"Thraka," Orla's voice resounds with tension, quiet but commanding. "Conference room. Now."
She stands, smoothing her skirt, her face unreadable.
I follow her out, leaving Chad and the rest of the department sitting in stunned silence.
The door clicks shut behind us, and she whirls on me in the hallway, eyes blazing.
But before she can speak, before she can unleash whatever professional lecture she has prepared, I see it.
The way her chest rises and falls too quickly.
The way her pupils are dilated.
The way she is standing just slightly too close, like her body moved toward mine without permission.
"That was completely inappropriate," she starts, her voice tight and clipped in that way that tells me she's fighting for control.
"He disrespected my work," I counter, my voice still carrying the rumble of barely-contained fury. "He mocked something I created. Something I put effort into."
"You can't just growl at people, Thraka." She crosses her arms, but the gesture looks defensive rather than authoritative. "This is a corporate environment, not a battlefield."
"Why not?" I take a half-step closer, watching her breath hitch. "It was effective. Chad understood my message perfectly. He will not mock my reports again."
"That's not the point," she snaps, but her eyes dart to my mouth before flicking back up to meet my gaze.
"Then what is the point, Little Manager?" I let the words roll out slowly, deliberately, watching the way her jaw tightens at the nickname she pretends to hate.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her professional composure cracks just slightly, and I see something wild flash in her eyes.
"The point is," she says, but her voice wavers. "The point is you need to control yourself."
"And if I don't want to?"
"Then you'll be fired by the end of the week."
We stare at each other in the empty hallway, and the air between us feels charged, dangerous, like the moment before lightning strikes.
She should step back.
She doesn't.
I should apologize.
I don't.
And somewhere in the conference room behind us, Chad is probably telling everyone about the crazy orc who almost murdered him over a book report, but I cannot bring myself to care.
Because Orla Peace is looking at me like I am a problem she cannot solve, a variable she cannot calculate, a disruption to her perfect, controlled world.
And I am looking at her like she is the most interesting challenge I have ever faced.
5
ORLA
Idrag Thraka into the supply closet because it's the only room in this godforsaken building that doesn't have glass walls, and the last thing I need is the entire third floor watching me attempt to de-escalate a seven-foot-tall orc who looks like he's two seconds from committing corporate homicide.
The door clicks shut behind us.
