"Undoubtedly."
"And you still have second-degree burns that I need to treat properly."
"After," I rumble.
Her eyes open. "After what?"
"After you stop overthinking and let me kiss you."
CHAPTER 7
QUINN
The industrial sink hisses and steams around the charred metal tray, the acrid smell of burnt sugar and melted wiring thick in the air. My heart pounds so hard, my hands trembling as I grip my worktable for support. The overhead lights flicker once, twice, then stabilize, casting harsh shadows across the wreckage of my pristine kitchen.
The fire is out.
My oven, my temperamental, ancient, irreplaceable oven that I've babied and coaxed and threatened for three years, sits dark and silent, its door hanging open like a broken jaw. Smoke curls lazily from the interior, and I can see the blackened, twisted remains of what was supposed to be tomorrow's sourdough starter.
"Quinn."
Lanek's voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, low and urgent and edged with something that sounds like barely controlled panic. Before I can respond, he's on me, massive hands gripping my shoulders and turning me forcefully to face him. I brace myself to see him wince, but the thick, deep green skin of his palms is already beginning to seal over the worst ofthe blisters, a perk of Orc biology I've never been more grateful for.
"Are you hurt?" The question comes out as a growl, rough and guttural, entirely stripped of his usual careful human politeness. "Did the smoke get in your lungs? Did any sparks touch you?"
"I'm fine, I just?—"
"You're shaking." His hands slide down my arms, thumbs pressing gently against my wrists to check my pulse. "Your heart rate is elevated. You're in shock."
"I'm not in shock, I'm just—" My voice cracks traitorously. "That's my entire livelihood in that oven, Lanek. I can't afford to replace it. I already got the rent increase notice last week, and now this, and I have three wedding cakes due next weekend, and?—"
"Breathe." He pulls me forward, tucking my face on him, one broad palm cradling the back of my head while the other wraps around me. The rumbling sound intensifies, vibrating through his entire torso, and I realize with a jolt that he's purring. Actual, literal, deep-chested Orc purring, the kind that's supposed to calm distressed mates.
It's working.
I hate that it's working.
My fists clench in the ruined fabric of his suit jacket—custom-tailored, probably obscenely expensive, now streaked with soot and reeking of smoke. The lapels are singed at the edges where he stood too close to the flames, and there's a torn seam across one massive shoulder where the fabric simply couldn't contain the flex of muscle when he grabbed the burning tray.
He threw himself between me and the fire without hesitation. Bare-handed. Didn't even flinch.
The adrenaline that's been screaming through my system since the first spark suddenly shifts, transmuting from panic into something else entirely. Something hot and reckless and utterly overwhelming.
"Lanek," I manage, my voice muffled.
"I've got you, little baker. You're safe. I won't let anything hurt you."
His hands are moving now, sliding up and down my spine in slow, possessive sweeps, mapping the curve of my waist and the line of my ribs like he's checking for structural damage. The touch is careful, controlled, but there's a tremor in his fingers that betrays how badly he wants to grip tighter, hold harder, pin me against him until he's certain I'm unharmed.
"I need you to talk to me," he rumbles. "Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me if you breathed in too much smoke. Tell me?—"
"Stop."
"—if you feel dizzy or nauseous or?—"
"Lanek."
"—because smoke inhalation can present delayed symptoms and I need to know if?—"
