Page 20 of Marked By the Broken Orc
“What do you think?” I ask as we follow Patricia back downstairs.
“It’s…a lot,” Mia answers carefully.
I glance over at her, puzzled by this response.
“The asking price is actually good for what you get,” my real estate agent informs us. “But given the market and the acreage, there’s room for negotiation.”
“I cannot believe we’re touring a million-dollar home,” Mia whispers. “Is this a joke?”
My brow furrows. “No, this is what she’s showing me because it’s what I can easily
afford and also the setting is what I asked for.”
Mia stares at me. “Are you rich?”
The direct question catches me off guard. “Well, I guess? All orcs are essentially rich by human standards but also none of us covet purchasing. We don’t use banks traditionally, so I’ve been converting gold and jewels as needed.”
“Oh my gosh,” she breathes. “This is crazy. I can’t…I mean, this place is huge. It’s like a mansion.”
“You don’t like it? Isn’t this the type of house humans prefer?”
“It’s beautiful,” she says quickly. “It’s just…You know me. I can’t live in a place like this.” Then she covers her mouth with a hand, her eyes wide as if the words slipped out before she could stop them.
We both freeze on the steps of the main staircase, the words hanging in the air between us.
“I mean,” she corrects, her cheeks flushing, “this place is not really my style. Too fancy. Too isolated. But maybe it’s your style, which is perfectly fine considering this house will be for you andnotfor me.”
Patricia glances back up at us, clearly picking up on the undercurrents. “Perhaps we should look at something different? More suburban?”
“Yes,” I agree. “Let’s do that.”
Mia pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. “Can I show you something?” Then she hands me the small screen, displaying a real estate listing I’ve never seen before. The house is much smaller than the one we’ve been touring. It has less than two thousand square feet, three bedrooms and two baths and is situated in a tree-lined neighborhood with well-maintained yards and sidewalks.
“This is for sale in Riverside,” she explains, leaning closer so we can both see the screen. Her scent fills my nostrils, and I must concentrate on not grabbing her. “It’s a nice, centrally located neighborhood. Good schools, tree lined streets. And, well, a lot of first responders live there—teachers, nurses, firefighters, EMTs. People like us.”
“People like us,” I repeat, noting how easily she groups us together.
“Yeah. It’s not fancy, but it’s solid. Good bones, good community.” She scrolls through the photos. “Look, this house has a fenced backyard, updated kitchen, hardwood floors throughout. And see this?” She points to one of the photos. “Built-in bookshelves in the living room. Perfect for someone who reads as much as you do.”
I study the listing, noting details I wouldn’t have considered important before. The neighborhood school ratings. The proximity to parks and shopping. The fact that other first responders live there appeals to me because there will be a built-in community of neighbors who understand the demands of our work.
“If I were to pick a home for myself,” she continues, her voice growing more animated, “I’d pick this one.” The words hang in the air, and I see her realize what she’s said again. “Sorry, I’m doing it again.” Her cheeks flush again and she starts to backtrack. “I mean, not that I’m picking anything. It’s your house, your decision. I just thought I’d show this to you, because I think it’s perfect for someone who might want to be part of a community instead of isolated on the outskirts of town. But, if you love the idea of living so far out because of privacy, then you can totally ignore my suggestion, no harm, no foul.”
But I’m barely listening to her corrections. Instead, I memorize every detail of the house listing and the way her eyes light up when she talks about the neighborhood.
I show the listing to my real estate agent. Patricia programs the address into her GPS. “We can drive by if you’d like to see the exterior.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re parked in front of a charming two-story house with a wraparound porch and mature oak trees in the front yard. It’s nothing like the mansion we just toured. It’s smaller, more modest, but somehow it feels right in a way the first house didn’t.
“It’s perfect,” Mia breathes.
I hear the longing in her voice and watch as she talks about the details, the way she notices the flower boxes under the windows, the swing on the front porch, the basketball hoop visible in the driveway next door, suggesting that families with children live nearby.
“The listing says it was recently updated,” Patricia notes, consulting her tablet. “New roof, HVAC system, all appliances included. Move-in ready.”
Mia turns to me. “What do you think?”
I think I want to give her exactly what she wants. I want her on that front porch, in that kitchen, making this house into the home she’s envisioning. And I think Talon is right that this female is my future bride, and I’m terrified of what that means.
