Page 3 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

I slam the Gilded Page’s door harder than necessary. The bell above it shrieks in protest, but I’m too wired to care.

Jamie’s late.

Mrs. Vargas from the bakery swore she saw him heading back from the community center. That was nearly half an hour ago. The bookstore’s quiet now—closed sign flipped, new shipment unpacked, a whole tray of sea-salt brownies cooling untouched on the back counter. But my kid? Nowhere in sight.

“Dammit, Jamie,” I mutter, grabbing my jacket.

I cross the street, boots crunching grit on the faded asphalt. The boardwalk glows faint in the distance, a watercolor blur against the dusk. No small feet there. No boy-shaped silhouette racing home.

That’s when I spot the Vellum Ventures trailer.

Temporary, sterile, glaringly out of place—like a fancy wine bar plunked down in the middle of an old fishermen’s pub. The door’s cracked open. Light spills out in a soft, unwelcome square.

And there, through the window—two figures.

One small. One massive.

My stomach drops.

I storm up the metal steps, pulse thrumming. Before I can knock, a small voice floats through the gap.

“Do sea monsters have names too?”

Jamie.

I shove the door wide.

“Jamie Moore!”

His head whips up, curls bouncing. Drokhaz Vellum—looming behind the desk, green-skinned and sharp-suited—doesn’t flinch. Of course he doesn’t.

Jamie beams. “Hi, Mom!”

“Don’t you ‘Hi, Mom’ me! What are you doing here?” I cross the room in three strides and grab his shoulders. He’s warm, unharmed, delighted with himself.

“I brought his notebook back,” he says. “And he let me draw maps!”

I whirl to Drokhaz, fury barely caged.

“You let my son in here alone?”

He rises slowly, an avalanche in a suit. “Your son entered of his own volition. The door was open.”

“That’s not the point!”

“I ensured his safety.” His voice is calm, almost maddeningly so. “And he proved to be one of the more insightful guests I’ve hosted.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He gestures to the desk. Jamie’s scrawled map lies beside the real blueprints—curves and sea monsters and bridges blending with sleek towers. A pen, far too expensive for a five-year-old, rests nearby.

Jamie grins. “He says I ask good questions.”

I plant my hands on my hips. “That’s not an invitation to wander into strangers’ offices!”

“He’s not a stranger. He’s Drokhaz.”

God help me. The boy’s charmed the walking wrecking ball.

I shift my glare back to the orc. He meets it evenly, arms folded now, every inch the unflappable businessman.

“Next time, maybe lock your damn door,” I snap.

“Perhaps.” His gaze flicks to Jamie, then back to me. “Though few have the initiative—and courage—your son displays.”

Don’t melt. Don’t melt. He’s playing you.

I take a breath through my nose. “We’re leaving.”

“Bye, Mr. Drokhaz!” Jamie chirps, gathering his notebook. He waves the pen. “Thanks for letting me draw.”

The orc inclines his head. “Thank you for reminding me that buildings, too, deserve names.”

I stare. He’s quoting Jamie. Earnest. Not mocking.

Damn him.

I usher Jamie out, pulse still racing. The door shuts behind us with a hiss. The night air slaps my cheeks cool.

As we walk, I grip Jamie’s hand tighter than necessary.

“Sweetheart, you can’t just wander into places like that.”

“I wasn’t wandering. I was helping.”

My voice softens despite myself. “I know. But people aren’t always safe.”

“He is.”

I halt mid-step. “Jamie—how do you know that?”

He looks up, face open and guileless. “He looked lonely.”

The breath catches in my throat. “That doesn’t mean?—”

“He let me talk. He listened. He smiled.”

I close my eyes a beat, steadying myself. He smiled, did he? Great. Wonderful. Just what I need—my son humanizing a corporate juggernaut.

I crouch to Jamie’s level, voice low. “Listen to me, okay? I’m proud you’re kind. And brave. But some grownups? They’re not what they seem. Even if they smile.”

Jamie frowns. “Mr. Drokhaz isn’t like the ones from your stories.”

I blink. “What?”

“You said villains wear masks. He didn’t wear a mask. He asked about my map.”

I swallow hard. Words tangle behind my teeth. How do you explain systemic gentrification and profit-driven destruction to a five-year-old who sees the world in bright, eager lines?

“Next time,” I say finally, “you come straight to me first. Deal?”

Jamie hesitates, then nods. “Deal.”

“Good.” I ruffle his curls, heart thudding a new, different rhythm. “Now let’s get home.”

We walk the familiar boards in silence. The wind’s picked up—salt and old stories riding each gust. My boots echo on the planks. Jamie hums softly, notebook hugged tight.

But my mind? My mind’s still back in that sterile trailer.

Drokhaz Vellum.

Calm. Imposing. And somehow… not cold. Not to Jamie. Not tonight.

That’s what scares me most.

Later, after dinner and bath time and one very stubborn argument about whether sea monsters need toothbrushes, Jamie’s finally tucked in under his pirate blanket.

He’s quieter than usual. No humming, no babbling about fish facts. Just tracing the edges of that damn notebook with small fingers, the corners already soft from love.

“Sweetheart,” I say gently, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Time to put that away. We don’t sleep with pens, remember?”

He hugs the notebook tighter. “Just for tonight?”

I sigh. “Okay. Just tonight.”

His eyes flutter closed, lashes dark against freckled cheeks. Within minutes, his breaths even out—soft, deep, the kind only small children and old dogs seem to master.

And there it is.

The notebook.

Half-tucked beneath his arm like a secret.

I brush a stray curl off his forehead, throat tight. I should take it. I should erase today before it roots too deep.

But I don’t move.

Instead, I sit in the dark, watching him sleep. The room smells of lavender and sea salt, soft notes from the candle I lit earlier. Outside, wind rattles the old window latch. Inside, my heart won’t stop fighting itself.

I want to hate Drokhaz Vellum. I want to rage against his cold suits and colder plans.

But tonight, my son sleeps with a smile—because a green-skinned giant let him dream out loud.

And that?

That terrifies me more than anything.