my ankles. Place my tablet on the table at a perfect ninety-degree angle to the edge.

Art from Sales sits across from me, already sweating through his collar even though the AC is set to a crisp sixty-eight degrees.

Jenkins slouches three seats down, scrolling through his phone under the table like I can't see the glow reflecting off his stupid face.

Linda hovers near the door, clutching a stack of folders against her chest like a shield.

CEO Richard Pemberton strides in wearing the same blue tie he wore last Tuesday. I catalog this automatically. Repetition suggests either comfort or lack of attention to detail. Both are weaknesses.

"Thank you all for coming on short notice." He doesn't sit. Power move. I respect it even as I calculate how long this meeting will derail my afternoon schedule. "I want to talk about our culture."

My stomach drops.

Culture talks mean consultants. Consultants mean assessments. Assessments mean personality tests and trust falls and someone suggesting we all go do an escape room to "build synergy."

"We've been experiencing increased tension between departments," Pemberton continues.

He clicks a button on the remote. A pie chart appears on the screen behind him.

"Seventy-three percent of exit interviews cite 'interpersonal conflict' as a factor in resignation.

HR has filed forty-two formal complaints in the last quarter alone. "

Art shifts in his seat. Jenkins keeps scrolling.

"So I've made an executive decision." Pemberton smiles the way people smile when they're about to set your car on fire. "We're bringing in a specialist. Someone with a unique background in conflict resolution and team cohesion."

The door opens.

I smell him before I see him.

Not cologne. Something else. Woodsmoke and iron and something wild that doesn't belong inside a building with climate control and fire suppression systems. My hindbrain perks up, alert in a way that has nothing to do with spreadsheets and everything to do with survival instincts I didn't know I still possessed.

Then he fills the doorway.

Seven feet tall. Easily. His shoulders span wide enough that he has to angle them to fit through the frame.

His skin is green. Not sickly green, not pale green, but the deep verdant shade of summer leaves just before a thunderstorm.

His hair is black and wild, pulled back in what might technically qualify as a ponytail but looks more like someone lassoed a wolverine.

And the suit.

God, the suit.

It's trying. Bless its heart, it's trying.

Charcoal gray, probably from the Big and Tall section somewhere that definitely wasn't Brooks Brothers.

The sleeves end two inches above his wrists, exposing forearms corded with muscle and marked with scars that look suspiciously like claw marks.

The jacket button strains across his chest. One wrong breath and that thing is firing off like a bullet.

He carries a metal briefcase that looks like it survived not just one war, but several consecutive military campaigns, possibly including hand-to-hand combat. The surface is dented, scratched, and bears what might be scorch marks. Or blood stains. I'm not entirely sure which would be worse.

He is an orc.

A real, actual, honest-to-god orc.

Standing in my conference room. Breathing my recycled air. Occupying approximately forty percent more spatial volume than any human being has a right to.

There is an orc in Conference Room A.

The room where I hold quarterly reviews. Where I deliver PowerPoint presentations with precisely calibrated serif fonts. Where the thermostat is set to exactly 68.5 degrees Fahrenheit because that's the scientifically proven optimal temperature for cognitive function.

There is an orc in Conference Room A, and he's looking around like he's assessing whether the walls are structurally sound enough for whatever barbaric purpose he has in mind.

My brain scrambles to categorize this information. File it. Make it fit into the organizational structure I understand. But there's no box for this. No protocol. No contingency plan that covers what to do when a literal fantasy creature walks into a quarterly meeting.

"Everyone," Pemberton says, still smiling that arsonist smile, "this is Thraka. He comes highly recommended from our partner firm's Diversity and Inclusion initiative. He'll be heading up our new Conflict Resolution department."

Thraka grins. His tusks jut up from his lower jaw, white and sharp.

"Good morning, warriors of commerce!" His voice booms. The windows rattle. Art flinches so hard he nearly tips his chair. "I am honored to join your clan. Together we will crush inefficiency and forge unity through strength and mutual respect."

He strides to the table. Sets down the metal briefcase with a thunk that makes my tablet jump.

Then he slams his fist down onto the mahogany surface with absolutely no preamble, no warning, no consideration for the fact that this table costs more than my monthly rent.

The crack echoes through the conference room like a gunshot in a library. The sound bounces off the glass walls, reverberates through the carefully calibrated acoustic paneling, and lodges itself directly into my nervous system.

A spiderweb fracture spreads from the impact point, racing across the wood grain, splitting the table's surface in a jagged line that stops three inches from my perfectly positioned tablet.

Nobody breathes.

"A strong foundation," Thraka announces, inspecting the damage with approval. "But even strong things must be tested. This table has been tested. It has held." He looks around the room, meeting each person's eyes in turn. "You will also be tested. You will also hold."

Jenkins drops his phone. The clatter against the polished conference table sounds like thunder in the absolute vacuum of silence that has descended upon the room.

Linda makes a sound like a dying printer, that specific wheeze-groan combination when the toner cartridge finally gives up the ghost after months of warning messages everyone ignored.

Her hand clutches her chest. I make a mental note to check if our health insurance covers stress-induced cardiac events, because at this rate, we're all going to need it.

My heart rate spikes so fast and so violently that my Fitbit gives up entirely on providing useful biometric data and just starts flashing a little exclamation point. The notification vibrates against my wrist: UNUSUAL HEART RATE DETECTED. No shit, Fitbit. No shit.

Thraka's gaze lands on me.

It's not a casual glance. It's not the polite eye contact recommended in corporate communication seminars. It's the focused, predatory attention of something that has identified a target and is now assessing vulnerabilities, escape routes, and optimal approach vectors.

He tilts his head slowly, deliberately. His nostrils flare slightly, visibly.

Oh God, he's smelling me.

He's actually scenting the air like some kind of apex predator triangulating prey, like a wolf catching wind of a wounded deer, like a shark detecting a single drop of blood in an Olympic-sized swimming pool. His chest expands as he draws in a long, deliberate breath through his nose.

I feel violated in a way that no HR manual has prepared me for.

"This one." He points directly at me. His finger is the size of a small flashlight. "This one smells like anxiety and stale bean water."

"Excuse me?" My voice comes out clipped. Professional. Barely concealing the edge that suggests I know fifteen ways to weaponize office supplies.

"Coffee," he clarifies, nodding sagely as if he's solved a great mystery. "Stale bean water. You drink too much. Your shoulders are trying to become earrings. Your jaw makes small grinding sounds."

I do not grind my jaw.

Except I absolutely do grind my jaw and now I'm conscious of it and I have to actively tell my teeth to stop.

"This is unacceptable." Thraka crosses his arms. The jacket button groans. "You are a leader among this clan. You should radiate strength and calm. Instead you radiate the energy of a rabbit being chased by wolves."