Page 12 of Ella’s Obsessive Orc

I feel myself blushing and glance away, looking for something to fidget with, and land on a patch of moss clinging to the side of the stump. I brush it with my thumb, and it lights up, a gentle green pulse that spreads outward in concentric circles.

Oren leans closer, inspecting the effect. “It reacts to touch,” he says. “Defense mechanism.”

“It’s beautiful.” I keep brushing it, and the light shivers under my hand.

He’s close now, much closer than before. I can feel his breath on my cheek, smell the faint tang of smoke and soap and something spicy. My skin goes hot, but I don’t move away.

He doesn’t touch me. Not exactly. But his hand lands on the moss a few inches from mine, dwarfing it. We both sit like that for a minute, touching but not touching, and the moss glows twice as brightly where our fingers almost meet.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says, voice low.

“Me neither,” I answer, and my own voice is much smaller than I want it to be. “We can learn together.”

He looks at me, really looks, and something in his eyes softens. For a second, I think he’s going to kiss me, or at least do something dramatic, but instead he just nods.

I blink, and the moment is gone. He clears his throat, as if embarrassed by how close we just got. “Would you have dinner with me at my home on Friday? Just the two of us.” The way he says it, it sounds like a battle plan disguised as a question.

My brain does a backflip. Heck yes, I want to have dinner with him. But reality butts in. “I’d love to, but it has to be after seven. Aric’s got that big settlement conference, so I promised to watch Ainsley until he’s home.”

Oren’s answering grunt is pure relief. “Seven-thirty. I’ll cook.” His eyes go hot and dark, pinning me to the spot, and my insides do a triple somersault. I swear my ovaries are singing.

“Deal.” My voice is barely a whisper, but he hears it. There’s no mistaking his smile this time. It’s hungry, and it’s all for me.

The next morning, I step out on the front porch to find a pink cardboard box, tied up with a cord, sitting on the table. There’s a note on it that reads, “a little something sweet for my sweet girl.” My heart does a somersault in my chest as I open the box to find little pink donuts inside. Not the glazed hockey pucks from gas stations back home, but little Orc pastries stuffed with tart berry jam, dusted with something that looks radioactive and tastes like sugar on steroids. I eat three before my stomach starts aching.

The day after that, there’s another little pink box on the front porch. This time it’s a book. An actual first edition of the fantasy novel I asked Brielle to order for me. Oren’s note today reads, “I heard this was your favorite.” And I know my heart officially belongs to the Orc prince. That’s not even the craziest part.

A few hours later, I’m rolling Ainsley down the quiet path that runs behind the library, all mellow sunlight and mossy stone. The baby is finally asleep, cheek smushed against the side of the stroller, which means I can actually hear myself think. What I hear, though, is footsteps. Heavy ones. Like, massive boots made for curb-stomping heavy.

My spine lights up with panic. Shit. I pretend to check my phone while scanning reflections in the glassy lanterns. There’s a shadow trailing us, maybe half a block back. I find an Orc, probably six-foot-something and built like a linebacker, but I can’t see much else of him. My pulse jumps. I pick up the pace, heart doing a square dance in my chest.

The footsteps close in. I’m already plotting how to weaponize the stroller when the Orc calls out, “No need to run, Miss Blume.” He slows but my pulse doesn’t. My heart’s hammering so hard I can hear it in my ears. I grip the stroller handle, ready to turn and swing this thing like a battering ram if the Orc even thinks about creeping up on me from behind.

I glance over my shoulder and get an eyeful of the guy. Orc, definitely, but not one I recognize. He’s huge, biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt, veins popping like he’s just come from deadlifting a minivan. His tusks are smaller than Oren’s but still sharp enough to do damage. The dude’s got a permanent scowl and a scar that runs right down his jaw like a knife slash. He keeps his hands up, palms out. “Seriously, not here to hurt you. Prince Oren sent me to protect you and the baby.”

Damn. Now I have a protection detail. I feel like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe.