Page 39 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
The sheriff's lip curls, revealing sharp canines. In my arms, Cassidy tenses and I rub lazy circles on her lower back to soothe her. Anirrational rise of satisfaction shoots up my spine when I feel her snuggle closer in my embrace.
Cassidy and I proceed to give him a detailed description of the troll and Sheriff Wolfsbane nods, his face grim.
"Well, first of all, his name is not Millings. His name is Bront Billings and I have a warrant for his arrest," the sheriff growls, pulling out a weathered notepad. "Been tracking this one for months. He’s wanted for fraud in three counties."
Cassidy shivers in my arms.
"I just don't get it," Cassidy admits, wrapping her arms around herself. "What was he even trying to gain? Getting me out of the house, yeah, but there's nothing to steal in there. It's under construction."
"It doesn't matter," I rumble. "He's not getting close to you ever again."
Sheriff Wolfsbane takes notes, his pen scratching against paper.
"We'll increase patrols in the area. I'm leaving Deputy Chemko parked at the end of your driveway tonight."
He looks up, meeting Cassidy's eyes and his grin is all wolf.
“Don’t worry, we'll catch him. Hard to outrun a wolf who has your scent.” He taps his nose meaningfully. "Especially one who doesn't take kindly to predators targeting his town."
After taking our statements and instructing Deputy Chemko to stand guard at the end of the long driveway, Sheriff Wolfsbane heads out into the night. The slam of his cruiser door echoes across the quiet property, and I watch until his taillights disappear down the winding road.
The iron tang of blood hits my nostrils before I feel the warm trickle down my temple. Cassidy's gasp cuts through the fog of anger, and her face goes pale as she reaches toward me.
"Oh God, Gerralt, you're bleeding."
"It's nothing," I grunt, but her small hand grips mine in a way that leaves me no choice. “You’re coming inside with me.”
She leads me through the foyer into the kitchen, then points to one of the new chairs set around a small round table.
"Sit. Stay," she commands, and I find myself obeying her and sitting at the table. Before I can protest, she's rummaging through cabinets, muttering about first aid supplies.
I watch her move through her newly finished kitchen, all fierce determination wrapped in a tiny package. The evening light catches in her hair, turning it to molten copper. My fingers itch to touch it, to see if it's as soft as it looks.
"Found it!" She returns with a first aid kit, stepping between my spread knees without hesitation. The proximity makes my throat go dry. From this angle, I have to look up at her, a viewpoint that does strange things to my pulse.
My shaft stirs in my pants, and I refrain from reaching out to touch her.
"This might sting," she warns, dabbing at the cut with antiseptic. Her free hand cups my jaw, holding me still. The gentle touch sends electricity down my spine. No one's touched me like this in years, if ever. Like I'm something precious that might break.
"I don't even know how to thank you for this," she whispers, her fingers trembling slightly against my skin. The sweet scent of her, ofvanilla and something more, something female and musky, fills my lungs until I can barely breathe.
My hands grip the edges of the chair, wood creaking under the pressure. She's too close, too gentle, too everything. Every instinct screams at me to pull away, to take things slow and easy. But I remain frozen, caught in her orbit like a moth to flame.
My hand shoots up, capturing hers. "You don't need to thank me."
She's so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin, see the golden flecks dancing in her eyes like captured starlight. Each freckle scattered across her nose tells a story of sun-kissed days, and I want to memorize them all.
Her fingers ghost over my temple, gentle as butterfly wings, and I have to fight the urge to lean into her touch.
"Gerralt." Her voice is barely a whisper, but it echoes in the space between us. Those eyes search mine, asking a question I'm terrified to answer. "About last time…"
She doesn't finish, but her gaze drops to my mouth, and my heart thunders against my ribs. I should say something. Should stand up and walk away.
“I really, really want to kiss you right now.” Her voice is a whisper and her breath is sweet and warm on my face. I find myself nodding, a small, desperate movement.
Then she kisses me. Again.
Her lips brush against mine, soft and sweet and tentative, like she's afraid I might spook. For one heartbeat, I'm frozen, fighting a lifetime of holding back, of believing I'm too rough, too large, too much. Her hand cups my cheek, thumb stroking over my jaw, and something inside me snaps.
