Page 62 of Thankful for My Orc
I catch Forge’s eye and see the question there: Are you okay with this? Instead of embarrassment, I feel a surge of pride. After everything we went through to get here, I’m not ashamed that everyone can tell we belong to each other.
For so long, I’d been the woman who kept her heart hidden behind professionalism and self-protection. But standing here, with his people looking on and Forge’s pride shining through me like sunlight, I feel something I never expected—peace.
“Thank you, Kam,” I say, lifting my chin slightly. “I’m pretty happy about it myself.”
The approval in Kam’s expression is immediate and genuine. “That’s the spirit. Come on, let me introduce you properly to everyone as Forge’s mate.”
Introductions follow in a whirlwind of names and faces. A few I met the night of speed dating, most are new to me. Thrall, quiet and thoughtful, with his mate Amelia, who advocates for Others’ rights.
Ryder is another firefighter who nods politely but seems more interested in observing than talking. I notice him helping set the tables with quiet efficiency, and when a small child drops her toy and starts to cry, he crouches to her level and whispers something that makes her giggle.
There’s something almost magnetic about his gentleness—the way he moves through the room like he’s trying not to take up too much space, despite being easily as tall as Forge.
“Ryder’s got that magic touch with anything that’s scared or hurt,” Kam mentions, following my gaze. “Kids, animals, it doesn’t matter. He volunteers at an animal sanctuary every weekend.”
“Animal sanctuary?” My interest is immediately piqued.
“Yeah, some place that takes in animals people have given up on. Ryder’s been going there for months, says it helps him think.” Kam grins. “Course, we all suspect he just likes having somewhere peaceful to hide from my terrible jokes.”
I file that information away, something about Ryder’s quiet competence and obvious kindness making me think he’s someone special waiting to be discovered. Other firefighters and their partners, whose names I try desperately to remember, welcome me with varying degrees of enthusiasm but universal acceptance.
It strikes me again as we’re finding seats that this isn’t just Forge’s workplace—it’s his chosen family. The easy way they tease each other, look after each other’s children, and include partners and spouses in everything. It’s the kind of community I’ve been searching for without realizing it.
Chief Brokka stands at the head of the gathering, his commanding presence somehow softened by the domestic setting. He raises his hand to get attention, and the room gradually quiets.
“Before we eat,” he begins, his deep voice carrying easily across the space, “we honor an old tradition. One that connects us to An’Wa, to the families we lost, and to the family we’ve built here.”
He gestures to a small table near the serving area where a simple arrangement sits—a piece of rough-hewn wood, a bowl of water,and several small candles. Earth, water, and fire. The elements of home.
“We call this the Gratitude Naming,” Forge whispers to me. “Everyone names something they’re grateful for this year. It’s… intense sometimes.”
Brokka begins. “I’m grateful for new beginnings.” His hand finds Marissa’s, and the look they exchange speaks volumes. “For a matewho sees past differences to the person underneath. For a child on the way who will grow up knowing both worlds.”
Marissa goes next, her voice surprisingly steady. “I’m grateful for courage. For the strength to choose love over fear, and for a community that welcomed me even when it had every reason not to.”
One by one, voices rise around the room. Some speak in English, others in orcish or naga or languages I don’t recognize. But the emotion transcends the words.
Thrall’s voice is quiet but firm: “For second chances and females brave enough to demand I take them.”
Amelia beside him: “For finding home in the most unexpected place.”
Kam, with his trademark grin somehow softened: “For Emma, who makes every day brighter, even when I tell terrible jokes.”
Emma: “For laughter and belonging. For finding family where I least expected it.”
Then it’s Forge’s turn. His hand tightens on mine as he stands, pulling me up with him. “I’m grateful for lightning strikes,” he says, and several orcs chuckle knowingly. “For a woman brave enough to take a chance on random selection. For every moment that led us here.”
All eyes turn to me. My throat tightens, but I force the words out, meaning every syllable. “I’m grateful for patience. For an orc who saw past my walls and decided I was worth the wait. For learning that family isn’t always what you’re born into—sometimes it’s what you choose.”
Everyone’s acceptance wraps around me like a warm blanket. This isn’t just dinner—it’s a claiming of a different kind. I’m being welcomed not just as Forge’s mate, but as part of this fierce, loyal, chosen family.
The feast itself is a revelation. The long tables groan under the weight of dishes that represent not just Thanksgiving, but a collision of cultures and traditions.
The centerpiece is a massive roasted turkey, but it’s the surrounding dishes that tell the real story of the Zone. Forge ladleskhalvaqonto my plate—a traditional harvest grain recipe fragrant with spices I can’t name.
“Try this with the naga rolls,” Sarai suggests, indicating the delicate leaf-wrapped creations she contributed. Thrall’s mate Amelia warns me about the addictive minotaur honey-bread while sneaking an extra piece onto her own plate.
Every dish represents a different culture, a different story—wolven-roasted vegetables, human green bean casserole, and at least three kinds of pie all sharing space on the groaning tables. This isn’t just dinner; it’s integration made edible.
