"I knew you were stubborn and literal and occasionally thick-headed, but I didn't know you were—" She kisses me again, softer this time. "—completely willing to burn everything down for me."
"Seemed appropriate. You did it first."
She laughs against my mouth, the sound shaky. "Your clan actually supports this?"
"Provisionally. Borgat's drafting a statement about ethical treatment of orcs in human media and progressive inter-species relations."
"He's spinning it."
"He's a politician. Of course he's spinning it." I cup her face, thumbs brushing away tears. "But the support is real. And permanent. Once an orc elder makes a public declaration, backing down would be more shameful than the original controversy."
"So you trapped him into approving us."
"Essentially, yes."
Her smile widens. "That's brilliant. Ruthless and slightly manipulative, but brilliant."
"I learned from watching you handle the producers." I kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth. "Your video was perfect. Honest and sharp and brave."
"I was terrified."
"Didn't show."
"Liar." But she's leaning into me now, arms wrapping around my waist. "I thought I'd lost you. Thought you'd decided I wasn't worth the political headache."
"Trinity." I pull back enough to look at her properly. "You're worth everything. The clan drama, the contract violations, the public scandal. All of it."
She makes a small sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and buries her face in my shoulder.
I hold her. Let her shake. Let myself shake too, adrenaline finally catching up.
We stand like that for a long moment, breathing together in her small room with its stripped bed and flour-dusted suitcase. Evidence of packing. She was ready to leave.
"Were you going to run?" My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She nods against my chest. "Had a car scheduled for seven. Figured I'd go out on my terms, not wait for them to eliminate me dramatically."
"Would've chased you."
"To my bakery?"
"To wherever you went." I tilt her chin up. "Would've shown up covered in road dust, probably still arguing with Borgat on the phone, definitely without a plan. But I would've come."
Her eyes search mine. "You really sent everything to the press."
"Email's probably hitting inboxes right now. Journalist seemed excited. Used the phrase 'Pulitzer-worthy exposé.'"
"And the producers?"
"Scrambling. Possibly lawyering up. Definitely panicking."
She grins, sharp and satisfied. "Good."
Then she's kissing me again, and this time it's different. Not frantic or desperate. Intentional. Her hands slide up my chest, around my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.
I walk her backward until her knees hit the bed. She sits, pulling me down with her. The mattress creaks under our combined weight.
"Trinity." I'm trying for restraint, for gentleness. "You haven't slept. You're exhausted?—"
