Page 15 of The Passionate Orc
"It's clan warfare," I explained. "And I've brought you into it. I'm sorry."
She stopped, hands on her hips. "Don't you dare apologize. I'm exactly where I want to be."
My chest tightened with emotion. "With a too-large orc who's causing you nothing but trouble?"
"With a talented artist who's brave enough to challenge expectations." She stood on tiptoes to kiss my cheek. "Now, what's our next move?"
Our next move was another disguise disaster. I attempted to infiltrate a Black Iron gathering to learn their plans by wearing a delivery uniform again, this time with a fake mustache Emryn had insisted would help conceal my identity.
It did not.
"Humperdink!" Grommak Skullsplitter himself bellowed across the Black Iron's tavern. "What in the blazes are you doing with that dead rodent on your face?"
I froze, fake mustache half-detached and drooping over my mouth. "Uh... new fashion trend?"
The tavern erupted in laughter. I considered fighting my way out—there were only fifteen of them, not impossible odds, but remembered Emryn waiting outside. Starting a clan war wouldn't help our exhibition.
So I did something no proper orc warrior would do: I ran.
I burst out of the tavern, grabbed Emryn's hand, and sprinted down the street with her half-running, half-being carried beside me.
"I take it they weren't fooled?" she gasped as we rounded a corner.
"The mustache was a tactical error," I admitted, yanking off the offending disguise.
To my surprise, she wasn't angry. She was laughing—deep, genuine laughter that made her whole body shake against mine as I held her close in the shadowed alley.
"Your face when you came running out," she wheezed between giggles. "You looked so... so..."
"Dignified?" I suggested.
"Panicked!" she corrected, still laughing. "The great Nar Humperdink, terror of the battlefield, running from a bar with a fake mustache hanging off one tusk!"
It should have offended me. Instead, I laughed too, the tension of the day dissolving in her mirth. I pressed my forehead against hers, my large hands cradling her face.
"You're not like anyone I've ever met, Emryn Lister."
Her laughter softened into something warmer. "Is that good or bad?"
"It's everything," I whispered, before claiming her lips again.
The sabotage escalatedover the next few days. Someone stole our canvases. We painted new ones, working side by side in my apartment, often distracted by each other's proximity. Someone flooded our venue. We worked through the night mopping, laughing despite our exhaustion. Someone even released three feral cats into Emryn's studio. I still have the scratch marks to prove my heroic rescue.
Through it all, something remarkable happened. Instead of driving us apart, each attack brought us closer. We worked in perfect sync, anticipating each other's needs, finishing each other's sentences. When we weren't defending our exhibition, we were creating together, my bold strokes complementing her delicate details.
And at night, when we collapsed exhausted into my bed, I held her petite body against me, marveling at how perfectly she fit.
The night before our exhibition, we faced our biggest challenge yet. We arrived at the gallery for final preparations to find Grommak himself waiting with five of his largest warriors.
"Well, well," he sneered, his tusks gleaming in the streetlight. "The painter and his little human muse."
I stepped in front of Emryn protectively, but she moved to stand beside me instead.
"Do you have a problem with art, or are you just intimidated by talent?" she asked, her voice steady despite being dwarfed by the massive orcs.
Grommak looked surprised, then laughed. "She's got spirit, Humperdink. I'll give you that."
"What do you want, Grommak?" I demanded.
