"I don't need to file a complaint. I need you to be a reasonable human being?—"
"Not human."
"—a reasonable person," I correct, my voice climbing, "and recognize that you've moved into an established neighborhood with existing businesses that have operated just fine without the soundtrack to a slasher film."
He crosses his arms. The movement makes his shoulders bunch under the apron, and I absolutely do not notice the way the muscles shift. "You always this aggressive before coffee?"
My mouth drops open, and for a second I'm too stunned to form words. When they finally come, my voice climbs an octave. "I'm aggressive? I'm the aggressive one in this scenario?"
"Stormed in here like you owned the place," he points out, his tone maddeningly calm. "Didn't knock. Didn't announce yourself. Just barged right through my back door."
"You destroyed my cake!" The words come out somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, all pretense of customer-service politeness finally shattering. "My wedding cake! Four tiers of hand-painted fondant roses and champagne-infused buttercream that I spent hours on yesterday! It's supposed to be picked up today and it's currently in pieces all over my floor because you decided to play lumberjack with our walls!"
"Accidentally."
"You—" I take a breath. My customer-service smile is gone, replaced by the expression my mother calls my 'stubborn Hayes face.' "Fine. You know what? Fine. I'll be more careful about my timing. You be more careful about yours. We're neighborsnow, whether either of us likes it, so let's try to coexist without property damage."
He studies me for a long moment, and I have the unsettling feeling of being assessed. Measured. His gaze drags from my flour-dusted hair down to my kitten heels and back up, slow and deliberate.
"Quinn Hayes," he says finally, like he's testing the shape of it.
"That's me."
"Lanek Grieves."
He doesn't offer his hand, which is probably for the best given the state of it. We stand there in the cold bite of his meat locker, separated by a butcher's block and what feels like a fundamental disagreement about acceptable morning noise levels.
"Well, Lanek," I say, injecting as much pointed sweetness into my voice as possible. "Welcome to the neighborhood. Try not to saw through any load-bearing walls."
I turn on my heel and march back toward the door. Just before I step back into the alley, his voice follows me.
"Sorry. About the cake."
I don't turn around. I don't trust myself to maintain any semblance of composure if I have to look at him again, all brutal edges and blood-stained leather in his frozen kingdom.
"You should be," I call back, and let the door slam behind me.
The alley air feels tropical compared to his shop. I'm shaking, and I want to blame it on the cold, on the adrenaline spike, on anything except the memory of dark eyes tracking my movement like I'm something worth watching.
I have a wedding cake to salvage.
I do not have time to think about the Orc butcher who just moved in next door, with his bone saw and his shoulders and his complete disregard for my morning peace.
I absolutely do not.
CHAPTER 2
LANEK
The door slams behind her, and I'm left standing in the cold bite of my walk-in with a half-butchered elk carcass and the lingering scent of vanilla bean cutting through the iron tang of blood.
I set the cleaver down on the steel table, my hand still steady.
Well.
That is interesting.
I've seen plenty of humans in the fifteen years since I moved to the city. Worked alongside them, served them at the counter, nodded politely when they complained about the smell or the sight of hanging meat through my front windows. Most of them look at me with either nervous politeness or outright fear, their eyes skittering away from my tusks, my bulk, the evidence of what I do for a living.
