Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

GA'REK

I slipped.

Using Orcish has clearly frightened Piper, who all but sprinted away from me. She's as flighty as the pixies she's named her shop after, and as shy and sweet as her deer familiar.

I take my time strolling to the back of her café, enjoying, as always, the scent of the place. Cinnamon and lavender, sugar and butter, the unmistakable earthy smell of yeast dough rising.

The sun-drenched Pixie's Perch, with its quaint mismatched furniture, is a far cry from the darkly glamorous world of the Underhill. No, the brass and glass candle pendants that hang from the ceiling and glow softly aren't the cold-lit diamond chandeliers the Dark Queen of the Unseelie prefers, and I am glad for it.

I close my eyes, stopping before I enter the kitchen, and soak up the warmth of the morning sun streaming in earnest through the glass windows and onto my back. I would have gotten here earlier, as I normally do, but Piper chewed her lip yesterday afternoon and told me she needed "alone time" with the yeast doughs this morning.

I assumed she meant alone time for herself, period, but from the way she's now chanting over the bowls of colorful cloth-covered dough, perhaps she did mean alone time with the rising dough.

Kitchen witchery, it turns out, is a strange and convoluted magic.

The pink doorframe that leads to the back kitchen creaks as I lean against it.

She doesn't look up from her work, now humming something under her breath as she pulls a ball of sticky dough out.

"I could go down to Willow's Apothecary and see if she has anything in her greenhouse to add to the front porch for, uh, autumn, if you'd like." I'm fishing for words, for a solution to her distress.

Despite me comforting her only a few days ago in her friend Wren's small living room, promising her she did not have to handle the fall festival and the duchess's visit to Wild Oak Woods, Piper has shunned all attempts to lighten her load.

It's frustrating and endearing all at once.

The petite woman is clearly not used to asking for or receiving help of any kind, and I can't help but marvel at the weight she bears on those slim shoulders.

Piper doesn't answer, simply keeps humming to her dough.

"I could see if Willow has something to make the roses look… more harvest festival worthy?" To tell the truth, I don't understand why the roses have sent Piper into a stress spiral. The deep green leaves and what look to be deep pink blossoms look lovely against the striped awning over the glass window.

It doesn't matter what I think, though, not in this case.

If Piper thinks the roses will ruin her harvest festival, then I will fix the roses.

"Willow won't touch the roses," she finally answers, startling me from my quiet reverie. She's blinking up at me, as if surprised to find me here. Her lush lips are slightly parted, her deeper pink tongue flicking out to catch what appears to be a stray bit of sugar.

"Her plant magic," she pauses, her nostrils flaring as she inhales, "isn't to be used for aesthetic purposes."

I blink at her bitter tone. "I take it you have asked her… to use it for aesthetic purposes?" I finally venture.

"It has come up," she replies with another sniff.

I bite my cheeks as laughter threatens. "Right. Well. If magicking the roses is off the table, maybe you'd like for me to just rip them out by the roots? We could use them in a bonfire."

My fingers flex at the prospect of doing something violent for once.

Not that I miss being at the murderous beck and call of the Underhill Queen, but sometimes… I do miss, ah, the ole fight or two.

I frown, cracking my knuckles.

A strange choked sputter echoes across the hard kitchen surfaces, and I glance at the tea kettle at the stove before realizing the noise is coming from Piper.

"You are not pulling out my roses," she says vehemently.

I stare at her, confused by what it is she wants, confused by how much I want to solve her problems for her, and confused by what, exactly, it is she's upset about.

"I won't pull them out," I tell her when it becomes clear she's waiting for me to answer.

She harrumphs, her freckled nose wrinkled adorably, a lock of her deep brown hair escaping the velvet ribbon she's tied it back with.

My fingers itch to tuck it back where it belongs.

Strange.

I glance down at them, mildly concerned.

A long breath sends the lock of hair wafting into the air, and she plops the bread down on the marble board she's been kneading it on, giving me her full attention.

Her blue eyes are full of tears.

"Kal'aki ne, why do you cry?" I ask gently, stepping into the warm kitchen. "What can I do?"

I feel more helpless than ever before in my life.

"Oh, Ga'Rek," she sobs, and before I know what's happening, she's rushed to me.

Flour clouds the air as her aproned body slams into mine, her tiny arms doing their best to wrap around my waist.

I hold stock still, unsure how to respond to this. Her little chest shakes, her head barely coming up to the top of my ribs, tears wetting the fabric of my shirt.

Dots swim in front of my eyes, puzzling me, before I realize I'm holding my breath.

Holding my breath, because I'm afraid that breathing too hard will scare this lovely person away, like she's the pixie in question. A wild bird of a woman.

A shaky breath draws my concern, though, driving me to put my huge hands gently on her back. For a long moment, she just holds me, until her crying quiets.

Carefully, I pat her back.

Once, when I was a very small orc-child, I found a bird with a broken wing. I made a nest for it in a hollowed out log, far enough from my home that my parents would not find it, were they to bother looking for me.

I took care of it for two weeks, feeding it worms and bugs and berries until it was able to get around for itself.

She feels like that bird in my palms.

The fluttering heart beneath the fragile structure of her ribs, the small breaths.

A little sigh escapes her, fluttering against my stomach like the wings of that same bird.

I am afraid to hold her too tight.

I am afraid of what that means.

"Thank you," she finally says, smiling up at me with watery eyes. She brushes her knuckles against her cheekbone, dashing the remainder of the moisture from her peachy skin. "I really needed a hug."

With that, her arms fall from my hips, and she turns back towards the dough, the occasional sniffle punctuating her low, steady hum as the familiar brush of her magic tingles against my skin.

She's back to working like nothing happened.

Like hugging someone, especially an orc, is as ordinary as breathing.

Meanwhile, I can hardly function. My heart's hammering in my chest, my skin's on fire, and I'm sure if I found a mirror, my normally sage-toned cheeks would be pine-green.

Breathe .

I never once in my life thought I would have to remind myself to breathe.

But here I am, in a witch's deliciously scented kitchen, turned to complete breathless putty by the mere brush of her cheek against my body.

It's a good thing I call myself a warrior no longer, because I don't think I could withstand any attack from this woman, much less another embrace.