Page 58 of The Orc’s Comfort

Oh no.

For half a second I can see exactly what’s coming. I visualize with excruciating clarity what he’s going to do.

He doesn’t.

His mouth opens, closes. He looks at Rhazgar, then at me, and something crosses his face I’ve never seen on him before: restraint that is visibly costing him something.

“Congratulations,” he says, low, just for us, and grips Rhazgar’s shoulder hard enough that Rhazgar rocks on his feet. “I am going to go stand very far away and not say anything else until you tell me I am allowed to.”

He backs off exactly three steps and stands there, vibrating, both hands pressed over his own mouth.

“Grulk.” Rhazgar says his name gently.

“I’m not saying anything,” Grulk says, muffled. “I am a wall. I am silence itself.” His eyes are suspiciously bright.

“Grulk. Why are you covering your own mouth.” Elder Korgath’s voice is dry, and it reaches us before she does. She arrives a moment later, her silver tusk adornments catching the light. Her sharp gaze moves from Grulk’s hands to Rhazgar’s face to mine. Whatever she finds there answers her own question before anyone says a word.

“The child is healthy?”

I blink. “We haven’t confirmed… I mean, I only just found out—”

“May I?”

At my nod, she rests her palm on my stomach, eyes closing briefly. “Strong life-force. Resilient.” Her eyes open. “I’ve witnessed many hybrid pregnancies. The signs I can sense are favorable.”

My shoulders drop an inch. I didn’t realize I’d been clenching so tightly. “Thank you.”

“Come to the clan hall next week. We’ll begin nutritional protocols.” She smiles, warm and grandmotherly, then pierces Rhazgar with her perceptive gaze. “I told you when you bonded that this human would bring strength to the WarmHearth line. I’m pleased to be proven correct.”

After she moves on, Grulk is still vibrating with barely contained excitement. “This requires celebration,” he says, in what passes, in his world, as a whisper. “I’ll need to speak with Torgun about the birthing tools. There are traditions to prepare.”

“Grulk,” Elder Korgath says, not unkindly, “go find Torgun. Tell him what you like, but tell him quietly.”

“Quietly,” Grulk repeats, like he’s testing whether the word will hold. He goes.

I lean into Rhazgar’s side. “So much for keeping it quiet.”

“With Grulk involved? We never had a chance.” He touches my wrist where the silver connection band rests, the one shaped by our shared heat, his hands steady over mine until the metal yielded and fit itself to me. I still feel the weight of it, like something that was always supposed to be there. “But he’s right about one thing. This deserves celebration.”

“Tonight,” I say, “I still have a line of books to sign. Celebration can wait until I’m not nauseated.”

He accepts this without argument, and the party winds down around us. I answer questions and sign stragglers’ copies until my voice goes rough.

Finally, mercifully, the last guests depart.

Rhazgar and I stand in the deserted hall, surrounded by evidence of success: scraped-clean dishes, a book table stripped bare, and a banner declaring our cookbook a bestseller. Someone's left one last copy open on the table, face up to the dedication page. For my grandmother. Because she taught me. Seven words. He wouldn't let me talk him into more, no matter how many drafts I pushed back with margin notes asking for detail.

"She never wrote any of it down," he says, looking at the page rather than at me. "Not once, in her whole life. It went from her hands to mine, and it would have gone from mine to whoever came next, the same way, if there'd been anyone to give it to."

"Does it bother you? That it's in print now. That a stranger in Ohio can buy it."

He considers this longer than I expect. "I thought it would."

"And?"

"There are forty thousand copies of her recipes existing in the world tonight that didn't exist yesterday. I keep trying to feel that as a loss." A pause. "I don't."

"We did it," I say softly.