Page 44 of Orc'd & Loaded
"And I'll do it again if you touch that jar."
He blinks. Water clings to his thick lashes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"That was incredible."
"That was a fire hazard."
"You are magnificent."
"You are an arsonist."
I grab a dish towel from the rack. Soaked. Useless. I throw it at him anyway. It lands on his shoulder with a wet slap.
"The rafters, Boris. Look at the rafters."
He cranes his neck. Sees the char marks. The scorch trails. The singed beam. His grin finally, finally falters.
"Ah."
"Ah. Yes. Ah." I step over a mixing bowl and jab my finger at the blackened ceiling. "That is load-bearing timber from 1923. If that had caught, we would be standing in a pile of rubble explaining to the mayor why her town hall collapsed three days before the festival she's been planning for six months."
He pulls the wet towel off his shoulder. Wrings it out. A long, slow exhale expands his massive body.
"The spice needs open flame."
"The spice needs a controlled environment with proper ventilation and fireproof surfaces and at minimum a twelve-foot ceiling clearance, none of which exist in this kitchen."
"My smoker..."
"Is across town."
"My tavern hearth..."
"Has a chimney. Yes. I'm aware." I crouch and begin collecting the scattered celeriac cubes from the floor. Every single one ruined. An hour of precise knife work, gone. My hands shake as I pick them up. Not from fear. From the adrenaline bleeding out of my muscles with nowhere left to go.
Boris rises. The floor creaks. He steps around the mixing bowls and crouches beside me. His massive hand closes gently around my wrist.
My red, stinging palm turns upward between us. The skin is angry and hot.
"You burned yourself."
"It's nothing."
"Solene." His thumb traces the burn without touching it. "You burned yourself saving my foolish hide."
I pull my wrist free and drop the ruined celeriac into the nearest bin.
"We have seventy-two hours. We need ground rules."
Boris rocks back on his heels. The crouch brings his face level with mine, which almost never happens and is deeply inconvenient for my concentration. Water still drips from the ends of his dark hair. A bead runs along his jaw and drops onto the collar of his shirt.
"Ground rules," he repeats.
"Non-negotiable terms of engagement for this kitchen."
"You want a treaty."
"I want us to not die in a grease fire. Yes."
