Page 43 of Till Orc Do Us Part
He holds my gaze. “I care more than you think.”
I shake my head. “That’s not enough.”
“Perhaps not.” His voice dips lower. “But it is truth.”
The air snaps taut.
I can’t breathe.
Can’t look away.
“Drokhaz—” My voice breaks.
He steps closer, slow, deliberate. Not touching—but close enough I feel the heat rolling off him.
“Rowan.”
One word.
Gods, my name should not sound like that on his tongue.
I should move. Shove him back. Throw every wall I have left between us.
I don’t.
Neither does he.
Our breaths tangle. His gaze drops to my mouth. My pulse stutters.
The gap between us feels too small. Too charged.
Just before I do something irrevocable, the bell above the door jangles sharp.
I flinch back like burned.
Mrs. Calhoun bustles in, raincoat dripping. “Morning, Rowan! Oh—I didn’t realize you had company.”
Drokhaz steps smoothly aside, mask sliding back into place. “Good day, ma’am.”
I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. “Morning, Mrs. Calhoun.”
My hands shake as I grab the next box.
Because nothing in this store—not the storm, not the books, not even the damn sketchbook upstairs—has shaken me like that almost-kiss just did.
And I don’t know what scares me more.
That he’s starting to matter.
Or that part of me wants him to.
Mrs. Calhoun lingers only a few minutes, chattering about storm damage and poetry night, oblivious to the tension still thick in the air.
I play my part—polite nods, strained smiles. My pulse hasn’t slowed once.
Drokhaz stands near the door, composed as ever, arms folded. But I can feel it—that undercurrent thrumming between us. Every glance, every small movement sings along the frayed edge of my nerves.
When Mrs. Calhoun finally bustles out with a paper-wrapped novel under her arm.
