Page 8 of The Orc’s Comfort

I lean forward slightly, inhaling the complex aroma. “It smells incredible. What’s in it?”

“Bone marrow for mineral strength. Seven sacred herbs with anti-inflammatory properties. Volcanic salt for proper mineral balance.” His voice takes on a rhythmic quality, as if reciting something memorized long ago. “It must simmer for twelve hours under gradually decreasing heat to properly extract the healing elements.”

My researcher’s heart beats faster at this glimpse into orc culinary traditions, then his words sink in. “Twelve hours? You must have started this right after leaving last night.”

Something flickers across his stoic features, his mouth curving just enough to reveal the edge of one polished tusk. The sight sends an unexpected jolt of attraction through me. I’ve never found tusks appealing before, but on him, they’re oddly sensual, especially when paired with those intelligent eyes currently fixed on my face with single-minded focus.

“Healing preparations begin when the need is recognized.” A pause. “It is what my grandmother would have done.”

I take a sip of the broth and nearly gasp as the flavors explode across my tongue: earthy, savory, with an undercurrent of something I have no name for, something that sinks into my bones even as I swallow. The heat of it spreads down my throat, curling low, and I catch myself thinking about parts of my body that have nothing to do with healing. When I look up, I catch Rhazgar watching me with intense focus. His gaze follows the movement of my throat as I swallow, and something tightens low in my belly.

“This is… extraordinary.” I hope he doesn’t know what I was actually referring to, because it had nothing to do with food.

“You find it acceptable?” he asks.

“Acceptable?” I repeat, taking another sip. “This makes every soup I’ve ever had taste like something strained through a sock.”

“Human cuisine has… different priorities,” he replies diplomatically.

“You mean it can be boring?” I challenge with a smile.

He considers this, head tilted. “I would not presume to critique another culture’s culinary traditions.”

“But if you did?” I press.

“I might suggest humans could expand their flavor palettes,” he admits, a surprising hint of dry humor in his voice.

“Fair assessment. Please tell me you’re not judging me for the ramen packages in my cupboard.”

His expression remains neutral, but his eyes betray him. “I make no judgments. Though I did notice they expired two years ago.”

“You were snooping in my cupboards?” I gasp in mock offense.

“Security assessment,” he counters smoothly.

“Of my emergency food stash?”

“Nothing about two-year-old noodles qualifies as ‘emergency-ready’,” he notes.

As I continue drinking the soothing broth, I notice an immediate warming sensation spreading to my extremities. The throbbing in my ankle and wrist seems to recede slightly, and breathing becomes a fraction easier.

“I feel better already,” I marvel. “Is that even possible?”

“The initial effects begin quickly,” he explains, his posture relaxing slightly. “Full healing benefits require regular consumption over several days.”

“So these herbs from your world,” I say, indicating the empty bowl, “they all have healing properties?”

“Most serve multiple purposes.” He counts them off on one large finger. “Protection, healing, celebration.”

“And what would be the orc prescription for ‘embarrassed myself by nearly dying under my own books’?”

He considers this with endearing seriousness before responding. “Back on our homeworld, it would be thunder leaf steeped with pride-flower. Traditional remedy for warriors who fall from their mounts during parades.”

“That’s oddly specific,” I laugh. “Does it happen often?”

“Not since the implementation of the pre-parade dignity preservation ritual.”

“Which is?”