Page 11 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

I ’ve made a lot of questionable choices in my life.

Letting an orc billionaire bleed all over the spare bed above my shop is rapidly climbing the list.

The storm is still hammering the windows in pulses when I guide Drokhaz up the narrow staircase, one arm wrapped around his ribs because stubborn bastard or not, he’s barely staying upright.

“Careful,” I mutter as he stumbles against the wall.

“I am fine,” he grits out.

“Uh-huh.” I shoulder the door open and steer him into the small attic room. “You’re leaking like a busted faucet. You’re not fine.”

He doesn’t argue this time. Maybe because he’s too exhausted, maybe because he knows I’m right.

I get him to the bed—an old iron frame I keep for visiting relatives and occasional bookish out-of-towners. The quilt is faded patchwork, stitched by my grandmother’s hands. I wince at the thought of blood soaking into it but shove that aside.

“Sit,” I order.

He does. Slowly.

I grab the first aid kit from the corner shelf and kneel beside him again.

My hands aren’t shaking now.

But my pulse sure as hell is.

There’s too much of him in this tiny room—heat and presence and that damn scent of rain and steel. Every time I get close to the torn skin on his arm, it’s like my breath forgets how to behave.

“Hold still,” I say, voice rougher than I intend.

He watches me. Quiet. Unmoving. Like I’m some puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

I can feel those eyes on me as I peel back the bandage, check the wound. Still bleeding a little, but clean. No sign of deeper damage.

“You heal fast,” I murmur.

“Orcs do.”

Of course they do.

I swipe at the cut with fresh antiseptic. His muscles twitch under my touch. Not from pain—I can tell. It’s something else.

I bite the inside of my cheek and keep working.

The room hums with unsaid things. Thick. Heavy. Every brush of my fingers seems louder than the rain.

“You shouldn’t have gone out there,” I say after a beat. “That stand could’ve collapsed on both of you.”

His voice is low. “It did not.”

“That’s not the point.”

I tape the gauze down firmly. Sit back on my heels.

Finally meet his gaze.

And gods—it’s like standing too close to a fire. Not burning. Not quite. But close enough you can’t tell where heat ends and skin begins.

I clear my throat. “You’re staying here tonight.”

A brow arches. “Unnecessary.”

“Humor me,” I snap. “You can’t walk two blocks in this storm, and I’m not calling a driver in this mess.”

He studies me a long moment. Something flickers behind his eyes—respect, maybe. Or stubborn amusement.

“Very well,” he says quietly.

I exhale. “Good.”

Movement on the stairs draws my eye.

Jamie appears in the doorway, hair tousled, eyes wide.

“Mom?” he whispers. “Is Mr. Drokhaz okay?”

I soften. “He’s going to be fine, sweetheart.”

Jamie pads in on bare feet, clutching his ridiculous cardboard lighthouse. He sets it carefully on the floor beside the bed.

“For you,” he says shyly to Drokhaz. “So you have light.”

My throat catches.

Drokhaz inclines his head. “Thank you, Jamie. I am honored.”

Jamie beams. Then curls up on the braided rug beside the bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I open my mouth to protest—then stop.

He’s already half-asleep.

Drokhaz glances at me. “Shall I move him?”

I shake my head. “He’s stubborn. Gets that from me.”

A faint smile touches his mouth. “Clearly.”

I roll my eyes. “Get some rest. Both of you.”

I gather the used bandages, close the first aid kit with a soft click. But before I can slip out, his voice stops me.

“Rowan.”

I turn.

“Thank you.”

Two words. Simple. Heavy.

I swallow hard. “You’re welcome.”

Then I flee downstairs before I do something truly stupid—like stay.

Later, I sit behind the counter with a mug of lukewarm tea, staring at the storm-blurred window.

Upstairs, the room is too quiet.

My pulse won’t settle.

Every time I close my eyes, I see the way he watched me. The way he let me touch him without flinching.

The way I didn’t want to stop.

I curse softly under my breath.

I can’t afford this.

Not now. Not ever.

But gods… it’s getting harder to remember why.

The storm doesn’t let up.

It pounds the roof in furious waves, like the sea itself is clawing to be let in. The wind whistles through the window panes, and every so often, the bookstore creaks like it’s remembering all the years it’s stood its ground.

I lie on the old couch, arms folded behind my head, staring up at the ceiling.

Can’t sleep.

Not with him upstairs.

Not with Jamie curled up beside someone I barely understand—and somehow trust more than I should.

Not with this tight knot in my chest that feels like fear… and something else.

I’ve faced storms before. Real ones, emotional ones, the kind that tear apart your life and leave it in splinters. I’ve stood up to developers, landlords, men in suits with sharp teeth and false smiles.

But Drokhaz Vellum?

He doesn’t fit in any of my categories.

He’s not the enemy—not really. Not the way I told myself he’d be.

He listens. He watches. He shows up when it matters.

He bleeds for people who don’t even know his name.

And he looks at me like I’m something worth studying. Not in a way that makes me feel small. In a way that makes me feel seen.

That’s dangerous.

I exhale, slow and shaky.

The boundaries I built are starting to bend. I feel it in the way my breath catches when he’s near. The way my hands linger too long when I patch his wounds. The way I remember the shape of his smile in the dark.

Gods help me.

I pull the blanket tighter, eyes squeezed shut.

There’s no room for this. No time. No safety net.

But upstairs, a lighthouse made of cardboard sits beside a man built of storms.

And maybe, I’ve already started to drift toward it.