Page 37 of Pumpkin Spice & Orc Cinnamon Roll
Because I’d hoped.
And hope hurts more than anything.
Later, I light one of the candles from the gala—spiced fig and burnt sugar. It flickers beside me like a ghost of everything that almost was.
And I whisper, “Never again.”
But it feels like a lie.
Because I know if he walked in right now and said therightthing, my heart would still lean toward him like sunflowers chasing light.
That might be the cruelest part of all.
CHAPTER 18
DROGATH
The truck’s wheel vibrates under my palms. Fourth lap past the gravel turnoff to Maple & Mallow. Ash coats my tongue, but it’s not from the smoke pouring over the eastern ridge—it’s from the silence. Twelve hours since she walked away. Twelve hours since I became the man I swore I’d bury.
Business reports rattle through my skull like loose screws.Acquisition percentages. Lease terms. Damage control.None of it sticks. Just echoes. Just noise.
“You missed the Parker account analysis, sir.” My assistant’s voice slicks through the truck’s speaker, tinny and nervous.
I crush the phone under my boot.
The smoke finds me first. Thick black plumes swallowing the last light of sunset. Sirens wail in the distance, but I’m already skidding my truck onto the curb near the burning storage sheds. Villagers scatter like startled hens as I leap out. Heat licks my face.
“How many inside?” I snarl at a woman clutching a screaming toddler.
“J-just the two Calhoun kids! They were playing?—”
The roof groans. I don’t wait.
Burning splinters shred my palms as I wrench the door off its hinges. A girl’s shrill cry slices through the crackle of flames.
“Here! We’re here!”
I find them huddled under a wool blanket, eyes wide as coins. The boy’s maybe six, face streaked with soot. His sister’s grip on his arm leaves crescent moons in his skin.
“Hold your breath,” I bark, scooping them both against my chest. Embers bite my neck. The boy whimpers into my ruined shirt collar.
“You’re squishing us!” the girl snaps, all fire despite her trembling.
“Complain later,” I grunt, kicking through the collapsing doorframe.
The crowd parts. Whispers follow—Thornhold property. His fault. Arson.I set the kids down by a paramedic van. Their mother seizes them, sobbing.
“Sir, your hands—” a medic starts.
I’m already walking.
The orchard air tastes like cider and burnt regrets. I press my forehead against the split-rail fence, charred knuckles bleeding into the wood grain. Her voice hooks into me before I hear footsteps.
“Drogath.”
I turn. Tessa’s eyes drink in the ruin—the blistered skin, the melted copper cufflinks, the way my breath hitches when she steps closer.
“You idiot,” she whispers.
