Page 7 of The Orc’s Comfort

Something tells me Julia Whitaker is worthy of these sacred traditions. Now I must prove worthy of preparing them for her.

Chapter Four

Julia

I wake where I spent the night, sprawled awkwardly on the couch, surrounded by pillows and the books I could reach without moving. My body feels like one massive bruise, with special attention to my ribs, ankle, and wrist. The paramedics’ painkillers have worn off, leaving me acutely aware of every injury.

Rhazgar lifting that enormous bookcase as if it weighed nothing keeps replaying whether I want it to or not. The contained power in his movements, the focus in his eyes when our faces were unexpectedly close…

I find myself staring at the wall that separates our condos.

A gentle knock at my door interrupts thoughts I’d rather not examine too closely.

“Julia?” Rhazgar’s deep voice carries easily through the patched-up door. “I’ve brought your morning meal.”

“Come in,” I call, then wince at the strain on my ribs. I gave him my key last night so he could get in this morning.

The door swings inward, revealing Rhazgar carrying a large ceramic pot with both hands. Steam rises from it, bringing an aroma so complex and enticing that my stomach immediately growls in response.

“Good morning,” he says formally, ducking his head to clear the doorframe. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I lost a fight with a library,” I admit, attempting to sit up straighter and immediately regretting it.

“The books were clearly the aggressors,” he observes, setting down his healing preparations.

“Vicious literary ambush,” I agree, wincing as I shift position. “The encyclopedias are the worst. So much knowledge, so little mercy.”

“Knowledge often comes at a price.”

“Usually just the library late fee, not bodily harm,” I counter.

He tips his head slightly. “Perhaps you should consider collecting smaller books.”

“Paperbacks only from now on,” I solemnly promise with my hand in a Girl Scout promise pose. “Though I’m not sure my professional reputation as a librarian could survive the scandal.”

“Academic compromise in the name of physical safety,” he suggests. “A reasonable adaptation.”

“Says the seven-foot orc who could probably bench press my entire collection without breaking a sweat.”

“I wouldn’t recommend testing that theory.”

Why is it that the deep tone in his last statement makes me picture exactly how this big, green orc might bench press me?

He sets the pot down on my coffee table and approaches, his movements unhurried. “May I?” he asks, gesturing toward my injured ankle.

When I nod, he kneels beside the couch, his massive form somehow making the movement look graceful. With careful, exacting attention, his fingers assess the swelling around my ankle, his touch clinical yet causing my pulse to quicken for reasons entirely unrelated to pain.

His large hand could completely encircle my ankle, the contrast between his green skin and mine sending an inappropriate shiver up my leg. I bite my lip, fighting the sudden urge to know how those strong, thick fingers would feel trailing higher up my calf, my thigh…

“The inflammation increased overnight,” he observes with a slight frown. “Expected, but not ideal.”

“The ice pack melted,” I explain sheepishly. “And I couldn’t get up to refresh it.”

His expression softens slightly. “The healing broth will help with inflammation. It should be consumed while hot. I’ll put the ice pack in your freezer and buy you two more so you can alternate them.”

He moves to my kitchen like he’s done it a dozen times already, retrieving a bowl and spoon. The bowl looks comically small in his large hands as he ladles a portion of the steaming liquid.

“This is WarmHearth healing broth,” he explains, setting it on a tray beside me. “A traditional remedy for injuries involving bone and tissue damage.”