Page 18 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

More chewing.

“What’s a rusalka?”

His fork clatters. “Who said anything about rusalkas?”

“You did! Two minutes ago!”

“Oh. I did?”

I give him my sternest stare. “What’s a rusalka?”

“A water demon,” he whispers, eyes closing for a second. “But you need to understand that pretty much everyone in the Pine Ridge paranormal community is... I don’t know. Competing for the title of Goody Two-Shoes of the Year. Honestly, it’s one reason I want to leave. I don’t... I don’t excel at being anything but a hockey player. I’m not on the Night Watch unless I have to cover a shift. I don’t get all giddy about eradicating the prejudices that come with the title of ‘monster.’ Monster is something other people call us, and that’s not my problem. I’m just going to live my life the way I want. At least, I was.”

He said a lot of things I don’t understand, but I’m stuck back on rusalka. “Water demon? Like in the river?”

“Um, yeah, she does swim in the river a lot, but Marina also got a job as a lifeguard and swim instructor at P-Cubed last year, so she—”

“Marina!Marina? Kevin’s wife? I’ve been eating peanut butter pie made by a water demon?” I shriek.

“Only if you’re lucky.”

My mind is spinning. No, it’s tornado-ing. Too many thoughts are crashing around, and I can’t sort and sift through all of them as they rush by.

Are humans jerks? Am I a jerk if I don’t want to date someone who is a different race than I am?

I think that’s a yes, but... he’s not a human, he’s an Orc, and that’s a monster.

Wait, what kind of monsters live here in town? Orcs, trolls, demons—

Marina is a demon? Doesn’t demon meanbad? Marina is so sweet!

Kevin, you bastard, you never told me your wife was a...

Well, why would he?

Who would believe him?

Who’ll believe me?

I want to go home. And I don’t want to date this guy. He makes my life way too complicated.

Chapter Eight: King and Ingrid

Failure.

Failure at life. Hockey. Now, dating.

We got through the meal—the food was amazing—and then she drove me home. She’s still coming tomorrow night. I’ll still have to see her every time I go for therapy.

Speaking of things that are supposed to help my knee... I swallow my nightly dose of painkillers, lie on my couch, and ignore the mess around me. Time to do my prescribed exercises.

I close my eyes, clench my thigh muscles—and all I can picture is her, clenching around me.

This is stupid. You’ll get over her. You don’t really need a War Maiden. What would you do with one, anyway? You wouldn’t be able to satisfy her. Wouldn’t be enough for her.

You’re enough for your fans, and that’s it.

I fall asleep thinking about the fact that I might not even have any fans soon.