Page 42 of The Orc's Protection
“Coffee I can do,” she says. “I’ll meet you there.”
By the time I arrive, the café is already half-full with college students hunched over laptops, a few teachers grading papers, the low murmur of conversation providing cover without privacy. I choose a table near the window, my back to the wall, with clear sightlines to the entrance. Old habits.
Riona arrives a few minutes later and scans the room automatically before spotting me, her expression softening as she approaches, though she reins it in quickly. She orders before joining me.
“You picked a good place,” she says, wrapping her hands around her cup. “Public, but also private.”
“That was the intent,” I say.
I open my laptop just enough to angle the screen toward her, careful to keep the footage out of sight of anyone else. I don’t play it immediately.
“Someone was on the grounds three nights ago,” I say.
She tilts her head. “Not kids.”
“No.”
I play the footage without commentary.
Riona watches intently, eyes tracking the shadowed figure as it moves along the fence, pauses at the window, and tests the lock. When the image fades, she exhales slowly.
“That’s my classroom,” she says. Not a question.
“Yes.”
She doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, she stares into her coffee, jaw tight. “You reported it.”
“I did. District security is reviewing it. Principal Winters will be notified once their review officially begins.”
“And the response?”
“Procedural,” I say carefully. “Cautious. They don’t yet believe escalation is warranted.”
“When did you find this?”
“This morning. First thing.”
Something moves across her face, not quite relief, but its quieter cousin. She holds my gaze for a moment, weighing that.
“You came to me the same day.”
“Yes.”
A beat. “I said I wouldn’t make you wait.”
She nods once, recognition that I kept my word. “But you think escalation is warranted?”
“Yes.” I close the laptop. “District security acknowledged receipt of the report. But they won’t review it for at least forty-eight hours. Nothing will change before then.”
She’s quiet for a moment, her attention still fixed on the table. Then, carefully, “They went to my window. Not the gym. Not the front entrance. Mine.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “They know which room is mine.”
“Yes.”
“And they know when I’m there.”
“That is my assessment.”
Something moves across her face—not panic, but the thing just underneath it. She sets her cup down with slightly more force than necessary. Her hands don’t quite settle. I watch her registerwhat this actually means: not a random incident, not a restless kid, not bad luck. Someone has been watching her specifically. Learning her. Coming back.
