Page 5 of Marked By the Broken Orc
“EMT with three years of field experience,” she begins, and I can hear the pride beneath her frustration. “National Guard service, including two deployments. I teach self-defense classes at Olympia Gym twice a week. Best marksman in the county, and I was born and raised in Spokane.”
I nod slowly, processing this information. Her credentials are impressive, more than impressive. She deserves to be angry.
“Your turn,” she challenges. “What makes you more qualified than me?”
It’s a fair question, and I answer honestly. “Seven years of emergency response on my commune and in the county, including wildfire suppression and mountain rescue. Advanced medical certifications equivalent to paramedic level. Leadership experience in high-stress situations. Specialized training in using orc strength for heavy rescue operations.”
She studies me, and I can see her analytical mind working. “That’s…actually legitimate.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I thought maybe they hired you because you’re a powerful orc, even if you weren’t qualified at all. I thought you got the job simply because of your strength.”
The bluntness of her statement should offend me, but instead I respect her directness. “No. Though I understand why you might think that.”
“Why Spokane?” she asks, settling onto her oversized couch while she drinks more water.
I sit carefully on the edge of an opposite chair. “It’s orc-friendly. Career opportunities. The climate suits my physiology.” I don’t mention the possibility of finding human relatives living in the Pacific Northwest. That information feels too personal to share with a stranger, even one I find unexpectedly compelling.
“You have family here?”
“No.” The answer comes out sharper than intended, touching on wounds I’m not ready to examine.
She notices my reaction but doesn’t push, which I appreciate. Instead, she looks at my arms, taking in the extensive tribal tattoos that cover them. “I’ve never met an orc in real life before.You’re bigger than I thought you’d be. And those are incredible,” she says pointing at my arms. “Traditional orc markings?”
“Yes. Each one represents significant life events, achievements, or family connections.” I roll my shoulders, making the intricate patterns shift in the light. “I do some tattoo work myself, actually. My best friend Talon has just opened a new orc tattoo shop, Heat & Ink, here in town.”
“You’re an artist too?”
“I’m adequate,” I respond. This might be false modesty, but I refrain from telling her that Talon often says I’m one of the best traditional markers he’s seen.
“So you steal jobs and create art,” she quips. “Talented guy.”
There’s humor in her voice now, which relieves some of the tension between us. But it also creates a different kind of tension, one that makes me acutely aware of how close we’re sitting, how small her apartment is, how her proximity affects my body temperature.
And I can scent her arousal for me filling the air between us.
This happens often, females becoming aroused in my presence, but I’ve learned over the years to never comment on it and ignore. This is in fact the first time in my life I’m pleased to know a female feels arousal for me.
But on the other claw, why would I care? I’m not ever going to take this any further than this short conversation we’re having today.
I watch her drink more water, ensuring she’s taking care of herself. Mia Martin is not a stumbling drunk, but I have a feeling she’s highly talkative because her tongue is loosened from too much alcohol. The protective instincts rising in me are unwelcome but undeniable. This female might be trouble, but she’s also alone and intoxicated, and every part of my training requires that I should ensure her safety.
“This job meant everything to me,” she quietly comments, vulnerability creeping into her voice. “It was supposed to be my future. Proof that this town wanted me, valued what I could contribute.”
Her pain is genuine, and it affects me more than it should. I understand professional disappointment, the sting of having qualifications overlooked. But there’s something deeper in her voice, a need for belonging that resonates with my own. “You’re obviously qualified,” I tell her. “Any department would be lucky to have you. You could look outside of this county, widen your search.”
“But this is my home. I don’t want to leave.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with things neither of us is saying. I should leave. I should return to my apartment, maintain distance, avoid complications. But something keeps me here a moment longer, watching her rehydrate, making sure she’s safe.
Memories float back to my own mother who abandoned my orc father and I when I was only an infant. This betrayal destroyed my father, led to his alcoholism and eventual suicide. I swore I would never trust a human female, never allow one close enough to cause such devastation. Most of them cannot be trusted to form true a commitment to an orc. I’ve seen some at my compound who remain and truly love their mate and child, but I’ve also seen many who, after that initial rush of passion, want nothing to do with orcs ever again. I can’t trust this female, or any female for that matter. It’s better that I simply remain alone.
But this one does seem strong and competent. Possibly the kind of human who stays and fights rather than runs when things get difficult.
I shake my head. No. These thoughts are dangerous and also stupid. I’m here for my career, not to question the vows ofcelibacy that have kept me safe since I came of age. “I should go,” I say, standing abruptly. “I have an early morning shift.”
“I’m off work tomorrow,” she comments and then looks up at me with those hypnotic blue eyes. “Thank you. Thank you for not calling building management or the police. For just…talking to me.”
