Page 3 of How To Woo A Warrior Orc

Piper doesn’t answer, simply keeps humming to her dough.

“I could see if Willow has something to make the roses look… more harvest festival worthy?” To tell the truth, I don’t understand why the roses have sent Piper into a stress spiral. The deep green leaves and what look to be deep pink blossoms look lovely against the striped awning over the glass window.

It doesn’t matter what I think, though, not in this case.

If Piper thinks the roses will ruin her harvest festival, then I will fix the roses.

“Willow won’t touch the roses,” she finally answers, startling me from my quiet reverie. She’s blinking up at me, as if surprised to find me here. Her lush lips are slightly parted, her deeper pink tongue flicking out to catch what appears to be a stray bit of sugar.

“Her plant magic,” she pauses, her nostrils flaring as she inhales, “isn’t to be used for aesthetic purposes.”

I blink at her bitter tone. “I take it you have asked her… to use it for aesthetic purposes?” I finally venture.

“It has come up,” she replies with another sniff.

I bite my cheeks as laughter threatens. “Right. Well. If magicking the roses is off the table, maybe you’d like for me to just rip them out by the roots? We could use them in a bonfire.”

My fingers flex at the prospect of doing something violent for once.

Not that I miss being at the murderous beck and call of the Underhill Queen, but sometimes… I do miss, ah, the ole fight or two.

I frown, cracking my knuckles.

A strange choked sputter echoes across the hard kitchen surfaces, and I glance at the tea kettle at the stove before realizing the noise is coming from Piper.

“You are not pulling out my roses,” she says vehemently.

I stare at her, confused by what it is she wants, confused by how much I want to solve her problems for her, and confused by what, exactly, it is she’s upset about.

“I won’t pull them out,” I tell her when it becomes clear she’s waiting for me to answer.

She harrumphs, her freckled nose wrinkled adorably, a lock of her deep brown hair escaping the velvet ribbon she’s tied it back with.

My fingers itch to tuck it back where it belongs.

Strange.

I glance down at them, mildly concerned.

A long breath sends the lock of hair wafting into the air, and she plops the bread down on the marble board she’s been kneading it on, giving me her full attention.

Her blue eyes are full of tears.

“Kal’aki ne, why do you cry?” I ask gently, stepping into the warm kitchen. “What can I do?”

I feel more helpless than ever before in my life.

“Oh, Ga’Rek,” she sobs, and before I know what’s happening, she’s rushed to me.

Flour clouds the air as her aproned body slams into mine, her tiny arms doing their best to wrap around my waist.

I hold stock still, unsure how to respond to this. Her little chest shakes, her head barely coming up to the top of my ribs, tears wetting the fabric of my shirt.

Dots swim in front of my eyes, puzzling me, before I realize I’m holding my breath.

Holding my breath, because I’m afraid that breathing too hard will scare this lovely person away, like she’s the pixie in question. A wild bird of a woman.

A shaky breath draws my concern, though, driving me to put my huge hands gently on her back. For a long moment, she just holds me, until her crying quiets.

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