Page 10 of Till Orc Do Us Part
Instead, I sit in the dark, watching him sleep. The room smells of lavender and sea salt, soft notes from the candle I lit earlier. Outside, wind rattles the old window latch. Inside, my heart won’t stop fighting itself.
I want to hate Drokhaz Vellum. I want to rage against his cold suits and colder plans.
But tonight, my son sleeps with a smile—because a green-skinned giant let him dream out loud.
And that?
That terrifies me more than anything.
CHAPTER 4
DROKHAZ
The Gilded Page is smaller than I expected.
Not small in size—though it is—but small in that way old places get, edges softened by years of hands and laughter and grief. The door creaks like a stubborn memory when I push through it. The bell overhead jingles once, sharp and bright.
Inside, the air tastes of old paper, sea salt, and cinnamon. I stand there a moment, taking it in—this strange cocoon she’s built from stories.
A voice rises from behind the counter. “We’re closed in fifteen.”
Her.
I step farther in, slow and deliberate.
“I won’t be long.”
Rowan Moore looks up from a stack of battered hardcovers, eyes narrowing the instant she sees me. Her mouth tightens into a thin line. There’s ink on her fingers—fresh. A smudge of flour at her temple.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” she says flatly. “Did you lose another notebook?”
“No. I’m here… researching.”
She snorts, leaning back against the counter, arms folded. “Researching what? How to gut a town one bookstore at a time?”
I ignore the barb, letting my gaze drift over the shelves. They’re packed to bursting—books stacked horizontally when vertical space runs out, slips of paper marking local favorites. A shelf labeled “Boardwalk Lore” catches my eye, heavy with self-published histories and faded photographs.
Above the window, strings of dried lavender sway gently in the sea breeze.
Not sterile. Not efficient.
Alive.
“Local color,” I say finally. “Understanding the market.”
Rowan laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Because billionaires care about bookshop margins.”
“I care about human behavior.”
She arches a brow. “We’re not rats in a maze.”
“No,” I agree. “Rats don’t fight this hard for splinters.”
Her glare sharpens. For a moment, I almost admire the way she holds her ground. No mask. No polish. Just steel wrapped in worn wool.
I move through the store with deliberate slowness, sensing her gaze tracking me like a hawk. The shelves whisper beneath my fingers, spines worn from a thousand unknown stories.
A small voice pipes up from the corner.
