Page 42 of Till Orc Do Us Part
Drokhaz stands in the doorway, suit damp at the edges, sleeves rolled. No sign of strain from last night’s injury.
He shouldn’t look this good. It’s unfair.
“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” I say coolly.
“Nor I,” he replies, voice low. “But the storm left matters needing attention.”
I cross my arms. “And you thought you’d start with my shop?”
“I saw the delivery truck. I wished to ensure you were not short-handed.”
Of course. Practical. Efficient.
And yet—his gaze flickers. Lingers. Like he’s thinking of the same damn sketchbook I found this morning.
The BrightDrop kid fumbles with the cart. A box tips, lands with a dullthudagainst Drokhaz’s leg.
“Shit, sorry!” the kid yelps.
“I am unharmed,” Drokhaz says, steadying the box with one hand.
I move to help, but so does he. Our fingers brush—warm, rough skin against mine.
I jerk back too fast.
“Careful,” he murmurs.
“I’ve got it,” I snap. “You should be resting that arm.”
A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or challenge.
“I heal quickly.”
“Still reckless.”
“Still standing.”
The heat between us hums—sharp-edged and too loud.
I grab the box, set it firmly on the counter. He moves to stack the next one, sleeves riding higher, revealing the bandage beneath.
I glare. “You shouldn’t even be lifting.”
“Neither should you,” he counters. “Yet here we are.”
Gods. He’s impossible.
“You don’t get it,” I grit out. “You can’t just—insert yourself—into this place, this town, and expect it to bend for you.”
He straightens, gaze steady. “I do not seek to bend it.”
“Really? Because your plans say otherwise.”
“Plans change.”
The words hang between us, heavier than the storm ever was.
I swallow hard. “And what—you suddenly care now? After weeks of threatening to tear it all down?”
