Page 13 of My Orc Billionaire
Because I was hungry.
I stalked toward the kitchen.
I knew before I arrived that my little personal chef wasn’t there. Her presence was stamped on thiskitchen now—her scent, her sounds. She was always humming or mumbling to herself, apparently not realizing how good my hearing was, or she wouldn’t complain about me quite so often under her breath.
I should likely threaten her job for that, but…I don’t know. Her quiet strength impressed me. Ilikedthat she’d gotten over her fear and stood up to me that first day. No one had ever cursed at me the way she had.
She thought I didn’t notice her, but my new chef was so determined not to make a sound when she tiptoed around the house, it was all I could hear. Hells, I even noticed when she held her breath walking past my office.
And in the last week, she’d learned my routine, learned how I took my coffee, learned which foods I liked. In the mornings, my breakfast—something different each day, but still within the bounds of my preferences—waited for me when I entered the dining room. Lunch and dinner were served when I was ready, but she kept her eyes down and her wit to herself.
She was no different than any other personal chef I’d had over the years, except…she washuman. She’d learned my routine and my wishes and did her best to avoid me.
I didn’t like it.
Maybe that’s why I was invading her domain now, in the hopes of startling her. Except, when I entered the kitchen, she wasn’t there, as I’d suspected.
There were little changes she’d made, personal touches. An unfamiliar apron hung from a hook by thedoor, and there was a centerpiece—autumn leaves and gourds and a grapevine—on the table near the bay window.
The window was open, letting in the cold breeze and the rain, and I found myself tipping my head toward it, allowing the wind to caress my scars. I’d missed this.
Had I spent too long inside?WatchingMalla the Beginner’s creations, instead of reveling in them?
A particularly strong gust of wind rifled through my hair, and I sucked in a breath, just as I heard a door slam down the hallway to the garage. I recognized her footsteps—she was running—and I was turning to face the doorway when she burst through, breathless, laughing, her arms full of grocery sacks…and soaking wet.
“Oh!” she exclaimed as she carefully set the bags on the high counter. “You’re here.”
“And you’re dripping everywhere,” I grumbled, bending to wrench open the drawer with the kitchen towels. “Here.” I tossed it to her, even as I turned away, not wanting to see the way the raindrops clung to her eyelashes. “Why didn’t you park in the garage?”
“Because the garage is foryourcars,” she announced cheerfully, her voice a little muffled as she dried her hair. “I just park in the driveway.”
Another stiff breeze, and I shut my eyes, trying not to imagine what she looked like, her eyes bright, her cheeks flushed, her hair sticking to her skin… Deep in my chest, myKteerrumbled possessively.
Fuck you, she’s a human.
A human who made all my favorite dishes, yeah, but still a human. A monster capable of so much hate and violence and viciousness…
Riven hasn’t shown any of that. She doesn’t flinch from your scars.
“Are you hungry?” she asked, still breathing hard from her run in from the rain. “I’m making lamb chops tonight, but I could throw together a charcuterie board or something?—”
“I can find myself a snack,” I growled, turning away to wrench open the refrigerator. “Go get dried off.”
“Oh, I’m fine now.” I could hear her moving behind me, as I pretended to study the meticulously organized fridge. “I need to get this stuff put away before I take a break.”
Yeah, she was good at that, organizing and arranging. I suppose she was used to it, but it suited me, the way everything was labeled and set in its place. The simplicity appealed to me, and I wondered if this had anything to do with the way myKteerreacted to her.
You’re not getting a hard-on around your chef because you like the way shelabelsyour godsdamn refrigerator shelves.
And why in all the hells was I getting a hard-on at all? She was ahuman. Ihatedhumans, didn’t I? Even humans who labeled each shelf in the fridge like “condiments” or “veggies” or…
“You sure I can’t help—” she began, but I interrupted her.
“Leftovers? Why do you have a space for leftovers?” I jabbed my finger at the lidded container. “This is last night’s butternut squash ravioli with the sage brown butter, isn’t it?”
“Do you want it?” I could hear her moving toward me. “I could heat it up?—”
I turned to snarl at her, “Why the shit would you worry about leftovers? Just toss it!”
