Page 19 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

T he beach is empty this time of night.

Moonlight slicks across the tide like liquid silver. The waves whisper low and steady, their pull as ancient as breath.

I kick off my sandals, toes sinking into cold, damp sand.

The poetry night wrapped hours ago, but I couldn’t face going home yet. Couldn’t face the quiet where my mind would spin circles around one damn voice and the way it wrapped around Jamie’s words like a gift.

So here I am.

And so is he.

Drokhaz walks beside me, silent as the sea.

No suit tonight—just a dark sweater and rolled sleeves, boots leaving deeper tracks than mine. He carries the night around him like a cloak, shoulders broad beneath the stars.

Neither of us says much at first.

Which is fine.

I don’t trust myself to speak yet.

We walk past a cluster of driftwood logs, a tide-worn buoy half-buried in the sand. The briny tang of seaweed floats on the air.

I clear my throat. “You didn’t have to read tonight.”

He glances at me. “I know.”

“Then why?”

A pause. His gaze turns seaward. “Because it mattered. To Jamie. To you.”

My breath catches.

I dig my toes deeper into the sand. “That’s dangerous, you know.”

A faint smile curves his mouth. “I have survived worse.”

“Corporate boards don’t take kindly to sentiment.”

His expression flickers—something shadowed beneath the calm.

“I am aware.”

We walk another stretch in silence, waves breaking softly at our sides.

I stop. Wrap my arms around myself.

“Why?” I ask, voice raw. “Why do you care? About this place. About any of it.”

He turns to face me fully, eyes dark and unreadable.

“For a long time,” he says quietly, “I cared only for the fight. For building what others said I could not.”

I watch him, pulse thrumming.

“And now?”

He exhales. “Now… because you do.”

The words land hard—simple, unflinching.

I shake my head. “That’s not?—”

“It is truth,” he says. “And I owe you that.”

I stare at him. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

The tide surges and falls, its rhythm echoing the tight drum of my heart.

He steps closer, gaze steady.

“There is more,” he says softly. “If you wish to hear it.”

I hesitate.

Then nod.

We sit on a low driftwood log, damp and cold beneath us.

Drokhaz rests his elbows on his knees, fingers laced.

“I had a brother,” he says. “Older by two years. Smarter. Fiercer. The one who taught me how to fight. How to see beyond orders.”

His voice is low, roughened by memory.

“We fought in the last war. Side by side. When the treaties came, we were among those tasked with enforcing the new peace.”

He falls silent a moment.

“Not everyone wanted peace.”

I swallow hard.

“There was a raid,” he continues. “A town caught between two factions. My brother chose to shield the innocents. He saved them. But not himself.”

I can’t breathe.

“I buried him beneath a twisted oak,” Drokhaz says. “Then built a life of stone and steel. To climb. To make certain no one could take from me again.”

His voice softens.

“But power… is not the same as purpose.”

I reach out before I can stop myself—fingers brushing his arm.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He meets my gaze. “So am I.”

We sit there, two shadows against the dark sea.

I see beneath the armor.

And I know—this man does not fight because he wants more.

He fights because he cannot bear to lose again.

I draw a shaky breath. “And now you’re fighting for this place.”

“For more than this place,” he says softly. “For the right to choose something that is not profit. To protect what should endure.”

I blink hard.

“And for you.”

The words settle deep.

I close my eyes a moment.

Then look at him.

“I don’t know if I can trust this,” I admit. “Or you.”

“I do not ask you to,” he says. “Only to let me prove it.”

The waves break and fall again, their song older than either of us.

I take a long breath.

“I can’t promise more than that,” I say.

His mouth curves, slow and real. “Then it is enough.”

We sit side by side, the tide creeping closer.

For the first time in weeks, the weight in my chest eases.

Not gone, but less alone.

And maybe that’s a start.

The tide’s lull pulls at me, slow and soft as breath.

We sit side by side on the driftwood log, shoulders nearly touching. The cool night air settles against my skin, but I’m not cold.

Not anymore.

I glance at him—his profile etched in silver light, jaw set, eyes distant but steady. The weight he carries is no longer invisible.

And neither is mine.

I don’t think. I just… move.

I reach for his hand where it rests on his knee. My fingers find his, warm and rough and still.

He looks at me then—truly looks. And this time, there is no guarded edge, no looming pull of power or control.

Only him.

Only this.

I lean in slowly.

So does he.

When our mouths meet, it is nothing like before.

No anger. No heat forged from defiance or fear.

Just… soft.

Slow.

A question asked with lips instead of words.

His hand cups my jaw, gentle, fingers splayed as if he’s afraid I might vanish. I deepen the kiss—not with urgency, but with the simple want of it. The pure, quiet ache that’s been building beneath every look, every word, every moment I told myself I couldn’t want this.

But gods, I do.

When we part, my breath catches.

He searches my face. “Rowan?—”

“Shh,” I whisper. “No promises. No plans. Just this.”

His brow softens. He nods once.

The wind picks up. I shiver.

Without a word, he shrugs off his sweater, spreads it over us like a makeshift blanket. I pull my knees to my chest beneath it, leaning into his warmth.

He lets me.

I rest my head against his shoulder.

We sit that way for a long while—no need to speak, no rush to move. The stars scatter overhead, distant and bright. The sea hums its endless song.

At some point, my eyes grow heavy.

I feel him shift, arm wrapping around me, solid and careful.

The last thing I hear before sleep claims me is his voice, low and rough near my ear:

“Rest. I will watch.”

And beneath the stars, with the tide whispering promises beneath the dark, I believe him.

For now.

For this.

I let go.