Page 1 of Bound to the Orc Ranger

CHAPTER ONE

Olivia

My hand cramps as I fold the edges of another pizza box. A hiss of pain escapes me as I shake it out, my eyes falling to the stack of flat cardboard I still need to turn into boxes before I can go home.

“Almost done,” I say as a little pep talk, trying to fight back fatigue. “You got this.”

I locked the Pizza Shack’s front door ten minutes ago, so no customers are around to hear. At least I’m off my feet for the first time in hours, perched on one of the orange vinyl stools that line the counter of the tiny dining area. To call this place a hole-in-the-wall is an insult to holes.

I get another two boxes done before the scuff of a footstep sounds behind me.

“Yo, Olive,” Chad says. “I’m out.”

I spin around and squint at where he stands in front of the door. After a double shift, the actinic glare of the bright overhead lights gives me a headache.

“What?” There’s no way this asshole finished all of his closing duties. He never does his share, knowing I’ll pick up the slack. “Did you take out the trash? It’s your turn.”

He doesn’t even turn around, just waves one ruddy hand over his shoulder as the other pulls the god-awful orange uniform hat off his blond curls. “Yeah, yeah. All done. Laters.”

The glass door swings open with an artificial chime and the roar of traffic noise before shutting with a bang. I hurry over to flip the deadbolt, my reflection looking washed out from the sixteen-hour day. I’ve got an olive complexion to match my name, but put me in a bright-orange Pizza Shack shirt, and I go downright pasty.

Even in his obnoxiously colored uniform, Chad disappears into the press of people hurrying past on the sidewalk. The number of Friday night revelers is nowhere near the crush of Chicago’s daytime crowds, but in a city of millions, you’re rarely alone.

You can still be lonely, though.

Like Chad, I want to leave. Unlike him, I’m not meeting friends to hit a cool new club. The most exciting thing I have planned is to return to the tiny room I can barely afford, fall across my thin mattress, and sink into the oblivion of sleep. After two days of double shifts, I’m worn out, but I couldn’t turn down the extra money. If I’m careful, I can pay off a little bit extra this month, reduce Nonna’s lingering medical debt instead of barely making the interest payments.

I hurry through folding the rest of the boxes and carry them into the kitchen—not that you can really call it a kitchen. The back of this place is mostly a giant walk-in freezer full of premade pizzas and a bank of flash ovens that can take fake cheese from ice cold to tongue searing in less than ten minutes.

Maybe if I ever got to actually cook something, this job would be fun.

“Yeah, right.” I snort, stacking the boxes on empty wire-rack shelves. Pizza Shack doesn’t want anyone to actually cook. And it’s not as if someone like me could ever afford culinary school. My dreams are going to stay that—dreams.

A layer of smudged grease coats the stainless steel counter where we take the pizzas out of the ovens. He didn’t even do that much. I grab a disinfect wipe, give the surface a quick scrub, and toss the wipe into the trash. I turn away on autopilot before it registers—the trash can is full.

“Dammit, Chad.” Just like always. He knows I’ll pick up the slack, because I can’t afford to lose this job. It’s shitty and soul-sucking, but it feeds me and keeps a roof over my head.

I gather the edges of the plastic bag and tug, lifting the whole bin instead of removing the bag. I kick the side a couple of times to jar it loose, and the can clatters back to the concrete floor.

The smell of the fake garlic used in the pizza sauce poofs out the top as I close up the bag. It makes me want to gag. I love garlic,realgarlic, like Nonna used to buy every time we made homemade pizza on Sundays. Those were the highlight of my week growing up, standing beside her in her tiny kitchen, helping her work the dough, the smell of yeast and garlic and slow-cooked tomatoes filling the air.

Now I’m thankful every day for those memories, full of good food and love and belonging. She’d asked me to visit for my twentieth birthday, and we’d relived one of my special childhood Sundays. Had she known she didn’t have much more time?

My fingers brush over the necklace she gave me, feeling its solid presence under the thin polyester of my work shirt. It’s a pretty piece of quartz strung on a black cord. “It’ll help you realize your dreams, Olivia,” Nonna said. “Promise me you’ll always wear it.”

I put it on for her funeral and hadn’t taken it off in the two years since.

But those years landed me right where I started, still at the Pizza Shack.

I pull the stone out and wrap my fingers around it, whispering my new mantra. “I want my dreams. Ideservemy dreams. I wish my dreams would come true.”

Then I get back to work, lugging the trash bag over to the back door. It swings open on the real reason Chad didn’t take out the trash. Oh sure, he’s a lazy little shit, but the back alley creeps him out.

It’s not that dark—no place in downtown Chicago is truly dark, no matter the time of night—but it’s empty with no one around, and something muffles the city noises until you feel like the rest of the world is far away. It’s a strange feeling, but I kind of like it.

The ripe smell of garbage overpowers the city’s typical scent of car exhaust. Sticky humidity coats my face.

As I drop the bag into the dumpster, the faint traffic noise grows even quieter and a spotlight flicks on behind me, throwing my shadow across the metal surface in a sharp outline.

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