Page 100 of Till Orc Do Us Part
His entire body stills. Storm-black eyes snap open, searching mine. No hesitation—only a blade-straight truth in his graveled rasp: “And I you.”
Fingertips dig into my hips as he rolls us sideways, sheets snarling around our ankles. Moonlight outlines the hitch in his throat when I nip it. “Say it again.”
“You want it notarized?”
“Cheeky hellion.” His snort warms my temple as he tucks my head under his chin. One massive hand splays across my spine, holding me flush against him. “But yes. Preferably in triplicate.”
We laugh into the dark, the sound knotting with the ocean’s exhale. His tusks catch strands of my hair when he shifts—patient fingers unsnarling the mess.
“Careful,” I murmur against his sternum. “I trade in rare books, not Rapunzel cosplay.”
He huffs, breath stirring my part. “Noted.”
Salt air sweeps moonlight across the quilt as we still. His pulse drums slow and steady beneath my cheek. Armorless. New.
I kiss the hollow beneath his collarbone. His sigh tastes like absolution.
Waves lace the silence as his grip slackens. Eyelids heavy, I count the muted thud of his heart. Ten beats. Twenty. His arm tightens just before sleep drags me under—a silent vow in the restless dark.
CHAPTER 30
DROKHAZ
The beach house breathes like something alive.
It creaks and settles in the evening wind, the porch groaning softly beneath salt-heavy beams. The windows are thrown open to the sea, letting in the briny air, cool and crisp against the faint warmth of lemon oil and ink. The tide hums steady beneath it all—a low pulse that roots the night.
Inside, life sprawls in joyful chaos.
Books lean in uneven towers against the walls, some half-unpacked, others already dog-eared and loved. Jamie’s creations are everywhere—a cardboard dragon fort by the hearth, painted sea creatures taped to the windowpanes, a string of “monster safe zone” signs looped over the banister. His laughter still seems caught in the beams, as though the house remembers.
Tonight feels full in a way no tower of steel ever did.
Jamie is tucked into my side now on the couch, his head resting on my chest, curls tickling my chin. His small fist clutches the edge of our book—a story about a ship made of stars and a captain who refuses to leave lost worlds behind.
He lasted halfway through the third chapter before sleep claimed him. Now his breath is soft and slow, a warm weight grounding me here, in this impossible peace.
I keep reading anyway—low, steady, more for myself than him.
Behind us, Rowan hums tunelessly in the kitchen. I hear the clatter of mugs, the scrape of wood against wood as she rummages through drawers. Every few minutes she mutters under her breath about supplier invoices and misplaced bookmarks.
When something crashes to the floor, her sharp “damn it” floats easily through the house.
I smile against the top of Jamie’s curls. “You’re going to teach him some very creative vocabulary,” I call out.
“You say that like I’m not already three lessons ahead of you,” she fires back.
I glance toward the open kitchen archway just as she appears—shirt knotted at the waist, sleeves rolled up, pen stuck behind one ear. Flour streaks her cheek like war paint.
She smirks. “And for the record, ‘damn it to the dunes’ was all you.”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Liar.”
She crosses the room in three strides, barefoot and certain, and drops onto the arm of the couch. Her eyes flick to Jamie’s sleeping face. Her expression softens in a way that always unspools something tight in my chest.
“You’re good with him,” she says quietly.
