Page 17 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Since you emerged from the bathroom in the lobby and I observed you attempting to project confidence while clearly experiencing a panic response." I pull the undershirt over my head because I am already committed to this course of action and prolonging it serves no purpose. "Your scent spiked. Fear and adrenaline and something floral. It triggered an immediate biological reaction I have been suppressing for the past six hours."
I drop the undershirt onto the chair.
Bliss looks at me, the dress still clutched against her chest, her breathing slightly faster than it was thirty seconds ago.
"What kind of biological reaction?" Her voice has gone quieter.
"The kind that compromises judgment."
"Olog."
"Yes."
"Get in the bed."
I retrieve my sleep pants from my bag, change in the bathroom with the door closed, and return to find she has done the same. She's wearing an oversized t-shirt that falls to mid-thigh and her face is scrubbed clean of the makeup she wore to the mixer. She looks younger like this, softer, and the protective instinct that has been running parallel to the attraction intensifies sharply.
The bed is enormous by human standards.
By Orc standards, it's adequate.
I approach my side, pull back the duvet with careful precision, and lower myself onto the mattress with the kind of control I use when moving through spaces not designed for my size. The mattress dips under my weight. Bliss is already under the covers on the opposite side, a good three feet of empty space between us, her head on the pillow and her eyes tracking my movements.
"See?" she says. "Plenty of room."
"Yes."
I settle onto my back, arms at my sides, and stare at the ceiling. The bed is comfortable. The sheets are high-quality cotton with a thread count I could probably identify if I cared to focus on it. The room is temperature-controlled to a degree humans find pleasant and I find slightly cool. All of these observations are logical and irrelevant because the only thing my brain is registering with any clarity is the fact that Bliss is eighteen inches away from me, breathing steadily, and I can smell the faint jasmine of her perfume mixed with something warmer and entirely her.
"Olog?"
"Yes."
"Thank you. For tonight. For all of it." She shifts slightly and the mattress moves. "You were incredible."
"I was fulfilling the terms of our agreement."
"You terrified my ex-boyfriend into a full retreat and fed me seven different hors d'oeuvres while staring down my aunt. That's not standard service. That's..." She trails off. "That was you giving a shit."
I turn my head to look at her.
She's already looking at me, her face half-buried in the pillow, her dark eyes catching the dim light filtering through the curtains.
"I do give a shit," I say.
Her mouth curves. "I know."
"You should sleep. The rehearsal brunch begins at nine."
"Ugh. Don't remind me." She closes her eyes, her breathing evening out almost immediately in the way of humans who have burned through their adrenaline and hit the wall.
I return my gaze to the ceiling and begin the mental discipline exercises I use to maintain control in high-stress situations. I catalog the room. I regulate my breathing. I focus on the fact that I have successfully navigated the most dangerous part of the evening and now simply need to maintain position until morning.
It works for approximately forty minutes.
Then the storm rolls in.
The first rumbleof thunder is distant, more vibration than sound, but it pulls me out of the light meditation I've been holding. I clock it as non-threatening, adjust my position minutely to avoid a pressure point developing in my shoulder, and return to disciplined stillness.
