Page 47 of Thankful for My Orc
His scent is stronger here, saturating the space like he’s marked every surface as his own. Cedar, smoke, and lemon oil—it creates an intoxicating combination that makes me want to press my face against his neck and just breathe him in.
When I look up at him, his pupils have dilated, and I realize he can probably smell my arousal. The thought should embarrass me, but instead it sends a thrill down my spine. His enhanced senses mean he knows exactly what effect he has on me.
His posture is taller, prouder, as he moves around this space. More grounded, more confident, like stepping into his domain transforms him into exactly who he’s meant to be.
“This is where I think best,” he says, running his palm across a scarred workbench. “Where I remember I can make things that last.”
I trail my fingers across the smooth surface of the rocking chair, marveling at the craftsmanship. “You made this?”
“For my grandmother. She’s been complaining about her back lately, and I thought she might like something custom-made for her.” His voice goes soft with affection. “She’s not a blood relative, but she raised me after I came through the Rift alone, taught me everything about being an orc that the Integration Zone couldn’t teach.”
The love in his voice makes my chest tighten with affection. “I’m sure she’ll treasure it.”
“I hope so.” He moves to a shallow drawer under the main bench and lifts out a cloth bundle tied with twine. “Before we start anything… I made something for you. Two things, actually.” He holds the bundle out with careful hands. “I know we agreed not to give each other any grand gestures, but—”
“Forge.” I reach for the package before he can second-guess himself. “Show me.”
I untie the twine and peel back the soft red cloth to reveal a bookmark carved from mahogany, my initials etched in graceful script along one edge. Beneath it rests a letter opener shaped to fit a smaller hand than his, the mahogany wood polished to a warm glow.
“These are beautiful,” I breathe, running my thumb along the smooth surface of the bookmark. “When did you make them?”
“Since we pulled this experience out of the Ziploc. I wanted…” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “I wanted you to have something that might remind you of tonight. Of this. I lookedup your law firm online and saw a picture of your office—everything’s mahogany.”
The realization hits hard. No one has ever made me something so personal, so thoughtful. David’s gifts were always expensive and impersonal—jewelry chosen by a sales associate, flowers ordered through his assistant. These pieces, carved by Forge’s own hands from the same dark wood that fills my office, feel infinitely more precious.
“Thank you,” I say, meaning it completely. “I love them.”
His smile is radiant, made wicked by the glimpse of his tusks catching the light—sharp, primal, and yet somehow inviting, a reminder of just how much raw power is restrained behind his gentle demeanor.
“Jordan,” he says quietly, his hand finding mine. “I need to tell you something.”
My heart hammers, instinctively knowing this isn’t about woodworking. “Okay?”
“I’m falling in love with you.” The words are simple, direct, and they hit with the same intensity as a caress—heated, intimate, impossible to ignore. “Maybe I already have. I know it’s fast, I know we’re still figuring this out, but I needed you to know.”
I should be terrified. Instead, I feel like I can finally breathe. There are words on the tip of my tongue, and I know I should say something, but this is too important to rush. I scan my body for clues about how I’m feeling because I don’t know if I can trustmy mind. Or maybe it’s my body I don’t trust. Luckily, they’re both screaming the same thing at me—TELL HIM.
“I love you too,” I whisper, the truth of it undeniable. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The workshop’s quiet wraps around us like a shelter while my pulse pounds in my ears. “It scares me how much, but I do.”
The truth leaves me trembling, raw and exposed, but also alive in a way I’ve never been. It’s like stepping into fire and finding out it doesn’t burn—it consumes, it transforms.
This male should never play poker because his emotions are so easy to read. His expression shifts from surprised to awed and then settles into sheer happiness. His gorgeous amber eyes seem to light from within, and he’s smiling so widely, showing off so much of his tusks, that they would scare someone who didn’t know it wasn’t aggression, but a sign of supreme happiness.
He steps closer and embraces me in a tight hug. It’s not sexual so much as a statement of how much affection he has for me. His fingers thread through my hair, then cradle my head as he bestows the sweetest kiss on me.
“I’ve wanted to say that for a while.” He pulls back to look at me. “I hope it won’t bother you if I say it a few more times.”
He’s so loveable as he says it five more times, once with amazement that he gets to have those three syllables on his lips, then with increasing fervor, until he finally gives it one silly iteration (probably after realizing how lovesick he sounds). It breaks the tension, and we pull apart, laughing.
“Although I’m better with legal briefs than actual sharp objects, can you show me what you’re working on? I need to… touch something solid right now… other than you.”
The calm look on his face tells me he gets it, that he understands I need to break the moment until I regain my bearings. “What did you have in mind when you planned this adventure?”
He pulls a piece of pine toward us, smooth and pale. “Something simple. A cutting board. Something you can use.”
“Will I still have all my fingers at the end of this?”
“I’ll be right there with you every step of the way,” he promises. “Besides, we’re starting with hand tools. The most dangerous thing you’ll encounter is a splinter.”
