Page 16 of My Orc Package Deal

“It’s precision,” I countered, pointing my fork at him. “Language is a tool. You want to use the right one. Like your dad with a nail gun versus a hammer.”

Korrad chuckled, a warm, rich sound. “So I can work on the treehouse PRO-ject, but also pro-JECT confidence while doing it… I’m using the same tool differently?”

I felt a stupid, radiant smile break across my face. He’d not only listened, but he’d also proved he understood. “Exactly. See? You’re a natural.”

“Don’t encourage her, Dad,” Jay groaned, but he was already testing it. “So… we SUS-pect the tree is strong enough. But we have to be sus-PECT of weak branches?”

“PER-fect!” I beamed. “You’ve per-FECTED the technique. My work here is done. Milo, you have sauce in your ear again—you’re going to need to change your shirt after dinner.”

The conversation spiraled from there, a comfortable chaos of building plans, grammar quirks, and Korrad’s stories from the construction site. He mentioned how happy Brakkor seemed lately, which made me smile, knowing my bestie was the cause.

“Jocelyn’s been up at the lighthouse every day this week, prepping it for the archeological dig that she’ll manage as the structure is being moved.”

Across the table, the boys went very still for half a second, then became intensely interested in their garlic bread. I twitched a brow at the way they snuck grins at each other.

But for now, the late evening sun slanted through the window, painting the kitchen in gold. Korrad’s deep laugh mingled with the boys’ questions about the oak tree’s spreading limbs. The smell of garlic and basil hung in the air. My stomach was full. My son was happy, debating the merits of a pulley system versus a rope ladder.

For what felt like the first time since Korrad’s bonkers proposal over text, I felt my shoulders truly drop.

The constant, low-grade hum of anxiety that had been my background noise for ten years… it was gone. Replaced by the clatter of plates, the warmth of shared space, and the lovely, silly sound of my new family trying out noun-verb stresses on each other.

Maybe this wasn’t perfect. Maybe I wished Korrad and I could be more than just partners across the dinner table. But…I couldn’t help thinking that this was pretty wonderful as it was. In a few short weeks, I’d gone from having only Milo to worry about, and being overwhelmed by just that, to having two new people who were mine. And somehow, with the addition of Jay and Korrad, things had become easier.

They were mine in the same way Milo was; mine to fuss over, mine to worry about.

Mine to…maybe someday love?

I wasn’t supposed to be keeping score. But as I got up to start clearing the table, and Korrad’s hand briefly covered mine on the stack of plates—a simple, casual touch—with a murmured, “I’ve got these,” I couldn’t help but feel like I was winning.

Chapter Four

Korrad

The Saturday morning sun had that lazy, golden quality that promised a long, unhurried day. It streamed into the sunroom, warming the wood of my old acoustic guitar where it lay across my lap.

The air still held the ghost of our breakfast—the rich, sweet smell of maple syrup, the savory punch of bacon, the bitter note of my third cup of coffee. Every once in a while, I heard the faint sound of Kesha’s laughter from the front yard, where she announced she was going to go try on her new rollerblades.

She was out there with Jay, giving him the competition he craved. Every once in a while, I could see flashes of them as they rounded the far curve of the cul-de-sac—Kesha looking poured into those athletic shorts, her obvious strength and power making my Kteer drool. Who knew I’d be into a female who looked like she might be able to kick my ass?

Jay, even at twelve, was the same size as her…and he was nonetheless being schooled. I couldn’t stop the proud, possessive curl in my gut.

My wife. The human designation shouldn’t have meaning to me—it was just a legal term on a piece of paper…but the thought still sent a strange thrill through me. Kesha was mine, even if she wasn’t…well, mine. She might not be my Mate—and couldn’t ever be my Mate—but the laws of her government said we belonged together, and I still hadn’t gotten used to that.

In here, the rhythm was slower, more deliberate.

Milo sat on the drum stool, his back as straight as a ruler, his entire being focused on the pair of practice sticks in his hands. He held them just as I’d shown him weeks ago, with a careful respect that made my heart squeeze with a quiet, profound satisfaction.

This… this was peace. A kind I hadn’t known I was missing.

“Alright, buddy,” I said, my voice a low rumble in the sun-drenched quiet. “Remember, it’s a conversation. The bass drum,” I tapped my foot on the floor, “is the question. Steady. Reliable. The snare,” I hit my thigh, “is the answer. You don’t rush the answer. You let the question hang in the air for a beat. Feel the space between.”

It might be a stupid analogy, but it was one I’d managed to blurt out last week, and the kid seemed to connect with it, so I kept using it.

Milo nodded, his brow furrowed in intense, almost adorable concentration. His tongue peeked out from the corner of his mouth. He’d taken to the drums like a seagull took to unattended chip bags. Where Jay heard noise, Milo heard…well, heard a conversation.

He wanted to understand how the sound was built, just like the way his mom examined conversations.

“Ready?” I asked.