Romee is still standing in the middle of the great room, her entire frame trembling with the adrenaline crash. Her breath is coming in quick, shallow gasps, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. For a moment, she just stands there, processing what she's just done.
I reach for her carefully, making sure the movement is deliberate and obvious—telegraphing every inch of the approach—because the last thing either of us needs right now is for her to flinch away from me. My hand extends slowly, palm open and non-threatening.
She turns into me immediately, almost violently, her face pressing hard against me as her hands fist in the fabric of my shirt. She's gripping the material like it's the only solid thing in a spinning world, her knuckles white with the force of her grip.
"I need," she starts, her voice muffled against the black cotton, "I need to sit down. Or possibly throw up. Or possibly throw something. Preferably all three, in that order, but I'm flexible on the sequencing."
"All three are entirely acceptable options," I tell her, my hand moving in a slow, deliberate line down the length of her spine—a grounding gesture, something to anchor her back to the present moment rather than the chaotic spiral of what she's just done."But you're handling this in my cabin, not here in front of an audience."
She laughs shakily against me, the sound slightly unhinged and raw with residual adrenaline. Then she pulls back just far enough to look up at me, her dark eyes bright and glassy, searching my face as if trying to determine whether I'm genuinely serious or if this entire conversation has slipped into some kind of shared delusion.
"Did I actually just quit my job?" she asks, her voice carrying the distant tone of someone still processing their own actions. There's a tremor beneath the words, equal parts exhilaration and terror at what she's unleashed.
"Yes."
"And you actually just offered me a position at Horde Tech?" Her disbelief is palpable, almost accusatory, as if she's waiting for me to reveal this as some elaborate joke at her expense.
"Yes."
"Without interviewing me or checking references or literally any normal hiring protocol whatsoever?" She's almost laughing now, the question tumbling out in a rush, her hands still gripping my shirt like she needs the physical proof that this conversation is real.
"Yes," I confirm, then add, because I'm apparently incapable of restraint where she's concerned, "You're also wearing my shirt in front of my entire executive team, which means every Orc in this room now considers you under my protection. So if you were planning to negotiate the terms of employment, you have significant leverage."
She stares at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable, then turns to address the room full of Orcs who are watching this interaction with various levels of fascination.
"Is he always like this?" she asks them seriously, her gaze sweeping across the assembled Orcs with the practiced intensityof someone accustomed to gathering intelligence in hostile boardrooms.
"No," Vrok answers immediately, his massive frame shifting as he leans against the conference table with the ease of someone who has witnessed countless iterations of his boss's temperament. "Usually he's much less reasonable. You're seeing him at what we might charitably call his most... cooperative."
Garak nods in solemn agreement, his eyes glint with something that might be amusement. "This is actually his warm and accommodating mode. We consider ourselves fortunate when he merely threatens property damage instead of following through on it." He pauses, then adds with what sounds almost like respect, "The fact that he's not currently demolishing something suggests you've made quite an impression."
Romee turns back to me, her mouth twitching despite everything—despite the adrenaline still coursing through her system, despite the shock of what she's just done, despite standing in a room full of massive Orcs in borrowed clothing that still carries the warmth of my skin. There's a spark of something defiant in her expression, that familiar glint I've come to recognize as her entering negotiation mode.
"Well then," she says, her voice steady and crisp as fresh paper, "I'm negotiating hazard pay into my contract. Substantial hazard pay. The kind that reflects the genuine occupational risk of working in close proximity to someone who apparently uses property destruction as a management tool."
"Done," I agree instantly. "Now come with me before your former boss decides to return with a lawyer, at which point I will actually have him removed from the property in a manner that requires police reports."
She lets me guide her toward the door, though I feel the moment she hesitates, her body tensing slightly as if pulled by an invisible thread back toward the assembled executives. Herprofessionalism, even now, even after everything, refuses to fully release its grip on her consciousness. She turns back to face them one final time, her posture straightening, her chin lifting with that characteristic determination that has become achingly familiar to me over these endless days of orchestrated team-building exercises and escalating chaos.
"For the record," she announces with the crisp clarity of someone who has spent years commanding rooms full of people twice her size, her voice cutting through the ambient murmur of the lodge with surgical precision, "the afternoon session starts at two o'clock sharp. Not 2:05. Not 2:01. Two. If anyone is late—if anyone is evenremotelylate, I am personally canceling the wagyu skewers that catering has spent all morning preparing."
The collective groan of protest that erupts from the gathered executives is immediate, visceral, and extremely gratifying. It reverberates through the space like a primal lament, and I feel Romee's hand relax slightly within mine, her shoulders dropping just a fraction as she absorbs the confirmation that her authority remains absolute, that even in this moment of personal upheaval, her control over the retreat's logistics, and therefore over them, remains ironclad and unquestionable.
I pull her out of the lodge and toward my cabin, ignoring the knowing looks from my team, focusing instead on the way her smaller hand fits perfectly into mine and the fierce satisfaction burning through my chest at the knowledge that she's mine now, in every way that matters.
Her boss is a problem I'll solve with lawyers and strategic financial pressure.
But Romee herself? She just became the most important acquisition of my entire career.
CHAPTER 9
ROMEE
Idon't have time to process what just happened in that lodge, the feeling of Thrall's scent wrapped around me as every single Orc in that room shifted their entire demeanor the moment they caught it on my skin, the visceral satisfaction of watching my former boss flee like a scolded child. My brain, still operating on the fumes of adrenaline and caffeine, is trying desperately to catalog and compartmentalize these events into something resembling a coherent narrative when the main doors to the lodge swing open again.
Richard Hartwell stands in the doorway, his pale face flushed an alarming shade of crimson, his expensive but ill-fitting suit rumpled from what must have been a frantic drive up the mountain. He's breathing hard, his chest heaving beneath his monogrammed shirt, and the expression on his face is one I've seen approximately two hundred times before—the specific blend of wounded ego and performative outrage he deploys whenever a client dares to question his authority or, worse, compliments my work directly instead of routing their praise through him.
"Romee Lin," he announces loudly, his voice pitched to carry across the entire space with the theatrical projection of someonewho believes volume equals authority. "We need to have a conversation. Immediately. About your absolute failure to maintain professional boundaries and your shocking disregard for the agency's reputation."
