Page 11 of Protective Pucking Orc

The thought made my stomach twist. Rosa would cry. She’d beg to stay, to keep her friends, to keep her little spot at the counter where Dakvaar sat with her and colored silly pictures of dragons and fish.

Dakvaar.

I exhaled sharply, as if I could blow the thought of him out of my mind. But it didn’t work. It never did.

Yesterday had been… nice. Too nice. He’d shown up early, before the café even opened, just to sit with Rosa. He’d bought her breakfast, then lunch to go, like he knew Maggie would grumble about him taking up space. He’d let my daughter chatter at him for hours, answering her endless questions with that quiet, serious patience of his.

I’d kept an eye on them both—of course I had!—waiting for him to look at me expectantly. There’d been guys, since my divorce, who’d tried to charm Rosa to get into my pants. But not once did Dakvaar smile smugly at me as if to say look what a great guy I am! No, he’d focused on Rosa, as if she was the one he was trying to charm.

And it had worked.

My daughter had looked up at Dakvaar like he was the answer to her prayers, and I had to admit that I loved that she was interacting with the world around her, rather than zoned out with those silly videos that were meant to teach her ABCs, but I was afraid were melting her brain.

If he really was doing this for my daughter, then I owed him my thanks. I might not have watched his game against the Emerald Enforcers, but everyone had talked about it. So when I brought him his check, I’d—shyly—congratulated him on his win.

His eyes—the green spark in the center seemed bigger today—lit with what I swore was joy. Merely because I’d remembered he’d had a game?

He’d left me yet another hundred-dollar bill. If he kept this up, I’d be able to afford some real presents for Rosa’s birthday, to make up for the pitiful haul Santa had brought her last month. Part of me wanted to return the money, to tell him it was too much…but seeing how he was with my daughter, I knew he’d tell me he was doing it for her.

When the patrons had begun to thin out, and Rosa’s eyelids had begun to droop, Dakvaar carried her to a booth and tucked her in with her jacket like she was something precious.

Like she was his.

My throat ached with hidden emotion.

Anthony had never once held her. Never once looked at her, not really. To him, she’d been a tool, a pawn. But Dakvaar? Dakvaar treated her like she was made of starlight.

I pulled into the café’s back lot, the gravel crunching under my tires. Debbie’s beat-up sedan was already there, steam curling from the tailpipe. A few other cars were parked haphazardly—early risers, regulars who liked their coffee as soon as possible.

And then there was the black SUV.

I frowned. I didn’t recognize it. Not a local plate, either—a rental. My pulse kicked up, just a little. Not panic, not yet. Just…awareness. The kind that came from years of looking over my shoulder.

It’s nothing. Just a tourist. Or a new customer.

I told myself that as I killed the engine, as I grabbed my bag and stepped out into the cold. The air smelled like pine and woodsmoke, as always. The café’s back door was propped open just slightly with a rock, the warm glow of the kitchen spilling out onto the pavement, making it easier for me and Maggie to get inside.

Everything was normal.

So why did my skin prickle?

The salt crunched under my boots as I hesitated, my breath fogging in the frigid air. The café’s back door beckoned, just a few steps away, but my feet refused to move. Something was wrong. My fingers tightened around the strap of my bag, my pulse thudding in my throat.

Then—thunk—a car door slammed shut.

I whirled around.

The world narrowed to a single, terrible point.

Anthony.

He stood beside the black SUV, one hand still on the door handle, the other shoved into the pocket of his expensive wool coat—the kind meant for Dallas winters, not Colorado’s biting January. His dark hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp under the stubble he’d cultivated to look “rugged” instead of just lazy. The cigarette clamped between his teeth glowed orange as he inhaled, the smoke curling around his face like a halo of filth.

He was tall—taller than most men, though not as towering as Dakvaar—but it wasn’t his height that made my stomach drop. It was the way he moved, each step deliberate, each boot heel pressing into the gravel like he was grinding something beneath it. His eyes locked onto me, dark and flat, like a shark’s.

Found you.

The thought screamed in my head, even though his lips hadn’t moved. His mouth twisted around the cigarette as he exhaled, smoke billowing between us. He had an expressive mouth, even when he was angry.