Page 32 of Till Orc Do Us Part
I sway slightly. The boards feel less steady beneath my feet than they should.
Rowan curses. “Stubborn bastard. Come on.”
Before I can protest, she grabs my uninjured arm with surprising strength and starts dragging me toward the bookstore.
I do not resist.
Should resist.
But her touch is warm, grounding.
We reach the door. She fumbles with the lock, shoves it open, hauls me inside. The storm fades behind us, muffled by old glass and wood.
I take one step—and the room tilts sideways.
Rowan catches me hard around the waist. “Oh no you don’t.”
She kicks the door shut, bolts it, then half-guides, half-drags me toward the stairs.
“Up,” she orders. “You’re not bleeding all over my floor.”
I manage a breathless chuckle. “Pragmatic as ever.”
“Damn right.” Her jaw is set, eyes fierce.
We reach the landing. She pushes open a door into a small upstairs room—cozy, cluttered, warm despite the storm outside. A faded quilt lies folded on a worn armchair. Shelves sag with books and knickknacks.
“Sit,” she says again. I obey this time, sinking onto the bed.
Rowan vanishes into the bathroom. I hear cabinets bang, the clatter of a first aid kit.
Then she’s back, kneeling beside me, fingers gentle but sure as she peels away my soaked jacket and shirt.
Her breath hitches when she sees the wound.
“Damn it, Drokhaz,” she whispers.
I watch her work, expression unreadable. Her hands tremble slightly at first, then steady as she cleans the gash, dabs antiseptic, presses gauze against raw skin.
“Why?” she asks softly.
I frown. “Why what?”
“Why risk yourself for this place?”
I consider the question.
“For the people,” I say finally. “For the stories.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, sharp. “You mean that.”
“I do.”
She swallows. “You’re a damn mystery.”
“So are you,” I murmur.
Our eyes lock.
