Page 16 of Rapunzel's Outlaw Orc
“Maybe I can make a ladder and find a way out through the roof.”
“You weigh three times more than that table,” I pointed out, biting back a laugh as he balanced one foot on the wobbly chair.
“I’m agile,” he replied.
“You’re an orc.”
He fell, crashing to the floor.
And this morning? He’s rambling about stacked furniture and talking to the roots.
“You and I both know she doesn’t belong here,” he mutters, crouched in front of the gnarled floor where my hair merges with the wood.
He’s dressed in his leather pants and the shirt I stitched back together, now a charming blend of rugged brown fabric and dainty flower print. And somehow, he still looks edible.
“You’re bargaining with sentient hair now?” I ask, arms crossed.
He looks up, unbothered. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Did it talk back?”
“It twitched.”
“That might’ve been me sneezing.”
He sighs and stands. “I’m running out of ideas.”
The kettle hisses on the stove, and Brannock crosses to make us both tea. He moves with surprising grace for someone so massive. I watch him lean against the wall as the water boils, arms crossed over his chest, foot braced casually behind him.
My breath catches.
He’s unfairly attractive. Tall and broad and scarred and green. He should be terrifying. But when he looks at me, he feels like safety.
I glance away, flustered, only to notice the roots curling along the base of the wall. They move slowly. Rhythmically.
Like breath.
Like…
“Pulsing,” I whisper.
Brannock shifts, looking guilty. His hand darts to the front of his pants. “Pardon?”
“The roots,” I say, already walking toward them. “They’re pulsing. Like a heartbeat.”
I kneel and press my hand against one thick coil of root. It twitches beneath my palm, alive and warm. Not like a plant. Not like something separate.
Like an extension of myself.
My other hand flies to my chest, fingers splayed over my sternum. I hold my breath… and feel it.
The thrum of my heartbeat matches the pulse in the root.
“They're synced with me,” I breathe. “My hair... It’s not just connected to the tower. Itisthe tower. The roots are growing fromme.”
Brannock crouches beside the root, frowning. “I’ve never seen magic like this.”
I have. Bits and pieces. Little clues I didn’t want to fit together. The way my hair tangles when I’m upset. How the roots swell and writhe when I’m lonely. The way the floorboards creak and tremble when I cry.
