Page 7 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

I can’t believe I’m doing this.

I stand on the sun-bleached steps of Town Hall, clipboard in hand, regretting every life choice that’s led me here. The morning air smells of fish and tar and the faint promise of summer rain. Seagulls wheel overhead, squawking like judgmental old crones.

Beside me, Councilman Kendrick leans against the railing, smug as ever.

“You sure about this, Ms. Moore?” he drawls. “Inviting the orc to tour the henhouse?”

I grit my teeth. “I’m sure.”

It was my idea, after all. A strategic move, I told myself. A way to show Vellum exactly what he’s trying to erase. Public enough that he can’t bulldoze it in words alone.

Except now I’m pacing and second-guessing and wishing Liara were here to tell me I’m brilliant instead of bananas.

Too late now.

A sleek black car pulls up beside the boardwalk entrance.

Drokhaz Vellum steps out—broad shoulders, sharp suit, sunglasses that probably cost more than my rent. He moves like a man who owns the ground beneath him.

I square my shoulders.

“Mr. Vellum.”

He inclines his head. “Ms. Moore.”

“Thank you for accepting my invitation.”

His mouth twitches. “An opportunity to better understand community priorities? How could I refuse?”

Smug bastard.

I force a smile. “Shall we?”

He gestures for me to lead.

We step onto the boardwalk. The planks groan beneath our feet—old wood, soaked in decades of salt and stories. Shops line the edges: some thriving, some shuttered, all stubbornly clinging to life.

I clear my throat. “We’ll start with the love-lock rail.”

He says nothing, just follows—silent, imposing.

We reach the rusted iron railing near the south end, where hundreds of padlocks dangle, corroded but defiant. Names and dates scratched into their surfaces: Anna + Max, 1983 . Mia & Jo, forever . A tapestry of hope and rust.

I trail my fingers over one. “My grandparents locked one here the summer they got engaged.”

Drokhaz studies the rail. “A tradition of permanence in a place built on impermanence.”

“Exactly.” I glance at him. “That’s why it matters.”

He meets my gaze, unreadable. “I understand.”

Do you? I want to ask. But I move on.

Next stop: Salty Joe’s Fish-Fry. The stand’s shuttered now—Joe passed last year, and no one’s had the heart to take it over yet. The faded sign still swings in the breeze, paint peeling like sunburned skin.

I rest a hand on the counter. “This is where I had my first kiss.”

Drokhaz arches a brow. “Sentimental.”

“Human,” I correct. “Places like this hold memories. They’re not just real estate.”

He says nothing, but his gaze lingers on the stand longer than I expect.

We walk in silence for a stretch. The wind picks up, tugging strands of hair loose from my braid.

We reach the fortune teller’s booth—a crooked little shack with chipped paint and faded velvet curtains. The sign reads Madame Zora’s Mystical Readings—Past, Present, Future .

I smile despite myself. “Madame Zora swore I’d marry a pirate and move to the Isles.”

Drokhaz’s mouth twitches again. “A promising career shift.”

“I was eight.” I laugh. “Crushed a lot of dreams that summer.”

He steps closer, gaze thoughtful. “Why show me this?”

I exhale. “Because it matters to people here. Not the buildings—the memories. The texture. You can’t replace that with glass towers.”

He studies me, eyes dark beneath the brim of his sunglasses.

“I see.”

I cross my arms. “Do you?”

A beat of silence.

“I listen more than I speak.”

He does. He’s taken it all in—every detail, every story.

And that unnerves me more than any argument could.

We walk on. The crowd thins. Vendors open stalls for the afternoon rush. I catch snippets of conversation, feel eyes following us.

Beside me, Drokhaz remains a steady, silent presence.

Too steady.

I glance at him. “You’re quiet.”

He looks down at me. “I find silence… instructive.”

“Hmph.” I shake my head. “You ever let loose, Mr. Vellum? Laugh? Dance on these planks like the rest of us?”

“Not in some time.”

I stop abruptly. “You should try it.”

He arches a brow. “Now?”

I grin. “Why not?”

A moment of pure madness takes me—I grab his hand, tug him toward the open space near the carousel. The old speakers crackle with tinny music—some forgotten doo-wop tune drifting through the salt air.

Drokhaz stiffens, clearly out of his element.

I laugh. “Relax. No one’s watching.”

“Everyone is watching.”

I roll my eyes. “Good. Let them.”

For a heartbeat, he hesitates. He lets me guide him into a clumsy sway.

His hand is warm, calloused beneath mine. His scent—ozone and something deeper—wraps around me.

Too close. Too real.

I pull back, heart racing.

“There. Now you’ve danced.”

He inclines his head. “An enlightening experience.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

His mouth curves. “I would not presume.”

We stand there a moment—caught between something almost familiar and something I can’t name.

Then I clear my throat, stepping back.

“Tour’s over,” I say. “You’ve seen what matters.”

He nods once. “Indeed.”

I turn to go, but his voice stops me.

“Ms. Moore.”

I glance back.

“Thank you… for the stories.”

And damn it all—I believe him.

We move on from Madame Zora’s booth, weaving past a pair of teens spray-painting chalk art along the boardwalk planks. Drokhaz walks beside me, posture straight as a blade.

I glance up at the sky. “Storm might roll in later.”

He hums low in his throat. “I will adjust.”

Of course he will.

We’re nearing the old coin-operated binoculars when it happens.

A seagull wheels overhead—white wings flashing against the blue—and lets fly.

Right onto Drokhaz’s impeccably tailored shoulder.

A perfect splatter of indignity across charcoal wool.

I clap a hand over my mouth, snorting.

Drokhaz stops. Looks down at the mess. Then up at the sky.

“This feels targeted,” he says, voice utterly flat.

That does it.

I burst out laughing—full, uncontrolled, head-tilting laughter that echoes off the weathered boards. I can’t help it. It’s too absurd. Too perfect.

When I manage to catch my breath, I find him watching me—broad frame still, dark eyes unreadable.

But his mouth—gods, his mouth—curves in the faintest of smiles.

Real. Unmasked.

Something in my chest flips.

I clear my throat, wiping my eyes. “Guess the locals wanted to weigh in.”

“Noted,” he says dryly.

I dig a napkin from my bag and hand it over. Our fingers brush—brief, warm.

“Truce,” I offer, still breathless.

His gaze holds mine. “For today.”

And damn me twice—I want another tomorrow.