We move to the barricade procedure. I show her the heavy dresser, how to angle it against the door, where the door wedge is hidden.
“This buys you time,” I explain. “That’s all. Time for me to get to you.”
I demonstrate the positioning, then step back so she can try. But the dresser is heavy, awkward, and she struggles with the angle. I move behind her without thinking, my hands covering hers on the wood, guiding the movement.
Her back is nearly against my chest. I can feel the heat of her small body through the thin fabric of her sweater. The scent of her arousal spikes, mixing with the lingering fear, and my body responds instantly. My shaft thickens in my pants.
I force myself to step away.
“Like that,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “You’ve got it.”
Anna turns to look at me. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing slightly uneven. She knows exactly what she does to me. And I can smell that she feels it too.
We don’t acknowledge it.
We move on.
The weapons cache is next. I pull up the loose floorboard near the back wall, revealing the hunting knife hidden beneath.
“Security upgrade,” I explain. “Standard protocol for protected cabins.”
Anna reaches down and picks up the knife. Her hands are steady as she tests the weight, the grip. She doesn’t flinch away from it.
“Last resort only,” I tell her. “Your job is to survive until I reach you. Not to fight. Survive.”
“And if surviving means fighting?”
“Then you fight.” I show her the ax by the back door. “These are tools, not heroics. You use them to buy time, to create distance. Nothing else.”
She nods, still holding the knife. The blade catches the light from the window.
I’m impressed despite myself. Three years of running taught her to be practical. To adapt. To do whatever it takes.
“There’s something else,” Anna says. She sets the knife down and moves to her go-bag in the corner of the room. “Something I brought with me.” She unzips a hidden compartment and pulls out a small black case. When she opens it, I go still.
A handgun. Compact, well-maintained. Human weapon.
“You have a gun.”
“Glock 43.” She checks the chamber with practiced ease—the motion smooth, automatic. “I got my concealed carry permit twoyears ago. Took classes and I practiced at the range whenever I could.” She meets my eyes. “Three years on the run, Keric. I wasn’t going to do it unarmed.”
I stare at the weapon in her hands. Orcs don’t use guns. We consider them tools for those who lack the strength to fight without them. Our ancestors hunted with spears, with bows, with their bare hands. Even now, when human law allows us to own firearms, most orcs refuse. It feels like admitting weakness.
I know better, of course. The Army trained that romanticism out of me. I was part of the first all-orc unit—twelve of us who proved that orcs could follow human military protocol, could operate as soldiers within their chain of command. I qualified expert on every weapon they put in my hands. I’ve seen what guns can do, how fast they can end a fight.
But I still don’t like them. Now that I’m out, I don’t carry one. Don’t keep one in the cabin. There’s something about pulling a trigger that feels like cheating—like skipping the part where you prove you’re strong enough to protect what’s yours.
Anna isn’t an orc, though. She’s a human female, half my size, being hunted by men who want her dead. For her, a gun isn’t weakness. It’s survival.
“You know how to use it,” I say. Not a question.
“I’m a good shot.” There’s no bravado in her voice, just fact. “Not great. But good enough.”
I watch her handle the weapon—finger off the trigger, muzzle pointed safely down. She knows what she’s doing.
“The knife and ax are last resorts,” I say slowly. “But this...”
“This gives me a chance.” She looks up at me. “If they breach the cabin. If you can’t get to me in time. I’m not going to just hide and hope.”
