"Bar," I announce, jerking my thumb toward the main lodge building visible through the trees, a sprawling structure of dark wood and glass that promises air conditioning and decent whiskey. "We're not doing trust falls. We're not doing feelings journals. We're getting drinks, finding the executive cabin, and spending the next three days pretending we did whatever the investors wanted us to do. Anyone who objects can stay here and do yoga with the event planner."
There's a ripple of laughter, low and approving, and the group begins to move as one massive unit toward the lodge, boots crunching against gravel and voices rising in relieved conversation because none of them wanted to be here either. I follow at the rear, hands shoved into my pockets, already mentally composing the email I'm going to send to the investors explaining that I showed up, fulfilled my contractual obligation, and they can fuck off with their wellness initiatives.
We make it approximately fifteen feet before Romee Lin steps directly into our path, planting herself in front of the lodge entrance with her feet spread wide and her tablet raised like a shield, and I stop so abruptly that Garak nearly crashes into my back.
She doesn't say anything. She just reaches into her blazer pocket, pulls out a compact tactical airhorn, the kind designed for marine safety and crowd control, and raises it with both hands until it's pointed directly at my face.
"Miss Lin," I begin, my voice booming into that measured, dangerous register that usually makes people reconsider their life choices, the one that has boardrooms going silent and investors scrambling to renegotiate terms. "Put that down before you do something we're both going to regret. I'm giving you one opportunity to make the rational choice here."
She doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even blink. Just tilts her chin up at a defiant angle, her dark eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and determination that I'm starting to recognize as her signature move when dealing with me, and her finger tightens on the trigger with the kind of deliberate finality that suggests she's made her decision and she's absolutely committed to seeing it through, consequences be damned.
She pulls the trigger.
The sound is apocalyptic, a sharp, ear-splitting blast that physically reverberates through my skull and sends every single Orc behind me staggering backward with hands clapped over their ears. The noise cuts through the peaceful morning silence like a chainsaw through butter, sending birds erupting from nearby trees in panicked clouds and probably waking up every guest within a quarter-mile radius. I feel my ears ringing, a high-pitched whine that drowns out everything else, and I look at her with pure, undiluted disbelief because she actually did it, she actually just blasted an airhorn directly into my face without hesitation or remorse.
She lowers the airhorn slowly, her expression calm and professional, like she's just completed a routine task from her checklist, and when she speaks, her voice cuts through the ringing in my ears with ruthless clarity.
"If you don't get out onto the lawn for the scheduled three-legged race, Thrall," she says, using my first name with the kind of casual disrespect that makes my jaw clench involuntarily, "I will personally cancel the catered wagyu beef skewers, the imported whiskey selection, and every single meat-based dish on the menu for the next seventy-two hours. You will eat kale salads. You will drink green smoothies. And you will participate in trust circles until you arebeggingme for the sweet relief of a feelings journal. Do I make myself absolutely, crystal clear?"
CHAPTER 3
ROMEE
The silence that follows my threat stretches out like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point, as twenty-three massive Orcs process the reality that I've just weaponized their own appetites against them with the kind of ruthless efficiency usually reserved for hostile corporate takeovers. Their expressions shift from amused defiance to genuine alarm, and I see the exact moment the math clicks into place behind their amber and gold and deep brown eyes, the horrible realization that three days of green smoothies and kale salads might actually constitute cruel and unusual punishment by their dietary standards.
Garak, the hulking Chief Technology Officer whose tusks are decorated with what looks like actual platinum bands, breaks first. He turns to Thrall with pure betrayal and says, "Boss, the itinerary says 'dry-aged wagyu with chimichurri compound butter and truffle salt.' If we lose that because you wanted to make a point, I'm filing a formal complaint with HR and requisitioning a new CEO."
There's a rumble of agreement from the group, a low, collective grumble that sounds like distant thunder rolling across mountains, as Thrall's jaw clenches so hard I can seethe muscle ticking beneath his moss-green skin. His eyes lock onto mine and makes my heart stutter despite every professional instinct wanting me to maintain eye contact and not back down, because backing down now would shatter the fragile authority I've managed to establish over this group of corporate warriors who could probably bench-press my car without breaking a sweat.
"You wouldn't. You signed a contract with Horde Tech. Premium catering was explicitly outlined in the service agreement. You're legally obligated to provide it."
I smile, bright and sharp and absolutely devoid of warmth, and tap my tablet screen twice to pull up the exact clause I spent six hours memorizing last night because I knew, I absolutely knew that Thrall was going to be a problem the second I saw his employee file and the notes from his last three HR mandated workshops that all ended with the phrase "non-compliant" stamped across the evaluation forms in angry red letters.
"Section Seven, Subsection D," I recite, my voice crisp and professional despite the fact that my pulse is hammering against my throat hard enough that I'm worried he can see it fluttering beneath my skin. "Premium catering is contingent upon full participant engagement with scheduled activities. Any disruption, refusal to participate, or deliberate obstruction of programming gives the event coordinator, that's me, full discretion to modify catering options to basic nutritional standards. Which means steamed vegetables, whole grain salads, and protein smoothies made with unflavored pea powder. I had my lawyer review it twice specifically because I was warned that your company has a reputation for eating event planners alive, sometimes literally, and I am not getting chewed up and spit out three months before my promotion review."
The words tumble out faster than I intend, my professional mask slipping just enough to reveal the bone-deep exhaustionand desperation underneath, because I need this retreat to go perfectly, I need the glowing review from Horde Tech and the portfolio piece that proves I can handle difficult clients and high-pressure situations, and I absolutely cannot afford to let this massive, infuriating Orc derail three months of planning because he thinks feelings circles are beneath his corporate dignity.
Thrall stares at me for a long, breathless moment, his expression unreadable except for the slight narrowing of his eyes that suggests he's recalculating his strategy and reassessing whether I'm actually insane enough to follow through on my threat. Behind him, I can see his executives exchanging worried glances and whispering among themselves, clearly weighing their loyalty to their CEO against their love of premium beef, and I know with absolute certainty that I've won this particular battle even if I have no idea how I'm going to survive the rest of the war.
"Fine," Thrall finally says, biting off the word like he's chewing glass and hating every second of it. "Three-legged race. But if this is genuinely pointless, which I'm confident it will be, I'm invoicing your agency for wasted executive productivity hours at our standard consulting rate. That's four thousand dollars per hour per executive. Do the math."
I do the math instantly, my brain spitting out the number so fast it makes my stomach drop straight through the floor, but I keep my expression smooth and professional because showing fear now would be fatal to my credibility and I've already committed to this insane power play so I might as well see it through to its inevitably disastrous conclusion.
"Noted," I say briskly, turning on my heel and marching toward the wide expanse of manicured lawn that stretches between the lodge and the lake, my tablet pressed against me like armor and my heart hammering so hard I'm amazed it'snot audible over the crunch of gravel beneath my sensible flats. "Everyone to the lawn. We're starting with ice breakers and team-building partnership assignments. Move."
Twenty minutes later,I'm standing in the middle of the lawn surrounded by twenty-three massive Orcs who are arranged in a vaguely circular formation and radiating varying degrees of hostility and resignation, and I'm realizing with slowly dawning horror that my carefully planned team-building exercise has a critical flaw that I somehow failed to anticipate despite three months of meticulous preparation.
The executives shuffle and shift and strategically position themselves next to literally anyone else, their body language screaming discomfort and carefully maintained distance, and it takes me longer than it should to understand that this isn't just typical corporate hierarchy dynamics where underlings avoid the boss to prevent sucking up accusations. This is genuine, primal fear, the kind that makes grown Orcs who probably deadlift refrigerators for fun instinctively create space around their CEO like he's radioactive or cursed or both.
Garak catches my eye and shakes his head slightly, a warning gesture that's probably meant to be subtle but reads as blatantly obvious given his size, and I remember the notes in Thrall's file about "inappropriate aggression during team exercises" and "requires additional monitoring during high-contact activities" and I suddenly understand exactly why his previous HR coordinators quit.
Thrall stands apart from the group with his arms crossed over his chest and his expression completely blank, and if I didn't know better I'd think he was unbothered by the blatant social exclusion happening right in front of him, but there's a tension in his shoulders and a slight tightness around his eyesthat suggests this is a familiar dynamic and he's chosen to respond with aggressive indifference rather than acknowledge the rejection.
I should assign him a partner. I should use my authority as event coordinator to override the group's obvious reluctance and force someone to work with him, because that's the professional thing to do and it's what my training manual explicitly recommends for situations involving social isolation and team dynamics. But I can see the resentment already building in the executives' faces, the way they're bracing themselves for the possibility that I'm going to make this their problem, and I know instinctively that forcing this issue will destroy any remaining goodwill I've managed to build with the group.
Which leaves exactly one option.
"Thrall," I hear myself say, my voice coming out steadier than I feel despite the fact that my brain is asking me to reconsider this monumentally stupid decision. "You're partnering with me."
