Page 56 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
The door swings wide, and I step inside, reaching for the light switch. My fingers barely graze the switch before Gerralt's hand shoots out, gripping my wrist in a firm but controlled hold.
"Don't," he says, his voice a low, urgent growl. "If the wiring got wet, flipping that could fry the whole system or you."
A shiver runs down my spine, and I let my hand drop. Darkness meets us, save for what little moonlight filters through the windows.
Gerralt pulls out his phone, turning on the flashlight. The beam cuts through the darkness, illuminating the foyer, and my heart stops.
Water. Everywhere.
It pools across the wooden floors Gerralt and I painstakingly refinished, soaking into the vintage rug I found at a flea market lastweekend. As my eyes adjust, I see it farther into the hallway. Water pours from the ceiling, streaming down the walls, flowing from the hallway that leads to the kitchen.
"No," I whisper, stepping forward. Cold water immediately soaks through my festival-worn shoes, sending a chill up my legs that has nothing to do with temperature. "No, no, no, no."
Gerralt swears, pushing past me with surprising speed for someone his size. His boots splash through what's at least an inch of standing water as he strides into the middle of the foyer. His keen eyes scan the ceiling, tracing the path of destruction.
"It's coming from the ceiling," he growls, his face tight with tension. "Look at the walls."
I follow his gaze, my stomach dropping further. Water stains spread like bruises across the fresh drywall, turning the sage-green paint a sickly dark color. The ceiling sags in places, threatening to collapse entirely.
Panic grips me, making it hard to breathe. I stumble toward the reception desk, my fingers gripping the half-soaked edge to steady myself. Weeks of work, dripping away before my eyes. The freshly finished kitchen, the repaired walls, the new furniture, all ruined.
"Cassidy, focus." Gerralt's voice cuts through my spiral, sharp and commanding. His large hand grips my arm, anchoring me to the present. "Where's the main shutoff valve?"
"Uh… uh." I blink rapidly, trying to clear the fog of panic. "Basement. Bottom of the stairs near the storage closet."
Without another word, Gerralt moves, taking the stairs two at a time. I hear the dull thud of his boots against the dampened steps as he disappears into the darkness below. I stand frozen, listening to therelentless drip-drip-drip of water destroying everything I've worked for.
Minutes later, though it feels like hours, the hissing rush of water stops. The sudden silence is almost worse, leaving only the eerie dripping sound, like a ticking clock marking the death of my dreams.
I force myself to move, to assess the damage. It's worse than I initially thought. The hallway toward the kitchen is a disaster zone. Soggy drywall sags from the walls like wet cardboard. Water pools in the dips and warps of the floorboards. Electrical outlets drip with moisture, and I don't even want to think about what that means for the wiring.
I press a hand against my mouth, trying to hold back a sob. Insurance won't cover this quickly. Even with the money from selling my share of the house with Jason, repairs will take weeks, maybe months. Time I don't have.
"This can't be happening," I whisper to the empty hallway, my voice cracking. "Not now."
Gerralt emerges from the basement, his forearms streaked with water, his black t-shirt clinging to his broad chest. His expression is carved from stone, amber eyes blazing with a fury I've never seen before.
"This wasn't an accident," he says, his voice deadly quiet. "Someone did this on purpose."
I stare at him, his words not quite registering. "On purpose?"
Gerralt gestures to a section of drywall that looks like it was deliberately punched through, jagged edges surrounding an exposed copper pipe. The scars on the metal aren’t from wear or pressure; they’ve been cut, rough and uneven, like someone was in a hurry and didn’t care how much damagethey caused.
"These were broken. Cut through."
My pulse thuds in my ears. "Who would do this?"
But Gerralt doesn't answer me. Instead, he pulls out his phone and his fingers fly over the screen. The call connects after barely a ring.
“We’ve got sabotage at the Saltwater Lodge,” Gerralt says without preamble, his voice edged with fury. “Water pipes were cut open. The entire first floor is flooded. Just send Adrian right away.”
A low growl rumbles from the other end. I don't need to ask questions to know the operator is a werewolf, just like the sheriff. They don’t waste time with pleasantries.
“I’ll send the sheriff to secure the scene. You see anyone suspicious?”
“Not yet,” Gerralt mutters, though his eyes are already scanning the darkness beyond the porch, his senses on high alert.
I'm still standing in the flooded foyer, my arms wrapped tightly around my chest. I look through the hazy blur of unshed tears at the devastation unfolding around me, holding myself together through sheer force of will.
