Page 13 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

M orning comes sharp and gray after the storm.

I crack the front door open. Puddles gleam like small mirrors across the boardwalk. Stray gulls pick at soggy debris, and the sky hangs low, still heavy with leftover rain.

I slept maybe four hours. Maybe.

Between the storm, Drokhaz bleeding all over my spare bed, and my own damn brain refusing to shut up… well.

Coffee is non-negotiable this morning.

I set the pot to brew, scrub a hand through my hair, and pad upstairs barefoot.

The attic room is empty.

I blink. For a half-second, my gut clenches.

But then I see the folded quilt on the bed, the small note— “Thank you. D.” —left neatly atop the pillow.

Jamie’s cardboard lighthouse still stands sentinel near the headboard.

And on the writing desk—half-hidden beneath a stack of books—I spot it.

A sketchbook.

I hesitate.

I shouldn’t look.

I’m absolutely going to look.

I pull it free and flip it open.

The first few pages are what I expect—crisp lines of glass towers and sleek facades, modernist dreams caught in graphite.

But beneath that—later sketches shift.

The boardwalk. The old love-lock rail. The fish-fry stand, slanted and stubborn.

And—my breath catches— my bookstore. The Gilded Page rendered in soft, careful strokes. Windows glowing. Lavender bundles hanging crookedly above the door.

Jamie is there too, sketched in the corner with his curls wild and his cardboard lighthouse at his feet.

And me.

Tucked behind the register, sleeves rolled, head bent over a stack of books. Captured with a precision that makes my throat go tight.

I slam the sketchbook shut.

“Gods damn you, Drokhaz,” I mutter.

Because this?

This is not the work of a man indifferent to what he wants to tear down.

And it’s entirely too dangerous for my heart.

I barely make it downstairs before the doorbell jangles sharp and loud.

“Delivery!” comes a voice—young, frazzled.

I yank the door open. A bedraggled kid in a BrightDrop uniform stands there, cart stacked high with boxes marked Rare Book Consortium.

“Shipment from Portland,” he says. “Sorry it’s late—storm backed everything up.”

“It’s fine. Bring it in.”

He wheels the cart inside. I grab the clipboard, scrawl my signature.

Of course—another voice.

Deep. Steady. Familiar.

“Morning, Ms. Moore.”

I stiffen.

Drokhaz stands in the doorway, suit damp at the edges, sleeves rolled. No sign of strain from last night’s injury.

He shouldn’t look this good. It’s unfair.

“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” I say coolly.

“Nor I,” he replies, voice low. “But the storm left matters needing attention.”

I cross my arms. “And you thought you’d start with my shop?”

“I saw the delivery truck. I wished to ensure you were not short-handed.”

Of course. Practical. Efficient.

And yet—his gaze flickers. Lingers. Like he’s thinking of the same damn sketchbook I found this morning.

The BrightDrop kid fumbles with the cart. A box tips, lands with a dull thud against Drokhaz’s leg.

“Shit, sorry!” the kid yelps.

“I am unharmed,” Drokhaz says, steadying the box with one hand.

I move to help, but so does he. Our fingers brush—warm, rough skin against mine.

I jerk back too fast.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“I’ve got it,” I snap. “You should be resting that arm.”

A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or challenge.

“I heal quickly.”

“Still reckless.”

“Still standing.”

The heat between us hums—sharp-edged and too loud.

I grab the box, set it firmly on the counter. He moves to stack the next one, sleeves riding higher, revealing the bandage beneath.

I glare. “You shouldn’t even be lifting.”

“Neither should you,” he counters. “Yet here we are.”

Gods. He’s impossible.

“You don’t get it,” I grit out. “You can’t just— insert yourself —into this place, this town, and expect it to bend for you.”

He straightens, gaze steady. “I do not seek to bend it.”

“Really? Because your plans say otherwise.”

“Plans change.”

The words hang between us, heavier than the storm ever was.

I swallow hard. “And what—you suddenly care now? After weeks of threatening to tear it all down?”

He holds my gaze. “I care more than you think.”

I shake my head. “That’s not enough.”

“Perhaps not.” His voice dips lower. “But it is truth.”

The air snaps taut.

I can’t breathe.

Can’t look away.

“Drokhaz—” My voice breaks.

He steps closer, slow, deliberate. Not touching—but close enough I feel the heat rolling off him.

“Rowan.”

One word.

Gods, my name should not sound like that on his tongue.

I should move. Shove him back. Throw every wall I have left between us.

I don’t.

Neither does he.

Our breaths tangle. His gaze drops to my mouth. My pulse stutters.

The gap between us feels too small. Too charged.

Just before I do something irrevocable, the bell above the door jangles sharp.

I flinch back like burned.

Mrs. Calhoun bustles in, raincoat dripping. “Morning, Rowan! Oh—I didn’t realize you had company.”

Drokhaz steps smoothly aside, mask sliding back into place. “Good day, ma’am.”

I swallow hard, forcing my voice steady. “Morning, Mrs. Calhoun.”

My hands shake as I grab the next box.

Because nothing in this store—not the storm, not the books, not even the damn sketchbook upstairs—has shaken me like that almost-kiss just did.

And I don’t know what scares me more.

That he’s starting to matter.

Or that part of me wants him to.

Mrs. Calhoun lingers only a few minutes, chattering about storm damage and poetry night, oblivious to the tension still thick in the air.

I play my part—polite nods, strained smiles. My pulse hasn’t slowed once.

Drokhaz stands near the door, composed as ever, arms folded. But I can feel it—that undercurrent thrumming between us. Every glance, every small movement sings along the frayed edge of my nerves.

When Mrs. Calhoun finally bustles out with a paper-wrapped novel under her arm.

Silence.

I round on him, breath sharp. “You can’t just—you can’t do this.”

His eyes darken. “Do what?”

“Look at me like that.” My voice cracks. “Like you—like this is some game you’re winning.”

“I do not play games, Rowan.”

“Bullshit,” I snap. “You walk in here, act like you care—leave sketches behind like they won’t matter?—”

I break off, throat tight.

He steps closer, voice low. “They do matter.”

And gods—I can’t stand it.

I move without thinking.

One step. Two.

Then I grab the front of his shirt, yank him down, and kiss him.

Hard.

Quick and hungry, half fury, half need.

His mouth is warm. Solid. He answers—slow, deliberate—a dark tide rolling in beneath the fire of my frustration.

For a heartbeat, the world shudders. Nothing but this—heat and breath and the iron taste of wanting what I should not.

He pulls back.

Not harsh. Not rushed.

Deliberate.

Controlled.

His gaze holds mine, unreadable.

I stand there, breathless, fingers still curled in fabric gone taut beneath my grip.

He lifts one hand, brushes a strand of damp hair from my cheek with aching gentleness.

Then he turns.

Walks out without another word.

The door closes softly behind him.

And I’m left standing in the wreckage.

Heart hammering.

Mouth burning.

Furious.

And far too hungry for more.