Page 6

She nods again and hurries out of the room. But as she passes, I glimpse her face. There's a new awareness there, a spark of something that wasn't there before.

As she squeezes past me to leave the room, her arm barely grazes mine. It's nothing, shouldn't be nothing, but it's like a damn lightning bolt straight to my core. I suck in a sharp breath, her scent hitting me like a sucker punch - that fancy herbal crap she insists on using and something else, something that's just her.

Fuck.

It clicks into place like the chamber of a loaded gun. The way my body's on high alert whenever she's near, the constant itch to be closer to her, the need to protect her that goes way beyond the job. I've heard the stories, laughed 'em off as fairy tales for lovesick fools. But now...

Fated mates. The words rattle around my skull like shrapnel as I watch her saunter down the hallway, hips swaying.

This bratty little human? This pain-in-my-ass chef who can't follow a simple order to save her life? You've gotta be kidding me.

I slam my fist into the doorframe, the wood splintering under the impact. How in the hell is this happening? She's human, I'm an orc. She's all fancy French Quarter cuisine and big dreams, I'm an ex-mercenary with enough red in my ledger to paint the whole damn bayou. It's impossible. It's insane.

And yet...

I think of her smile, rare as it is, the way it lights up this miserable shack, like the sun breaking through storm clouds. The fire in her eyes when she stands up to me, matching my growls with that sharp tongue of hers. Her stubborn strength in the face of this whole FUBAR situation.

"Dammit," I snarl, running a hand over my face.

I would break her frail little body in a single thrust.

But as I head back to the living room, seeing her curled up on the couch again, I can't help the warmth that spreads through my chest. Whatever this is between us, wherever it leads, I know one thing for certain:

I'll protect her.

Fated mates or not, it’s the only thing I know how to do.

Five

Pamela

The bayou's symphony of croaking frogs and buzzing insects grates on my last nerve as I pace the confines of this godforsaken cabin and I'm about ready to claw my way through the moss-covered walls.

I'm used to the vibrant energy of the French Quarter, the constant ebb and flow of life. This? This is purgatory.

And then there's Koda. The green-skinned mountain of muscle and bad attitude who's appointed himself my personal jailer. Every day, it's the same routine:

"Don't go outside, Pamela."

"Stay away from the windows, Pamela."

"For the love of all that's holy, stop touching my things, Pamela."

I swear, if he growls one more order at me, I might just scream.

But the worst part? The absolute worst part is how he insists on walking around shirtless, like some kind of green Adonis.Right now, he's outside splitting wood, and I find myself drawn to the window, watching despite myself.

His muscles ripple with each swing of the ax, sweat glistening on his green skin in the humid air. It's mesmerizing. And infuriating. How dare he look like that while keeping me prisoner?

I press my forehead against the cool glass, torn between admiration and frustration. Part of me wants to run my hands over those broad shoulders, to trace the scars that tell of a life I can barely imagine. The other part wants to chuck one of those logs right at his stubborn head.

A loud crack of wood splitting draws my attention back to the present. Koda's looking right at me, one eyebrow raised in that infuriatingly smug way of his.

"Enjoying the view, princess?" he calls out, his deep voice carrying easily across the yard.

The heat rushes to my cheeks, embarrassment and anger warring for dominance. "You wish," I snap back, but it lacks conviction even to my own ears.

Koda just chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that does things to my insides I'd rather not examine too closely. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Now get away from that window before I board it up."