Page 19 of The Orc’s Comfort

Fear stops the words in my throat. What if she’s horrified? What if she thinks I’ve been manipulating her into a courtship she never agreed to?

Humans already view orcs with suspicion, too big, too strong, too different. When I tell her the healing meals were courtship declarations, she might see exactly what integration training warned her about. I imagine she’ll feel deceived.

I press my hands flat against my knees. The condo is very quiet. It offers nothing back.

My grandmother taught me that honor matters more than outcome, that integrity overrides desire. She would tell me to speak the truth and let it cost what it costs.

My last thought before sleep is of her face when she tasted it: pleasure, wonder, completely unaware of what she was accepting.

Tomorrow. Before the evening meal, I’ll tell her everything and accept whatever follows.

Chapter Nine

Julia

Nothing tests a blossoming relationship like the unexpected arrival of your mother, especially when you learn about it over your morning tea.

“She’s WHAT?” I nearly drop my mug of Rhazgar’s healing tea, wincing as the jolt aggravates my ribs.

“On her way,” my assistant Eliza repeats, the apologetic tone clear even through the phone. “She called the library when you didn’t answer her texts. I may have mentioned your accident.”

“Those texts were from three days ago!” I protest, glancing frantically around my condo. Books still litter every surface despite Rhazgar’s attempts to reorganize them into what he called “a logical system,” which meant categorizing them by size and color rather than subject. “I was going to call her back when I had the energy to deflect the inevitable string of questions.”

“Well, she’s driving in from Denver as we speak. She said, and I quote, ‘My daughter doesn’t need to face this alone, no matter how independent she thinks she is.’ She sounded pretty determined.”

I groan, sinking deeper into my cushions. “Of course she did.”

After hanging up with Eliza, I check my phone with growing dread. Six missed calls and thirteen texts from my mother stare back at me. The most recent reads: On my way, sweetie. Don’t argue. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t help? I’ll be there by dinner.

My mother, Evelyn Whitaker, isn’t exactly a helicopter parent. More like a rescue helicopter that appears with sirens blaring when you least expect it, convinced you’re in dire need of assistance even when you’re perfectly fine. Her arrival was inevitable once she heard about my accident, though I’d hoped the three weeks of travel with her seniors’ hiking group would delay it.

I spend the rest of the morning doing what I do best under stress: researching. If my mother is going to interrogate every aspect of Rhazgar’s presence in my life, I want answers ready. By noon, I’ve filled six pages of notes on WarmHearth healing traditions and eaten the last of the crackers Rhazgar left on my coffee table. By the time the light through my windows shifts to gold, I’ve rehearsed fourteen different versions of “he’s just my neighbor” and convinced myself of exactly none of them.

Just as I’m contemplating how to present this information without prompting a maternal meltdown, a familiar gentle knock sounds at my door.

“Come in,” I call, attempting to sit straighter and immediately regretting it.

Rhazgar enters with his usual grace, carrying what appears to be a large ceramic bowl covered with a cloth. The warm, savory aroma preceding him has become a comfort over the past nine days.

“I’ve prepared the evening healing broth,” he explains, setting it on my coffee table.

His thoughtfulness makes my heart flutter uncomfortably. “Thank you, but I should warn you—”

Before I can finish, a rapid, insistent knocking erupts from my door, the distinct rhythm immediately recognizable.

“My mother’s here,” I finish weakly.

Something crosses Rhazgar’s face, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. Not alarm. Something quieter. His gaze flicks once to the bowl he just set down, like the evening he’d brought it for is already over. Then his posture straightens almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring as if preparing for combat.

“Is this… problematic?” he asks quietly.

I understand the unspoken part of his question, am I problematic?

“Not problematic, just… complicated.” I push myself up, reaching for my crutch. “She can be a bit overprotective.”

“I will leave if my presence would cause her concern,” Rhazgar offers immediately, though something in his eyes suggests he’d rather not.

“No, stay. Please.” The please gives me away a little. “She should meet you. She’ll be seeing a lot of you while she’s here.”