Chapter 4 #2
I try to be gentler. The keys still crack under my fingers like tiny bones.
By the time the sun begins to set, painting the office in orange light that almost makes it look less depressing, I have learned three important things:
One, she is patient in a way that suggests she has had to be patient before, probably with many incompetent humans.
Two, she smells like lavender and anxiety and something sweet I cannot identify.
Three, I am in serious trouble.
Because somewhere between the broken keyboards and the Excel tutorials and the way she says my name with exasperated precision, I have decided that making Orla Peace relax is now my primary mission.
Not conflict resolution.
Not corporate integration.
Her.
Making her laugh again the way she did when she saw the rat—that surprised, genuine sound that escaped before she could trap it behind her professional mask.
Making that persistent wrinkle disappear from between her eyebrows, the one that seems permanently carved there from what I suspect are years of dealing with incompetent colleagues and impossible deadlines.
Making her look at me with something other than that carefully maintained professional courtesy, that polite mask she wears like armor against the world.
Making her see me as something more than just another problem to be managed, another variable in her endless calculations, another item on her overwhelming to-do list.
These are my new goals. My true mission.
The CEO can wait.
The next morning, I arrive early.
This is unusual for me. I prefer to arrive exactly when required, not a moment sooner, because time spent in fluorescent lighting is time stolen from life.
But today I have a mission.
I spent all night hunting in the building's basement, where the maintenance humans warned me not to go. They said there were rats. Big ones. A whole nest of them living in the old storage area.
To me, this sounded like an opportunity.
To them, it sounded like a problem to be solved with poison and traps.
Humans make everything complicated.
I solved it the direct way. The honorable way.
The way that involved my hands and quick reflexes and the satisfying crunch of a successful hunt.
And now I have a gift.
A large rat, freshly caught, still warm. It is an excellent specimen. Good size. Clean kill. No damage to the pelt.
In my tribe, this would be a worthy offering. A demonstration of hunting prowess. A gift that says "I can provide. I am strong. I notice your needs and address them."
In this office building, I am about to learn, it means something very different.
I find Orla at her desk, already typing, already frowning at her screen, already wearing that expression that says she has been awake for hours and has already had three cups of coffee and at least one small crisis.
She looks up when I approach, her sharp eyes flicking from her screen to me with that immediate, assessing calculation she does.
The kind of look that says she has already categorized my interruption, assigned it a priority level, and scheduled exactly how long she will allow this interaction to take.
"Good morning, Thraka. I hope you read the email I sent about today's quarterly review meeting. We need to discuss the—"
I present the rat.
Hold it out to her like a trophy, gripped carefully by the tail so she can appreciate its full size and excellent condition.
Like treasure pulled from a dragon's hoard.
Like the valuable, thoughtful, deeply meaningful gift it is.
My chest swells with pride. This is a good rat. The best rat. The kind of rat that proves I am a capable provider, a skilled hunter, a male worthy of her attention and respect.
"For you, Little Manager. I solved the rat problem in the basement. This was their leader. Very fierce. Fought well. You should be proud."
She stares at the rat.
Stares at the rat again.
Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
And then she screams.
Not a small scream. Not a polite, indoor-voice scream.
A full, primal, glass-shattering scream that echoes through the entire floor and sends every human within earshot diving for cover.
I drop the rat in surprise.
It lands on her desk, right on top of a stack of papers marked "URGENT."
She screams again, scrambling backward, her chair rolling into the cubicle wall with a crash.
"What the hell, Thraka?"
"It is a gift!"
"It's a dead rat!"
"Yes! A very good dead rat! The biggest one!"
"Why would you think I want a dead rat?"
"You mentioned pest control in yesterday's meeting! I am controlling pests! Efficiently!"
Her face crumples, but not with tears. With something else. Something wild and uncontrolled.
She starts laughing.
Not polite laughter. Not professional chuckling.
Hysterical, helpless, bent-over-gasping laughter that sounds like it is being ripped out of her against her will.
She clutches her stomach, tears streaming down her face, her whole body shaking.
"You," she gasps between laughs. "You hunted rats. In the basement. And brought me. The biggest one. As a gift."
"Yes," I say, uncertain now. "Is this not good?"
She laughs harder, sliding down the cubicle wall until she is sitting on the floor, still laughing, makeup running, hair falling out of its perfect arrangement.
She looks completely undone.
She looks beautiful.
Around us, other humans peek over cubicle walls, staring at their composed, terrifying manager having a complete breakdown on the office floor.
I feel a swell of pride so intense, so powerful, that it nearly lifts me off my feet and sends me soaring through the cursed fluorescent ceiling tiles above.
I did this.
I made her make this noise, this wild, unrestrained, completely unprofessional sound of pure human emotion that no spreadsheet could ever quantify or predict.
I broke through all her careful control, shattered all those precisely constructed walls of corporate composure, and found the real person underneath, the one who exists beneath the power suits and the color-coded calendars and the five-year plans.
The one who can still be surprised. Who can still be delighted in the most absurd way possible.
Even if I accomplished this great victory with nothing more than a dead rat, clutched proudly in my fist like a trophy from the grandest of hunts.
"Please," she wheezes, wiping her eyes, still giggling helplessly. "Please tell me you didn't touch anyone's lunch with those hands."
"I washed them after the hunt."
"Oh my god."
"In the bathroom on the third floor. Very thoroughly. I used all the soap."
She dissolves into fresh laughter, and I realize I would hunt a hundred rats if it meant seeing her like this again. Unguarded. Real. Human instead of corporate robot.
When she finally catches her breath, she looks up at me from the floor, mascara smudged, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.
"Karen from HR is going to have an aneurysm," she says.
"Is that bad?"
"Extremely bad. For you. For me. For everyone involved in the dead rat incident."
"Should I not have brought you the rat?"
She wipes her eyes again, smearing her makeup further. "No, Thraka. You definitely should not have brought me the rat. But thank you. For solving the pest problem. In the most horrifying way possible."
"You are welcome, Little Manager."
She starts laughing again, softer this time, and I decide that making Orla Peace laugh is now my favorite activity in this terrible fluorescent prison.
Even if it gets me fired.
Especially if it gets me fired.
A few hours later, everyone knows about the rat.
HR has sent four emails.
The CEO has sent two.
Orla has had three meetings about "appropriate workplace behavior" and "acceptable gift giving practices."
I have been banned from the basement.
Worth it.
Completely worth it.
Because now, when Orla looks at me, there is something different in her eyes. Something softer. Something that looks almost like fondness, buried under layers of exasperation and professional responsibility.
Progress.
We are in the conference room for the weekly department meeting. Orla sits next to me, rigid and proper, her makeup fixed, her armor back in place.
But I know what is underneath now.
I know she can laugh like that.
I know she can be undone.
Chad, the VP of Sales, swagger into the room late, smelling like expensive cologne and arrogance. He is tall for a human, muscular, with teeth that are too white and hair that is too perfect.
He reminds me of the warriors back home who spent more time polishing their armor than actually fighting.
All appearance. No substance.
"Heard about your little incident this morning, Thraka," Chad announces, grinning around the room, performing for an audience. "Dead rats. Really? What's next, roadkill bouquets?"
The room laughs nervously.
Orla stiffens beside me.
"Chad," she says, her voice cold enough to freeze blood. "That's enough."
"I'm just saying, maybe we should reconsider this whole diversity hire experiment before someone brings in a dead raccoon."
More nervous laughter.
My hands curl into fists under the table.
"The rat incident has been addressed," Orla continues, each word sharp and precise. "Let's move on to the agenda."
"Sure, sure," Chad waves a dismissive hand. "But seriously, did he even write his report? Or did he just grunt and point at things?"
He reaches across the table and snatches the paper in front of me. My report. The one I spent all night working on with Orla's guidance.
The one I actually tried on.
Chad skims it, his grin widening. "Oh this is precious. Look at this handwriting. What is this, crayon?"
"It's pen," I rumble.
"Barely. And the content. 'Conflict can be resolved through honest conversation and mutual respect.' Did you copy this from a motivational poster?"
"Give it back."
"Or what, big guy? You gonna challenge me to a duel over a middle school book report?"
Starts as a vibration in my ribcage.
Builds into a rumble that I feel in my bones, in my teeth, in the ancient part of my brain that remembers when threats were answered with violence.
It rolls out of me, filling the conference room, rattling the windows, making the fluorescent lights flicker.
Every human in the room freezes.
Chad goes pale.
And Orla.
Orla gasps softly beside me, her hand flying to the table edge, her whole body going rigid.
She feels it. The vibration. The warning that rolls through the room like thunder before lightning.
I feel her feel it, the way her breathing changes, shallow and quick, the way her fingers tighten on the table edge until her knuckles go white, the way her whole body seems to tune into that frequency like she's hardwired to respond to it.
And something primal and deeply satisfied coils tight in my gut, warm and possessive.
"Give. It. Back," I repeat, and my voice sounds like grinding stone, like boulders scraping against each other in the depths of a mountain. Each word is deliberate, controlled, but barely.
Chad drops the paper like it burned him, like the mere touch of it might invoke whatever wrath he just stumbled into waking. It flutters to the table between us.
"Jesus, man. I was just joking," he stammers, holding up his hands in what he probably thinks is a placating gesture. His voice has gone up half an octave.
"Your jokes are not funny," I tell him flatly, my eyes never leaving his face. "They are small. Weak. Like you."
"Thraka," Orla's voice resounds with tension, quiet but commanding. "Conference room. Now."
She stands, smoothing her skirt, her face unreadable.
I follow her out, leaving Chad and the rest of the department sitting in stunned silence.
The door clicks shut behind us, and she whirls on me in the hallway, eyes blazing.
But before she can speak, before she can unleash whatever professional lecture she has prepared, I see it.
The way her chest rises and falls too quickly.
The way her pupils are dilated.
The way she is standing just slightly too close, like her body moved toward mine without permission.
"That was completely inappropriate," she starts, her voice tight and clipped in that way that tells me she's fighting for control.
"He disrespected my work," I counter, my voice still carrying the rumble of barely-contained fury. "He mocked something I created. Something I put effort into."
"You can't just growl at people, Thraka." She crosses her arms, but the gesture looks defensive rather than authoritative. "This is a corporate environment, not a battlefield."
"Why not?" I take a half-step closer, watching her breath hitch. "It was effective. Chad understood my message perfectly. He will not mock my reports again."
"That's not the point," she snaps, but her eyes dart to my mouth before flicking back up to meet my gaze.
"Then what is the point, Little Manager?" I let the words roll out slowly, deliberately, watching the way her jaw tightens at the nickname she pretends to hate.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her professional composure cracks just slightly, and I see something wild flash in her eyes.
"The point is," she says, but her voice wavers. "The point is you need to control yourself."
"And if I don't want to?"
"Then you'll be fired by the end of the week."
We stare at each other in the empty hallway, and the air between us feels charged, dangerous, like the moment before lightning strikes.
She should step back.
She doesn't.
I should apologize.
I don't.
And somewhere in the conference room behind us, Chad is probably telling everyone about the crazy orc who almost murdered him over a book report, but I cannot bring myself to care.
Because Orla Peace is looking at me like I am a problem she cannot solve, a variable she cannot calculate, a disruption to her perfect, controlled world.
And I am looking at her like she is the most interesting challenge I have ever faced.