Page 32 of Built Orc Tough
“Exactly.”
I narrow my eyes. “And that’s a good thing?”
His lips twitch. “It’s the best thing.”
Nope. Not doing this right now.
I spin on my heel and stalk off again, cheeks flaming, heart thundering like it’s auditioning for a war drum solo.
Behind me, I swear I hear him laugh. Just once. Just enough to make me grit my teeth and mutter, “Stupid, charming, emotionally-constipated oak tree of a man.”
I don’t stop walking until I’m out of earshot.
And I don’t stop smiling, either.
CHAPTER 14
GORRAN
There’s a moment, just before mischief, where the air shifts. You taste it—right behind your molars. That slow, curling grin that starts not because something is funny, but because you’re about to do something that absolutely is.
I’ve been watching Ivy stomp around since the market, muttering under her breath like the mint offended her ancestors. Whatever storm she’s dancing with, she’s not ready to talk about it. But she’s not hiding it either. That tells me two things: one, she’s not mad at me. Two, she’s mad at herself. Which means the best cure isn’t sympathy—it’s strategy.
I wait until she leaves for the midday delivery, humming some murdery tune under her breath, and then I move.
First: the labels.
Every one of her meticulously handwritten tags—‘rosehip’, ‘wild lavender’, ‘sun blossom’, etc.—I carefully replace with their orcish equivalents. Bold, blocky script that looks like it’s been carved rather than written. She’ll figure it out eventually, but it’s gonna take time and possibly a translator.
Second: the plant relocation.
I’m not reckless. I know which ones like shade and which ones need sun like they need gossip. But I still move them.Subtly. Just a few inches here, a new windowsill there. Enough to spark suspicion but not chaos.
By the time she returns, the shop is pristine. Innocent. Waiting.
She walks in and halts mid-step. Her eyes narrow. “Why does it smell like sabotage in here?”
I raise a brow, completely unbothered. “Smells like eucalyptus and peace.”
She stalks over to the tincture shelf, frowns at the label on the ‘marigold’ bottle. “What is this? Did the pixies finally unionize?”
I glance over. “It says ‘khar’thum.’ Classic orcish. Means ‘sunblossom.’ Thought I’d help expand your botanical vocabulary.”
She glares. “You replaced my labels with orcish?”
I nod solemnly. “Language immersion builds memory retention.”
Her mouth opens like she’s about to yell. Then it snaps shut.
This is the dangerous part. The plotting part. I can practically hear her brain assembling a battle plan.
“Fine,” she says sweetly, which is how you know it’s a trap. “Language immersion. Great.”
She vanishes upstairs for an hour. Too long. Dangerously long.
When I come back from grinding elderroot, the apothecary counter is shimmering. At first, I think it’s dust in the sunlight. Then I realize—it’s glitter. No. Pollen. And glitter. She mixed shimmerleaf pollen with actual craft glitter. My whole workspace looks like a disco druid’s fever dream.
The sneezing starts almost instantly.
