Page 9 of Till Orc Do Us Part

ROWAN

I almost miss it.

The day’s already been a blur—council flyers to print, poetry night posters to hang, a double shipment of used books from an estate sale to sort through.

Jamie’s with Liara this afternoon so I can attack the chaos in the back room of The Gilded Page.

I’m running on too little sleep and too much coffee.

By the time I get back to the shop after lunch, I’m dragging.

I nearly don’t check the mailbox.

But habit wins out.

I flip it open. Bills. A coupon for fishing gear. And… something wrapped in brown paper, tied with thin twine.

No sender name. No stamp.

Just my name, in a hand I don’t recognize. Block letters, neat and deliberate.

A warning bell dings faintly in the back of my head.

I glance up and down the street. Empty, save for a lone pelican eyeing me from atop a lamppost like it knows all my secrets.

I shut the mailbox, lock the shop door behind me, and set the package on the counter. For a moment, I just stare at it.

Then I sigh. “Alright. Let’s see what you are.”

I tug at the twine and peel back the paper.

A book falls into my hands.

Slim. Worn. The cover is a deep navy cloth, soft with age. The gold-embossed title reads: Saltwater Sonnets—First Edition.

My heart stutters.

I know this book.

I’ve wanted it for years—ever since I first borrowed the library’s battered copy and fell in love with its rough-tide language and sea-stained metaphors.

Only two hundred copies were printed in the original run.

I’ve searched every rare book dealer within a hundred miles.

No one has one. Not for any price I could pay.

And now… here it is.

In my hands.

No note. No signature.

But I know.

I know who sent it.

The room tilts slightly. I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself.

“Son of a—” I mutter.

No one else would know this meant something to me. No one else would go to this much trouble.

Drokhaz Vellum.

My pulse thrums a little too fast.

Part of me wants to hurl the book across the room.

Part of me wants to cradle it like a fragile treasure.

Instead, I set it carefully on the shelf behind the register and back away like it might bite.

“You are not thinking about him,” I tell myself firmly. “You are not.”

Except I am.

All damn afternoon, it needles at me—his unreadable expression when he thanked me after the tour. The faint curve of his mouth when that seagull bombed him. The way he listened, like every word mattered.

And now… this.

I curse under my breath and grab the feather duster.

If I’m going to spiral, I might as well be productive.

I start with the front display table. The spring poetry selections are overdue for a refresh anyway. I rearrange stacks of slim volumes, tucking sprigs of dried lavender between them.

Next, the fiction shelves. I pull every book that hasn’t moved in six months. The pile grows. The floorboards creak beneath me.

By the time the sun starts dipping low, the store looks like a hurricane hit it.

And still my mind circles back to that book.

To him.

I yank open the back storage closet and attack the mess inside like a woman possessed. Boxes shift. Dust clouds the air. I mutter curses that would make Liara proud.

Half an hour later, I’m on my knees beneath a stack of unsorted donations when the shop bell jingles.

“Closed!” I call automatically, wiping sweat from my brow.

A familiar voice floats back. “Not for me, I hope.”

Liara.

Thank gods.

“Back here,” I say, standing and brushing dust from my jeans.

She pokes her head into the closet, eyes sparkling. “Well, aren’t you a vision of rage cleaning.”

“Shut up.”

She grins. “What happened?”

I hesitate.

Then I sigh and lead her to the counter. I pull the poetry book from the shelf.

Her eyes widen. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“No note?”

“None.”

She whistles low. “Damn. The man knows how to play.”

“It’s not a game,” I snap, though my voice lacks heat.

She arches a brow. “Isn’t it?”

I slump onto the stool behind the counter. “I don’t know what the hell it is.”

Liara studies me a moment. “You scared?”

I open my mouth to deny it. Then close it.

“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “Because this… means he’s paying attention.”

She softens. “Rowan. You can want him and fight for the boardwalk. Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I shake my head. “You don’t understand. He’s dangerous because he’s starting to matter. And I can’t afford for him to matter.”

Liara crouches in front of me, hands on my knees. “Listen to me. You’re the strongest damn woman I know. You’ve survived worse than a charming orc with good taste in poetry.”

I huff a laugh despite myself. “That’s debatable.”

She grins. “And anyway… the town needs you. I need you.”

I squeeze her hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” She stands. “Now. You gonna keep rage cleaning or are we getting dinner?”

I glance around at the mess I’ve made.

Then at the book.

My pulse skips.

“Dinner,” I say finally. “I need a damn drink.”

Liara beams. “Atta girl.”

I lock up, but as we leave, I glance back once more at the slim navy spine gleaming on the shelf.

I see you, Drokhaz Vellum.

And now, I think you see me too.

Later that night, after dinner and a half-hearted attempt at watching Finding Kraken for the hundredth time, Jamie is in full creative mode.

The living room is a wreck—cardboard boxes dragged from the back closet, scissors, tape, and markers scattered across the floor like a one-child art tornado blew through.

I lean against the doorway, arms crossed, sipping the last of my tea.

“What’s all this?” I ask.

Jamie beams up at me, curls bouncing. “A lighthouse! For Big Green Giants only.”

My heart lurches.

He holds up a piece of cardboard where he’s scrawled the words in crooked, bright letters:

“FOR BIG GREEN GIANTS ONLY.”

I swallow hard. “That so?”

“Yep! Mr. Drokhaz needs one. He’s tall. He should have a lighthouse.”

My throat tightens. “You think he needs one?”

Jamie nods seriously. “Everyone needs a place that shines for them.”

Damn it.

I crouch beside him, smoothing back a stray curl. “That’s very kind, sweetheart. I think he’d like that.”

He grins, taping the sign to the top of his cardboard tower with great ceremony.

I kiss his forehead and tuck him into bed not long after, voice steady, heart anything but.

When the house is quiet, I crawl beneath my own covers, bone-tired but restless.

Sleep comes in fits and starts.

A dream.

I’m back on the boardwalk beneath soft string lights. The tide hums beneath the planks. Drokhaz stands there in his suit sleeves, arms crossed, watching me like I’m the only person left in the world.

He steps closer.

Doesn’t speak.

Just brushes a calloused thumb over my cheek—gentle, reverent.

I wake with a start, breath ragged, sheets tangled around my legs.

“Gods damn it,” I mutter into the empty dark.

Angry at him.

Angrier at myself.

Because no matter how many lighthouses my son builds… I know exactly who’s getting in too deep.

And it’s me.