Chapter 8 Thraka
THRAKA
The wilderness is freedom.
I know this the moment the metal bus rumbles away from the city, leaving behind the concrete cage that humans call civilization. Trees replace buildings. Earth smells replace exhaust fumes. The sky opens up instead of being sliced into rectangles by glass towers.
My body relaxes for the first time since arriving in this strange world of fluorescent lights and ergonomic keyboards.
"You're smiling," Orla observes from beside me. She sits stiffly in the aisle seat, her posture perfect despite the bus's rattling suspension.
"The woods welcome me home." I stretch my arms, my shoulders brushing the ceiling of the bus. The corporate warriors around us clutch their phones like talismans, mourning the loss of cell reception. Weak.
Orla has three color-coded binders spread across her lap. Each one labeled with meticulous precision. Activities. Meal Plans. Emergency Protocols.
"Did you bring the entire office supply closet?" I ask.
"I brought what's necessary for proper retreat coordination.
" She flips through the Activities binder, making tiny notations with a pen that probably costs more than my suit.
"We have twenty-three employees attending.
Each requires specific accommodations, dietary restrictions, accessibility needs—"
"They require fire, shelter, and meat." I lean back, making the bus seat groan in protest. "Everything else is luxury."
"We're not actually surviving in the wilderness, Thraka. This is a structured team-building experience at a licensed facility with—" She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening as she notices the bus seating configuration.
Every seat is full. Packed tight with corporate warriors and their unnecessary luggage.
Chad sits two rows up, already asleep with his mouth hanging open. Drooling. Pathetic.
"There's no empty seats remaining on this entire bus.
" Orla clutches her three color-coded binders even tighter against her chest, her knuckles whitening as her sharp eyes perform a rapid tactical assessment of the crowded vehicle.
She scans every row with a general surveying a battlefield, searching desperately for alternative seating configurations, overlooked options, any solution that doesn't involve what I'm about to suggest.
"I have space." I pat my lap with deliberate emphasis, the sound loud enough to make the corporate warrior in front of us glance back nervously. "Plenty of room here, Little Manager."
The flush that spreads across her cheeks is immediate and spectacular.
Pink blooms from her collar up to her perfectly sharp cheekbones, clashing beautifully with her corporate armor.
"I'll stand," she declares, her voice tight with that particular flavor of panic that means she's already losing this battle with herself.
"For the entire journey. Three hours is perfectly manageable. "
"For three hours? Your feet will ache in those sharp shoes." I gesture to her stilettos, completely impractical for wilderness travel. "Sit, Little Manager. Save your strength for the trust falls."
She hesitates, calculating odds and probabilities in that sharp mind of hers. Finally, she surrenders to logic.
She settles onto my lap, spine rigid, trying to minimize contact.
It doesn't work.
Every curve of her fits against me like she was crafted for this exact position. Her weight is nothing, delicate as a bird, but the warmth of her seeps through my cheap suit and her expensive blazer.
"This is just practical," she announces to no one in particular. "Space efficiency."
"Of course." I wrap one arm around her waist to steady her as the bus lurches forward. "Very practical."
She smells like coffee and that sharp perfume she wears. Expensive things. Corporate things. But underneath, buried beneath the polish and protocol, I catch something else. Something soft and warm and entirely Orla.
Her body gradually relaxes against mine as the miles pass. The binders slip lower. Her head tilts back until it rests against my shoulder.
"I can feel your heartbeat," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the rumble of the bus engine and the chatter of our colleagues.
"Strong. Like a war drum," I reply, keeping my voice low. The rhythm pounds against her back where she presses against me. Steady. Relentless. The beat of a warrior preparing for something far more interesting than spreadsheets.
"Like you ran up three flights of stairs," she corrects, that analytical edge creeping into her tone even now. Always measuring, always quantifying.
"Same thing," I tell her, because in this moment, with her warmth settling into me and her scent filling my lungs, my heart races with the same anticipation as charging into glorious battle.
She shifts, and the movement sends heat straight through me. Her breath catches. She felt it too.
"Thraka." My name emerges from her lips like a warning shot across a battlefield.
"Yes, Little Manager?" I rumble the words directly into her ear, keeping my voice pitched low enough that only she can hear. The title makes her shiver against me as the tremor runs through her rigid spine.
"This is a work retreat." Each word comes out carefully measured, as if she's reading from one of her precious PowerPoint presentations. As if reminding herself more than informing me.
"You mentioned that." I let amusement color my tone. She mentioned it approximately seven times during the planning meetings. Then again in her email summary. Then once more in the parking lot before we boarded. "Several times, in fact."
A pause. Her fingers tighten fractionally on the binders pressed between us like flimsy armor.
"Professional boundaries," she states, her voice crisp with corporate authority she wields like a blade in boardroom battles.
"Extremely professional." I tighten my arm fractionally. "I'm preventing you from falling into the aisle. Very safety-conscious."
She laughs quietly, the sound barely more than an exhalation, but I feel it vibrate against my body when she's pressed close, a reluctant tremor of genuine amusement breaking through her corporate fortress.
The sensation travels through me like the first rumble of distant thunder before a storm.
"You're impossible," she murmurs, and there's something in her voice that's different from her usual clipped professionalism.
Something almost... fond. Exasperated, certainly, but underneath that carefully maintained irritation, I detect the faintest trace of warmth.
"I'm helpful," I counter, letting the word roll out with complete sincerity, as if I'm merely stating an irrefutable fact during one of her interminable status meetings.
"Very helpful. Extremely considerate of workplace safety protocols.
" I allow my thumb to trace the smallest of circles against her shoulder blade, a movement so subtle it could almost be accidental, though we both know it isn't. "Your precious safety manual would approve. "
The bus hits a pothole. She grabs my thigh for balance, fingers digging in through the cheap fabric. My muscles tense under her touch.
"Sorry," she mutters, but she doesn't move her hand. In fact, her grip tightens ever so slightly, her palm warm through the thin, already-strained fabric of my too-small suit pants. The contact sends awareness crackling between us like the spark before a proper conflagration.
I lean down just far enough that my breath stirs the precisely arranged hair at her temple. "Don't be."
Her breathing changes, shallow, controlled, the way it gets when she's trying very hard to maintain her composure during particularly contentious budget meetings. I can practically hear her internal spreadsheet recalculating risk-benefit analyses and probability matrices.
But she still doesn't move her hand.
The bus rumbles onward through the countryside, carrying us toward whatever team-building torture Orla has meticulously planned in her seven-page itinerary.
Three days of "professional development" and "corporate synergy building" at some woodland facility she selected after reviewing no fewer than fourteen comparable venues.
Three days where her carefully constructed walls will be tested by proximity and circumstance.
Three days where I intend to prove that some variables cannot be controlled, no matter how many contingency plans she drafts.
I'm going to enjoy these three days immensely.
The campground facility is exactly as Orla described. Wooden cabins scattered among pine trees, each one barely larger than my supply closet back at the office. A central lodge houses the communal areas. Bathrooms. Dining hall. Activity center.
"Welcome to Camp Synergy!" The facility coordinator bounces toward us with aggressive enthusiasm. Too much energy for someone not preparing for battle. "I'm Melissa! We're so excited to host your team-building retreat!"
Orla immediately shifts into manager mode, discussing logistics and schedules and meal times with military precision.
I explore.
The woods call to me. Real earth under my boots. Pine needles and decomposing leaves. A stream bubbles somewhere to the east. Small prey rustles in the undergrowth.
This place has life. Real life. Not the sterile death of office buildings.
"Everyone gather for our first team-building exercise!" Melissa yells. "Trust Falls!"
The corporate warriors assemble reluctantly, clutching their coffee thermoses like weapons.
Melissa demonstrates. "One person falls backward. Their partner catches them. It builds trust and team cohesion!"
Chad volunteers first because of course he does. He positions himself in front of a smaller colleague.
"I'm trusting you with my life, Jenkins!" Chad announces with theatrical volume, his voice echoing across the clearing as if he's declaring victory in some boardroom conquest rather than participating in a simple exercise.