Page 47 of The Orc's Protection
His arms tighten around me, pulling me closer. “What is this, Riona Walker? In your words, not clan traditions.”
The question deserves a thoughtful answer. I place my palm against his chest, feeling the strong, slightly faster-than-human heartbeat beneath my fingers.
“This is me recognizing something extraordinary in you,” I say carefully. “Something that makes me feel both safer and more alive when I’m with you. This is me wanting to understand your world while creating something new between us—something that honors both our traditions without being limited by either.”
His breath catches audibly. “StoneWatch has words for this. Right now… they’re not enough.”
I look at him for a moment, at the steadiness of him, at the way he’s watching me with that particular quality of attentionthat has never once felt like surveillance. “There’s something I want you to know,” I say. “About why this has been complicated for me. Not you specifically—you’ve been the opposite of complicated. But the thing you represent.”
He goes very still, the way he does when something matters. “Tell me.”
"My father was a protector," I say. "My mother called it love. I spent a long time learning the difference between being cared for and being consulted. Between protection that keeps you safe and protection that makes you smaller." I pause. "When you gave me your coat, I almost gave it back. Not because I didn’t need it. Because I recognized what it felt like, and I'd spent years training myself not to find it comfortable." I meet his eyes. "And then I found it comfortable anyway."
"That was harder to admit than the cold."
He’s quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful and certain at once. “I understand why you kept the distance,” he says. “And I want you to keep it—the capability, the self-sufficiency, all of it. I don’t want to be the reason you become smaller.” He spears me with an affectionate glance. “I want to be the reason you don’t have to be afraid of being warm.”
I exhale slowly. Something that has been held at a slight tension for months releases quietly, like a door opening rather than a lock turning.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why I’m telling you.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then his hand rises and his thumb traces the cord at my throat—the token, still there—as if confirming something he already knew.
“Then I’ll try to be worthy of it,” he says.
The evening continues with conversation that flows easily between serious cultural exchange and lighter personal sharing. Vraag shows me more of his artwork, explaining the significance of various locations in the mountain territories. I tell him about my family in Colorado, my journey to becoming a teacher, and my love for the outdoors that first brought me to this region.
When I finally prepare to leave, much later than I’d intended, something feels solidified between us—a foundation being carefully built, piece by piece, across the bridge of our differences.
At the door, he helps me with my coat, his movements surprisingly gentle for someone so large. Before I can step outside, he catches my hand, turning me back to face him.
“Sunday,” he confirms. “I’ll collect you at noon?”
“Perfect,” I agree, loving how formal he becomes when discussing plans, as if setting our next meeting requires ceremonial precision.
He bends down for one last kiss, and I rise eagerly to meet him. This one is gentle, almost reverent, his hands cradling my face as if I’m something precious.
“Until tomorrow,” he murmurs against my lips.
“When we’ll pretend we’re just colleagues with appropriate professional boundaries,” I remind him with a wry smile.
“I’ve improved my performance skills,” he assures me, though the heat in his eyes belies his composed tone. “Principal Winters will observe nothing inappropriate.”
“She’ll just have to suffer through her suspicions without confirmation,” I agree.
As I drive home through the quiet evening streets, I’m smiling so widely my cheeks hurt. Whatever challenges we face—security threats, administrative warnings, cultural differences—seem manageable when balanced against the growing certainty that what we’re building together is worth the risk.
Sunday can’t come soon enough.
Chapter Sixteen
Riona
The HearthHouse building is nothing like I expected. Unlike the grand lodge where the First Frost celebration took place, this is a low, unassuming structure set back from the street—the kind of building you’d pass without noticing if you didn’t know to watch for it. Only a simple sign in both English and the angular script of the Orc language marks it as something other than an ordinary neighborhood hall. But even from the parking lot I can smell woodsmoke, and something spiced and warm underneath it.
“People assume every orc gathering happens in some grand, dramatic structure,” Vraag says as he helps me out of the truck. “But day-to-day culture values function over ceremony.”
“Practical spaces for practical needs,” I say, nodding. “Like how a school auditorium isn’t the same as a regular classroom.”
