Page 15 of The Orc's Protection
“She felt it,” he says easily. “As a human, she just doesn’t have a word for it yet.” He pushes off the wall and starts down the hall.“For the record,” he adds over his shoulder, “you didn’t claim her. Didn’t bare tusks. Didn’t swear anything.”
I remain still.
“Yet,” Grulk finishes, laughing as he walks away.
Chapter Six
Vraag
The teachers’ lounge falls silent as I enter, conversations halting mid-sentence. This reaction has softened since my first week, but not disappeared entirely. I select a spot with a good view of the doors, keeping my distance from the occupied tables. The first-grade teacher, Janet, whispers something to her companion, both glancing in my direction before dissolving into poorly concealed laughter. During orientation, we were advised to ignore such behaviors. “Humans often mask discomfort with inappropriate humor,” the counselors explained. “Engagement only makes it worse.”
The door opens again, and Ms. Walker enters, my tactical poncho folded neatly over her arm. The conversations pause once more, but with a different quality of silence. Severalteachers watch with undisguised curiosity as she enters, spots me immediately, and approaches without hesitation.
“Here’s your poncho, safe and sound,” she says, extending it toward me. “Thank you again for the loan. It was a lifesaver in that downpour.”
I accept the folded garment and place it directly in my bag. The scent of her is on it. I am aware of this and do not examine it further.
“Happy to help,” I say, hoping Grulk was wrong about my new tendency to blush.
Ms. Walker glances at the occupied tables, then back at me. “Can I join you? I brought actual food today instead of sad leftovers.”
Her invitation stands in contrast to my training, yet I nod. “I’d like that.”
As she settles in, I note the careful attention of other staff members, particularly Janet, who watches us with open curiosity. “Don’t mind Janet,” Ms. Walker says quietly, noticing my observation. “She’s harmless, just nosy.”
“Humans are naturally curious about orcs,” I acknowledge, unpacking my lunch.
She glances toward the nearby tables, then back at me, her mouth tightening slightly. “Curiosity is one thing,” she murmurs. “Turning someone into a spectacle is another.”
“You don’t,” I say before I quite realize I’ve spoken aloud.
She looks at me, surprised. “Don’t what?”
“You don’t stare. Or avoid me. You don’t perform politeness while thinking something else,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “You treat me like I belong here.”
Something softens in her expression. My hand flexes, an instinctive urge to touch her that I do not act on. I realize, belatedly, that I have stopped monitoring the room.
We resume our meal. Ms. Walker asks thoughtful questions about orc nutritional requirements, demonstrating an unusual interest in cultural differences.
“The other day you mentioned you missed food from your world. What do you miss?” she asks suddenly.
The question triggers memories I typically keep contained—communal meals in the clan hall, ceremonial feasts before hunts, the specific aroma of thunder root stew that marked celebration days. “Some things are hard to replicate here,” I admit, surprising myself with the candor.
“Like what?”
“Thunder root stew,” I say quietly. “My clan’s specialty for celebrations.”
“I bet that’s hard,” she says with unexpected understanding. “Food is so connected to home and family.”
She acknowledged my loss so simply, so completely. The breath in my lungs turns shallow. “You adapt,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Necessary isn’t the same as easy.”
A moment of silence. Then, “No. It isn’t.”
As the lunch period ends, she gathers her things. “I’m glad you stayed. Most lunch conversations in here are just staff gossip.”
“I noticed,” I say.
