Chapter 2

2

MARIAH

T horak's heavy footsteps echo against the hardwood floors as he strides toward the reception desk, like the ominous crash of an approaching storm. If the ground could shake beneath the weight of his presence, I'm sure it would.

It's like he was plucked straight from my teenage nightmares and dropped into my sanctuary.

Thorak looks broader than the last time I saw him, taller if that's even possible, and sports a suit that probably costs more than what I make in a month. The tattoos on my arms prickle under his stare, as if my skin itself remembers his sneers, the way he used to look at me.

Elderberry Falls has about seven thousand residents but often feels like a much smaller town. We have constant festivals, monthly town meetings, and a tight-knit business owners association. Everyone knows everyone. Everyone gossips about everyone.

On its best days, Elderberry Falls can be a welcoming, warm hug. On its worst, it seems inescapable.

So it's remarkable that I've been able to dodge Thorak for the last ten years. We've never bumped into each other at the monster market. We've never been at the same parties, have never grabbed a drink at the same bars. His name has barely popped up in conversations for me.

The only thing I can think is that the unknowable magic of Elderberry Falls has been helping me keep a wide berth.

Until now.

"Thorak," I say as he draws closer. His name tastes like week-old coffee on my tongue. It's blunt, a little bitter. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. "Surprised to see you here."

The words drip with honeyed venom, my eyes narrowing just enough to let him know I haven't forgotten or forgiven. He flinches, so fast I almost miss it, before schooling his face back into something neutral.

Thorak gets my implication— here , a business owned by a dirty human. Here , a place run by the woman he used to bully relentlessly.

"Mariah." His voice is a deep, earthy rumble that resonates in the space between us. Thorak's gaze moves to my own and holds it. Despite my resolve, heat creeps up my neck. Infuriating. "Been a while. How have you been?"

I lean back against the front desk and cross my arms in front of me, trying not to let his presence affect me. Trying not to feel just how much bigger he is than me. He's filled out in annoyingly delicious ways—no longer a bratty, mean teenager, but a man.

Probably a bratty, mean man. Even if he's being annoyingly gentlemanly right now.

"Why would you care?" I spit back at him. His mouth flattens into a tight line around his sharp white tusks. Good, he knows that I'm not willing to brush our history under the rug for the sake of seeming polite. "What are you doing here, Thorak?"

"Business," he grunts.

I can't help but scoff. "Business? Seriously?"

Thorak glances around the lobby of the inn, clearly looking for someone. "Yeah, a potential investor in my brewery is staying here." He looks back toward me. "Sorry. I'm sure you don't want me here. I wouldn't have come if he hadn't requested it."

I blink in surprise at his self-awareness. The Thorak I knew in high school never would've apologized to me, for anything.

"I'm looking for Robert Kingsley," he continues, running one of those big hands through his hair again. "Can you point me in the direction of the cafe?"

"Kingsley?" My eyebrows shoot up.

Now that's a plot twist I didn't see coming. I fight back an uncharitable smile. If Kingsley couldn't handle the flapping of wings in the room above him, he's going to have an interesting reaction to this business meeting with a giant green orc.

Maybe Thorak will get a taste of his own medicine.

"Down the hallway, second door on your left." I wave vaguely toward the cafe.

Thorak nods and turns to leave, and I can't help but notice how that well-tailored suit hugs his broad shoulders, the way his strides are confident yet measured.

I bite my lip—a nervous tick I thought I'd outgrown—and force my gaze away, concentrating on the soft crackle of the fireplace.

That's always been the problem with Thorak; his presence is like the pull of the moon on the tides, undeniable and powerful. And heat? That's one thing he's never lacked—in any sense of the word. Even when he was being awful, even when he made my blood boil with frustration, he was so undeniably...hot.

A fact that irritates me more than I care to admit.

No sooner do I steel myself for the mountain of paperwork on my desk than the front door creaks open again, and in stomps Brorik, the most cantankerous exterminator this side of the Enchanted Forest.

Brorik's beard is an unruly thicket of wiry gray, and his eyes are sharp as he surveys the quiet charm of the Moonflower Inn.

"Brorik," I call out, stepping forward to greet the dwarf. "Glad you could make it."

He grunts in response. "Show me to these pests."

I lead him up the creaking stairs to room 4A. The door swings open to reveal a shimmering haze suspended in the center of the room, like a disco ball had exploded but forgot to fall down.

"Contained them with an enchantment," I explain, my voice a touch too high, betraying my nerves. "But they're still here."

Brorik unpacks his tools without a word, each one more peculiar than the last: a crystal-tipped wand, a pair of goggles that glow faintly with runes, and a small box that hums ominously. He waves the wand over the contained mites, then slips on the goggles and stares at the walls.

"Strange," he mutters. "Very strange."

"Strange how?" I ask, crossing my arms. His head shaking does nothing for my already frazzled nerves.

"Inside the walls," he says brusquely. "They've burrowed deep. Gonna be a tough job." He pulls away a panel near the floorboard, revealing a network of tunnels glinting with residual magic.

"Can you get rid of them?" I press, eyeing the wall with a mix of dread and fascination.

"Of course," he huffs, as if offended by the question. "But it won't be pretty."

"Nothing about today has been pretty," I retort, trying for a laugh and failing. Instead, I follow Brorik with my eyes as he examines the extent of the damage.

Eventually, he pulls back and jots something down on a scroll, then hands it to me.

"You've got yourself a right mess," Brorik grumbles as I take the paper from him.

I scan the document, and my stomach drops like a lead weight into the pit of my despair.

"Twenty thousand dollars?" My voice is barely above a whisper, the number echoing ominously through the room.

"Wall's infested good and proper," the dwarf continues, oblivious to the cold sweat breaking out on my brow. "Got to open her up, clear them out, then patch her back together. Pixie dust mites are no laughing matter."

"Tell me about it," I mutter, sarcasm my flimsy shield against the tidal wave of panic.

The inn cannot take this hit—financially or structurally. But I can't let this infestation spread. Each sparkling mite is a potential catastrophe.

"Start the work," I say, injecting false confidence into my voice. "Immediately."

My hand trembles as I pass the scroll back to him, but I steady it quickly. Can't show weakness, not now. Brorik needs to believe I have these funds available, or he won't do the work.

"Right away, Miss Parker." Brorik tucks the scroll into his belt. "I'll go get the rest of my supplies and a crew to help." His boots thud heavily as he leaves the room and makes his way down the stairs.

I lean against the cool wall, letting its solid presence anchor me for a moment. This place has survived much. We'll survive this too, somehow.

"Twenty thousand dollars," I repeat to myself, the words a mantra as I push off the wall.

Time to get creative. Fundraisers, loans, possibly even selling one of the enchanted paintings. There has to be a way.

As I descend the stairs, the comforting scent of coffee and baked goods wafts up from the cafe. Chef Glim's famous scones...yes, that's what I need right now. Eating my feelings with some buttery goodness.

I push through the swinging doors into the cafe, the familiar scent of cinnamon and vanilla wrapping around me.

The hum of conversation buzzes in the air, mingling with the soft tinkle of enchanted wind chimes that hang by the windows. It's supposed to be calming, but right now, every sound seems amplified, every color too bright. I'm desperate for something, anything, to distract me from the twenty thousand dollar disaster looming over the inn.

Turning to the display case, my gaze settles on the golden-brown mounds of baked goodness. But before I can make my selection, a deep, gruff voice captures my attention. I glance over my shoulder, spotting Thorak Ironfist seated at a nearby table with Robert Kingsley, who looks stiff and supremely uncomfortable in the orc's presence.

"Mariah?" Glim's voice pulls me back to the present and I turn back to look at them standing behind the display case. Glim's hair is a light pastel green today; they change it daily. "Scone like usual? They're pickled raisin ones today." They hand me a plate with a baked good that looks like it could win awards.

"Thanks," I reply, trying to sound cheerier than I am.

Cradling the plate like a lifeline, I find a secluded table near the back and try not to eavesdrop too obviously on Thorak and Mr. Kingsley. Despite my desire to see Thorak's dreams crushed, I don't like the idea of anyone being discriminated against.

Not even the orc who once thought tying my shoelaces together was peak comedy.

I take a bite of the scone, letting its buttery warmth spread through me—a small comfort amid the chaos.

Bits and pieces of Thorak and Mr. Kingsley's talk float over; Thorak's smooth baritone is hard to ignore.

"Business...human realm...distributing..."

The one thing I've heard about Thorak over the past decade is that he's started his own craft brewery, breaking away from his parents' extremely successful brewing conglomerate. Thorak's taproom is popular but I've avoided it like the plague.

I frown. Who would've thought? Thorak, hawking his brews to humans. Isn't he the same guy who used to rant about purity and staying true to his roots?

"Quality," Thorak says confidently, leaning forward, "that's what sets us apart."

Mr. Kingsley eyes him warily. "Your operation will need to scale up, though, if you want to distribute widely. Are you prepared for that?"

"Absolutely," Thorak assures him. "The brewery's ready for expansion."

I feel a twinge of...something. Is it admiration? For Thorak, of all people? Absolutely not. I shove another piece of scone in my mouth.

Mr. Kingsley sniffs. "Well, I'll want to talk to the human in charge of your business development matters, of course."

I shake my head. This man is so predictable and small-minded.

Thorak frowns. "I'm sorry if there was a miscommunication, Robert, but I run my own business development."

It's the wrong answer, clearly. Mr. Kingsley's eyes narrow. "There aren't any humans on your staff who can be our intermediary? I really would prefer to interface with someone who understands humans and human business matters. I think it may be a little over your head."

The gall of this guy is astounding. I have half a mind to kick him out of the inn.

Thorak's jaw drops momentarily and then he shakes the shock off his face, back to business. "No humans on staff, but uh…" He scans around the room, as if searching for a satisfactory response to this prejudice.

We lock eyes and my face flushes. I've been caught snooping.

He glances back to Mr. Kingsley. "My fiancée is human."

My scone gets stuck in my throat and I cough, loudly, spraying crumbs across the table.

Thorak Ironfist, the bane of my high school existence, with a human fiancée? Thorak, who once told me humans were the most inferior species on the planet? Who had half of our grade feigning that they smelled something awful every time I walked into a room?

There's no way Thorak, with all his disdain for humans, has a human fiancée.

No way.

But as I grab a napkin and wipe down the table, an almost definitely awful idea begins to form in my head.