Page 78 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Olog."
"Orcish cultural preservation prioritizes practical knowledge transfer," I explain. "My grandmother was the clan's primary healer. Her recipes were considered sacred medical texts."
Bliss starts laughing again, that bright, unreserved sound that makes my chest feel too tight.
"That's amazing," she says, tracing a particularly complex symbol just below my collarbone. "What's this one?"
"Spiced root vegetable stew. Optimized for winter caloric requirements and immune system support."
"And this?" She touches a jagged line running down my ribs.
"My uncle's combat record. He killed a cave bear with his bare hands during the winter of seventy-three."
"Okay, that one's actually scary."
"He was protecting the clan's food stores. It was tactically necessary."
She shakes her head, smiling, and settles back against me.
"Your family sounds incredible."
"They are loud, chaotic, and have no concept of personal boundaries," I reply. "You will meet them at the winter solstice gathering. I have already prepared a detailed briefing document."
"Of course you have."
Her phone rings, the sound cutting through the comfortable silence like an alarm.
She groans, long and deep, reaching for it on the coffee table. The movement dislodges her from her relaxed position against me, and I feel the exact moment she sees the caller ID because her entire body goes rigid. Every soft, loose line of her posture snaps taut like someone pulled a cord.
"It's my mother."
The words come out flat. Resigned.
I sit up slightly, every muscle in my torso tightening in automatic response. My hand stays on her hip, but my focus sharpens, narrows. Combat awareness flooding my system.
Bliss stares at the screen for three more rings, her thumb hovering over the accept button.
I can see her weighing it. Calculating.
Then she swipes to accept.
"Hi, Mom." Her voice shifts instantly, takes on that bright, hollow cheerfulness I have learned to despise. The customer service voice. The performance voice.
I cannot hear the other side of the conversation, but I do not need to. I can read Bliss's body language with perfect clarity, can catalogue every micro-expression, every tell.
Her shoulders tighten, rising half an inch.
Her jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath her skin.
Her free hand, resting against me, curls slowly into a fist, gathering a handful of my shirt.
I stay very still.
"I'm aware the holidays are coming up," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "Yes. I remember the gala."
A pause.
"Actually, I'm not sure I'm going to make it this year. I have plans with Olog's family."
