Page 14 of My Orc Billionaire
I was no longer the starving kitling who gave up my dinners so my younger brothers could eat. I was no longer the headstrong young male who had to be fed broth because his broken jaw made eating impossible. I was a fuckingbillionaire.
But the way she’d reared back, surprise and—was that disapproval?—in her eyes had me snapping my lips together.
Then she inhaled slowly. “If I threw out the leftovers, you couldn’t eat them the next day,” she carefully explained, that green gaze meeting mine calmly.
As if she wasn’t afraid of me. As if she didn’t think I was a terrifying monster, with my scars and my claws and my anger.
This human had been like that from the first day, although only when I confronted her.
With a scowl at my own confusing response to her, I grabbed a block of cheddar from the cheese drawer—of course it was labeled—and slammed the door shut. “I don’t eat leftovers.”Any longer.
“I do,” she said quietly, turning away.
I bit into the block of cheddar to hide my irritation.
From the back, I could see how her hair had dripped rainwater down her back, causing her black shirt to stick to her skin. It outlined the curve of her spine, which absolutely shouldnotbe sensual.
It was.
This tiny female, who’d cursed at me the first time we’d met, who now tried to pretend deference, who wore the plainest black around me to stay professional, thishuman…shewas the one myKteerwas responding to?
She’d dropped the towel on the counter when she reached for the groceries, her damp hair curling at her neck. I stared at the cloth like it was proof she’d been here—bright, infuriating, unavoidable. And I hated how much I wanted her to come back.
I swallowed angrily and took another large bite.
She was putting away the groceries, and I moved out of her way, glaring at the back of her head, daring her to say something else to piss me off. But all she said was, “That cheese is smoked and aged for quite a while. It’s fifty dollars a pound, and you’re not taking the time to enjoy it.”
My brows raised, and I pulled the cheddar back to look at it. “It’s good.”
“It should be, for that price.”
Did she not understand? I bit down again on the cheese in irritation. I had more money than I could ever even imagine spending. I didn’t need much, but I was damn well going to buy the fancy cheese. It made up for a lifetime of deprivation. Hard to believe I’d never tasted cheese before I’d come to this world.
Because this cheddar was fucking amazing.
But a sudden realization had me pulling it away once more. “Was this for something? A recipe?”
She shot me a glance over her shoulder as she stood at the pantry, her lips curled just slightly. “It was for you to snack on. Now that I know you like it, and you don’t mind the price, I’ll order more.”
I frowned.
That was…kind. She was being kind. Not just doing her job but beingkind. She’d learned my schedule, made food she knew I’d like, and how was I repaying her? By eating her cheese.
When she turned to pick up something else from the grocery sack, I stepped forward and slammed the half-eaten block of cheddar on top of the glass container of last night’s pie. “There. Now it’s with the rest of the leftovers. Don’t throw out the cheese though.”
Her smile was soft and,yes dammit, kind when she turned back to the fridge. “I wasn’t going to throw out the butternut ravioli either, Abydos. You might not eat it, but I made a double batch soIcould eat it.”
“That’s stupid, female. You eat what I eat.”
Those dark wing-link brows of hers took flight, and I saw irritation flash in her green eyes. “My name isRiven.”
Shit. “Riven,” I grumbled, crossing my arms. “You’re a good cook.” There, that compliment didn’t hurt too much. “Just eat whatever you’re making for me. We don’t have to eat together to share the food.”
Her little huff of exasperation was almost…cute? She—Riven—shook her head as she crossed back to thefridge, her hips swaying too close to me as she passed. “Idoeat the same things, Abydos. I just don’t like lamb, so I was planning on leftover ravioli tonight.Youlike lamb chops, you said, so I’m making them.”
My frown deepened. She was making me something that she didn’t like to eat? “That’s stupid,” I muttered again.
And this time she whirled on me, her hands slapping against her hips, the open refrigerator outlining her frustration. “How is that stupid? Cooking for you—making you food you like—is myjob! I want to keep my job! I’m making you what you like!”
