Page 43 of Pumpkin Spiced Orc
“Only briefly. You’re a walking lesson in respect through fear.”
He grunts. “This is your fault.”
“It usually is.”
“I mean it.”
“I know. And you’ll thank me someday. Maybe even smile.”
“I’m smiling now.”
“That’s a grimace.”
“That’s optimism.”
I shake my head, laughter bubbling in my chest. “You should come back next week.”
“To what? Re-traumatize everyone under age ten?”
“They loved you. Petra tried to braid your hair.”
“She hadscissors.”
“She was going totrim.”
“I have scars, Ivy. I’ve fought wraiths, banshees, and arc-wolves. But nothing prepared me for that child with craft supplies.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being accurate.”
I lean into him, resting my head against his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Just rests his chin on top of mine, big hands cradling his mug like he’s still figuring out what peace feels like.
“You really were good,” I whisper.
He exhales. “They deserve someone better.”
“No,” I say. “They deserve someone real. And that’s you.”
He doesn’t respond, but I feel the way his breath slows. The way his shoulders settle, just a little. The way his thumb brushes along my hand like it’s a thank-you he can’t say out loud.
We stay there until the sun dips low, and the classroom windows reflect nothing but light.
CHAPTER 28
GARRUK
The porch creaks under my boots, same as it always does—three boards near the swing that never took stain right, no matter how much oil I rubbed into them. I thought about fixing it last week, even pulled out the sander, but Ivy said she likes the sound. Says it’s got character. I let it be.
Evening’s thick tonight. One of those slow Embervale dusks where the air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet and wild mint crushed under foot. There’s a breeze tugging at the orchard branches like it’s playing with something, not really committed to a storm, just stirring up mischief.
Brody shows up without knocking, just wanders around the corner with a six-pack swinging from one hand and a look on his face that says he’s either here to talk or here to avoid something worse.
“You always this quiet before sunset or is this a personal invite to my brooding hour?” he asks, dropping into the rocker like he owns the place.
“You’re early,” I grunt, taking a bottle off the ring and cracking it open with the edge of the porch rail. “I figured you’d be buried in council notes or arguing about irrigation flow.”
“I was. Lettie kicked me out. Said I was getting twitchy.”
