Page 4 of Orc'd At A Wedding
I adjust my stance, shifting my weight slightly forward and letting my hand spread wider across the small of Bliss's back. The movement is subtle, but the message is clear to anyone fluent in body language and primal territorial displays.
She is occupied. She is claimed. Approach at your own risk.
The ex doesn't read the warning signs. Most humans don't, when it comes to Orcs. They see the size, the tattoos, the tusks, and their brains malfunction somewhere between "fascinating" and "terrifying," and they lose the ability to process more nuanced threat indicators.
His mistake.
"Bliss! There you are. I was starting to think you weren't going to make it."
His voice is aggressively casual, pitched to sound friendly and familiar, but there's an edge underneath it. A presumption of intimacy. An assumption that he still has the right to greet her like this, like they're old friends catching up instead of a woman and the man she's actively trying to prove she's over.
Bliss's body goes rigid beneath my hand.
I move before she has to respond.
Three steps put me directly in the ex's path, my body angled in a way that physically blocks his approach to Bliss. I extend my hand with the smooth professionalism of a corporate executive, forcing him to either shake it or commit an obvious social snub in front of the steadily growing audience of wedding guests filtering through the lobby.
"Olog Glore. Bliss's partner. You must be part of the wedding party."
I deliver the introduction with flawless courtesy, but I make sure my grip is firm enough to remind him that I have approximately eighty pounds of muscle on him and the bone density to back it up.
His hand feels small. Soft. The kind of hand that's never done real work.
"Uh. Brandon. Yeah. I'm... I'm the bride's step brother."
Brandon. Filing that away for future reference.
He extracts his hand from mine with visible relief, flexing his fingers like he's checking to make sure they still function. His gaze flicks between me and Bliss, confusion and something that looks uncomfortably like wounded pride warring on his face.
"I didn't know Bliss was seeing anyone."
The statement hangs in the air, half question, half accusation.
Bliss shifts beside me, her breath catching, and I feel the tiny tremor that runs through her. She's nervous. Stressed. This man has done damage here, left marks that haven't fully healed, and every instinct I have is screaming at me to remove the threat.
I keep my voice calm. Professional. Devastatingly polite.
"We prefer to keep our private life private. But yes, Bliss and I have been together for several months now."
The lie rolls off my tongue with practiced ease. I've done this before, countless times, for countless clients. The fake relationship, the fabricated meet-cute, the carefully constructed backstory designed to deflect nosy family members and jealous exes.
This is what I do.
Brandon's eyebrows climb toward his aggressively gelled hairline.
"Several months? That's... wow. Fast."
There's skepticism in his voice, a subtle implication that Bliss couldn't possibly have moved on that quickly, that she must still be hung up on him.
Wrong again.
"When you know, you know," I say, and let my hand slide from the small of Bliss's back to her hip, pulling her closer against my side.
She fits perfectly there, her head barely reaching my chest, the top of her dark hair level with my collarbone. The size difference is extreme, visually striking, and I can see Brandon's brain struggling to process it.
Good. Let him struggle.
"How did you two meet?"
