Chapter 8 Thraka #2
Jenkins, a thin accountant who looks like he's never lifted anything heavier than a stapler, stares at Chad's broad shoulders with the expression of a man facing his own execution. His hands tremble slightly as he positions himself, adjusting his glasses with nervous fingers.
Chad doesn't wait for confirmation. He falls backward with complete abandon, arms crossed over his chest like a corporate corpse.
Jenkins catches him, barely. His knees buckle under Chad's weight, his arms shaking with the effort.
They both stumble sideways in an awkward shuffle, Jenkins's feet sliding in the dirt as he struggles to maintain balance.
For a moment it looks like they'll both crash to the ground, but Jenkins somehow manages to keep them upright through sheer desperation and what must be pure adrenaline.
"Beautiful demonstration of trust and teamwork!" Melissa claps her hands together with manic enthusiasm, apparently choosing to ignore Jenkins's terrified expression and the fact that he's still breathing hard from the effort. "Who's next?"
Orla steps forward because she cannot resist demonstrating proper procedure. She positions herself, arms crossed over her chest, back straight.
"I'll catch the lady!" Chad volunteers, stepping forward with that same aggressive confidence he demonstrated during his own fall. He positions himself behind Orla, already reaching out as if it's a foregone conclusion.
Absolutely not.
Not happening. Not in this lifetime. Not in any timeline where I draw breath.
I move faster than I've moved all day, crossing the gap between us in two powerful strides. I step directly between them, my bulk creating an impenetrable wall. Chad has to stumble backward to avoid colliding with my chest.
"I will catch her," I state, my voice leaving no room for negotiation or debate.
Chad's face flushes red, his jaw tightening with barely suppressed irritation. His hands clench at his sides. "I was offering to help with the exercise. You know, being a team player. Contributing to group dynamics—"
"Your offer is rejected." I take position behind Orla, planting my feet. "Fall, Little Manager."
She glances back over her shoulder at me, and for just a fraction of a second, I see something I've never witnessed before on Orla Peace's carefully controlled face: genuine uncertainty.
It flickers across her sharp, angular features like a candle flame in wind, vulnerable, exposed, entirely at odds with the woman who terrorizes quarterly budget meetings with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a disappointed sigh.
Her grey eyes search mine, looking for something. Reassurance, perhaps. Guarantee. The kind of iron-clad contract she'd normally require in triplicate with witness signatures.
"You'll catch me?" Her voice is quieter than usual, stripped of its typical corporate authority. Just Orla, asking a question she already knows will determine whether she goes through with this ridiculous exercise.
I meet her gaze steadily, letting all the certainty I possess flow into that single word, making it a vow more binding than any document she's ever drafted.
"Always."
Something shifts in her expression—a decision made, a calculation completed, a leap of faith taken by a woman who builds her entire existence on measurable outcomes and risk assessments.
She falls.
I catch her easily, her weight nothing in my arms. For a moment, I hold her there, suspended, her back against my heart, her hair brushing my jaw.
"See?" I murmur into her ear, my breath warm against the shell of it. "Trust."
Her pulse hammers visibly at her throat, a rapid flutter beneath that pale, corporate skin that never sees enough sunlight. The tension in her body wants to believe that maybe the world won't collapse if she relinquishes control for thirty seconds.
"Put me down," she whispers, but her voice lacks the conviction that usually accompanies her directives. It's the tone of someone going through the motions of protest while secretly not minding the outcome.
I set her on her feet gently, reluctantly releasing my hold. She immediately smooths down her blouse with brisk, efficient movements, rebuilding her armor of professionalism.
"Next!" Melissa chirps with renewed enthusiasm, apparently interpreting this as a breakthrough moment.
Chad steps up for his turn as the faller, cracking his knuckles with performative confidence. He positions himself at the designated falling spot, then looks at me expectantly, like he's granting me some kind of honor.
I look back at him with the same blank expression I use when someone tries to explain "synergy" to me.
He falls backward, arms crossed over his chest in textbook trust-fall position.
I step aside with deliberate casualness, examining my fingernails as though something fascinating has just appeared beneath them.
He hits the dirt hard, air whooshing from his lungs in an undignified grunt that echoes across the clearing.
"Oops." I examine my fingernails. "Instinct. Thought you were attacking. Warrior reflexes."
Orla's hand flies to her mouth, but not fast enough to completely muffle the sound that escapes, something between a snort and a laugh.
Her shoulders begin shaking with the effort of suppressing what is clearly hysterical amusement.
The corporate mask slips for just a moment, and I catch a glimpse of genuine, unfiltered delight dancing in her eyes before she turns away, pretending to cough into her fist.
Meanwhile, Chad remains sprawled on the ground like a fallen tree, wheezing pathetically as he tries to remember how lungs work.
There's a streak of dirt smeared dramatically across his designer polo, the expensive kind with the little embroidered logo that probably cost more than my entire suit.
His carefully styled hair has acquired a light dusting of forest debris, and a small twig has somehow become lodged behind his ear, completing his transformation from corporate hotshot to woodland casualty.
"That's okay!" Melissa maintains aggressive cheerfulness despite the disaster. "Let's try some different exercises!"
Three hours of team building later, we gather at the lodge for cabin assignments.
Melissa consults her clipboard with increasing concern. "There's been a booking error."
"Error?" Orla's manager voice activates immediately. "I confirmed these reservations three weeks ago. I have email documentation—"
"I know, I'm so sorry." Melissa looks genuinely distressed. "But we had a last-minute group cancellation, and the system got confused, and somehow we're one cabin short."
"Then someone shares."
"All the cabins are already at capacity. Two people per cabin, except—" She checks her clipboard again. "Mr. Thraka's reservation shows he's in Cabin Seven, which is our smallest accommodation. And Ms. Peace, you're listed for Cabin Seven as well."
Orla's eyes narrow with suspicion.
I keep my expression neutral. The booking agent was very understanding after I explained that separating me from Orla would result in severe team cohesion problems. And possibly property damage.
"That's unacceptable," Orla begins. "I'll take alternate arrangements—"
"There are no alternates," Melissa interrupts gently. "Unless someone wants to sleep in the activity center. Or pitch a tent in the camping area, but it's supposed to rain tonight—"
"We will manage this challenge with honor," I announce loudly, slapping my chest once for emphasis. The sound echoes across the lodge's main room. "Cabin Seven is more than acceptable. It will serve our purposes well."
Orla turns her head slowly toward me, her expression carefully controlled but her eyes blazing with barely suppressed fury.
The look she gives me is sharp enough to cut steel, a silent promise of elaborate and creative retribution that will be delivered at the most inconvenient moment possible.
I recognize that particular glare as the same one she uses when someone schedules a meeting that could have been an email, only intensified by a factor of ten.
I smile back at her innocently.
"Perfect! Here's your key!" Melissa hands over an actual metal key attached to a wooden tag. Very primitive. I approve.
Cabin Seven is barely larger than a closet.
One room. One tiny bathroom. One window overlooking pine trees.
One twin bed.
The bed is absurdly small—comically, insultingly small.
It looks like furniture designed for children or perhaps very polite hobbits.
Barely big enough for Orla to stretch out in, let alone accommodate both of us.
I could probably sleep diagonally across it and still have my feet dangling off the edge.
If we both tried to fit, we'd be pressed together tighter than warriors in a shield wall.
I start laughing. Deep, genuine laughter that rumbles up from my chest and echoes off the wooden walls, bouncing around the cramped cabin like thunder in a canyon.
The kind of laughter that comes when the universe presents you with something so perfectly ridiculous that you can't help but appreciate the comedy of it all.
"This isn't funny," Orla hisses, dropping her perfectly organized luggage just inside the door. "This is a disaster. This is completely inappropriate. This is—"
"Perfect," I finish, grinning wider. "Cozy. Like a warrior's tent before battle."
"Microscopic," she corrects sharply, her voice climbing half an octave. "Like a sardine can. Like a coffin for two."
"Intimate," I counter, letting the word roll off my tongue with deliberate slowness, watching her cheeks flush.
She presses her fingers to her temples like she's physically restraining her brain from exploding. "I'll sleep on the floor."
"With your bad back? The one that makes you wince when you've been staring at spreadsheets too long?" I shake my head. "Absolutely not."
"Then you take the bed. You're the guest."
"I'm the warrior. I've slept on rocks, on frozen ground, on the corpses of my enemies." That last one makes her eyes widen in horror. "Joking. Mostly. The floor here is luxury."
I drop my metal box of belongings, the battered thing that serves as my briefcase, packed with emergency rations and a change of clothes that definitely won't fit the dress code, onto the floor with a satisfying thunk.
The whole cabin seems to shake from the impact.
I start scanning the limited floor space, already calculating which section will be least uncomfortable for my considerable frame.
Maybe near the door, where I can stretch my legs into the tiny bathroom area.
Or perhaps by the window, where the draft will keep me alert and—
"Wait."
I turn, slowly, every muscle in my body suddenly tense with anticipation.
Orla stands by the bed, fingers twisting together. Her armor is cracking. The Ice Queen melting into something softer, more uncertain.
"You don't have to," she whispers, and her voice is so quiet I almost miss it over the relentless pounding of rain against the cabin's metal roof.
My heart pounds like war drums, like I'm standing at the edge of a battlefield facing down an entire army, knowing the fight ahead will change everything.
Blood rushes in my ears. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hyperaware of the scant few feet between us, the warmth radiating from her body, the way her fingers have stopped their nervous twisting and now hang motionless at her sides.
I swallow hard, trying to make my voice work properly. "Take the floor, you mean?" The words come out rougher than I intend, gravel and want mixing together in a way I can't disguise. "Because I'm happy to—"
"Yes." She meets my eyes. "We're adults. We can share. Platonically. For space efficiency."
"Space efficiency," I repeat slowly.
"Right." She nods, convincing herself. "Just sleeping. Nothing else. Professional boundaries maintained."
I take one step toward her, my bare feet silent against the wooden floorboards despite my size. The area between us shrinks. Then another step, slower this time, deliberate, giving her every opportunity to retreat, to rebuild those walls she's so carefully constructed around herself.
She doesn't move away. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't reach for her armor of spreadsheets and protocols and five-year plans. She just stands there, watching me approach with those sharp eyes that have begun to soften at the edges, her chest rising and falling with each breath she takes.
"Little Manager." I stop just before touching her. "If I get in that bed with you, professional boundaries will not survive the night."
Her breath hitches. "Maybe I don't want them to."
The last thread of my control snaps.