Page 23 of Till Orc Do Us Part
“Thank you… for the stories.”
And damn it all—I believe him.
We move on from Madame Zora’s booth, weaving past a pair of teens spray-painting chalk art along the boardwalk planks. Drokhaz walks beside me, posture straight as a blade.
I glance up at the sky. “Storm might roll in later.”
He hums low in his throat. “I will adjust.”
Of course he will.
We’re nearing the old coin-operated binoculars when it happens.
A seagull wheels overhead—white wings flashing against the blue—and lets fly.
Right onto Drokhaz’s impeccably tailored shoulder.
A perfect splatter of indignity across charcoal wool.
I clap a hand over my mouth, snorting.
Drokhaz stops. Looks down at the mess. Then up at the sky.
“This feels targeted,” he says, voice utterly flat.
That does it.
I burst out laughing—full, uncontrolled, head-tilting laughter that echoes off the weathered boards. I can’t help it. It’s too absurd. Too perfect.
When I manage to catch my breath, I find him watching me—broad frame still, dark eyes unreadable.
But his mouth—gods, his mouth—curves in the faintest of smiles.
Real. Unmasked.
Something in my chest flips.
I clear my throat, wiping my eyes. “Guess the locals wanted to weigh in.”
“Noted,” he says dryly.
I dig a napkin from my bag and hand it over. Our fingers brush—brief, warm.
“Truce,” I offer, still breathless.
His gaze holds mine. “For today.”
And damn me twice—I want another tomorrow.
CHAPTER 8
DROKHAZ
Lowtide Bluffs always smells the same in the morning—salt, fish, rotting wood, too much sun baked into every crevice. A scent that clings, no matter how far one tries to run from it.
I do not run.
But today… I need distance.
