Page 35 of First Comes Orc, Second Comes Baby
That damn influencer account.
It belonged to an up and coming classical dancer, an attractive young woman named Charlotte Trainor.
He shoved the covers off him right as Charlotte’s footsteps came running down the hallway, the pitter patter of dog nails following her.
The bedroom door flung open just as Brahnt surged to his feet, all but frothing with indignant rage.
She skidded to a stop, eyes wide and long ashy hair mussed, as Snowkiss ran in a circle around her, yipping.
“What’s wrong!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Is there a bug? Do you want me to kill a bug?”
Brahnt stared at her.
“Kill a bug?” He shoved his smartphone in Charlotte's face. “What is this?” He could barely speak coherently. “What is this?”
Charlotte looked at the picture, her eyes brightening, then at Brahnt's face, her eyes dimming, and began to hem and haw.
“Well, um, it’s. . .”
“My feet!” Brahnt roared.
“And sexy, masculine feet they are.”
He hated social media. He loathed that privacy wrecking disaster with a passion. And his feet were sitting on the account of a woman with twenty thousand followers. He hadn't been tagged or otherwise identified. . .but it was the principle of the matter.
He would give Charlotte one opportunity to explain before he blistered the Human’s behind with his hand. Then somehow convince her not to tell on him.
“Charlotte, why are my feet on your Instagram account?” And when the hell had she even taken the picture?
“Oh, well, I'm doing a grid this week comparing regular feet to dancer’s feet. And, I mean, you have great feet. Strong toes, well-shaped nails.” Charlotte gave him an unsure smile. “I didn't tag you or anything. I know how psychotic you are—I mean, I know one of your boundaries is not posting your face on social media.”
Brahnt tossed his phone onto the bed and took a step towards her.
Charlotte skipped a step back, eyes widening. “Do you want the phone number to my therapist? She's good with teaching emotional regulation skills.”
“Your backside is going to be red by the time I'm done with you.”
“I’m pregnant!”
“Yes. You are.” Snowkiss yipped, paused, and began to growl. Brahnt gave the bit of dandelion fluff a brief sneer, then caught himself—he wasn’t going to get in a pissing contest with a Cotonese.
Brahnt took another step forward and Charlotte, damn her, danced another step backwards, darted to the side, quick and light on her toes, then behind.
Brahnt halted and turned to face her. “Don't make me chase you. Or rather. . .do. Please. Do.”
Charlotte cocked her head. “So is this role-playing, and you're pretending to go all beast mode on me to let off some morning wood? Or is this for real?”
“Oh, it's definitely for real, Charlotte Trainor.” Another step forward.
“I don't think I want to participate.”
“I don't think you have much of a choice. Myfeetare on yourInstagramfeed.”
Charlotte's lips turned down. “That whole dubcon thing would be hot, except you said you're angry angry. So why don't we go have some breakfast—”
“You don't cook.” A sudden concern for the state of the cage-free duck eggs from a Pennsylvania farm diverted some of his ire. Please someone tell him Charlotte hadn’t touched the duck eggs.
“And for a very good reason,” Charlotte said. “But I thought this morning I would make the effort. Just like you're going to make the effort to use big boy words to express your concern rather than defaulting to being an Orc Neanderthal and expressing your anger through physical violence.”
