CHAPTER 16
LANEK
The steel door clicks shut behind me, and the silence of my shop wraps around me like a suffocating blanket.
I make it exactly four steps inside before my control shatters completely.
My fist connects with the concrete wall of the freezer corridor with a sickening crunch that reverberates up my entire arm. Pain explodes across my knuckles, sharp and clarifying, and I welcome it. I pull back and hit the wall again, harder this time, feeling the concrete crack under the force of the blow.
A third time. A fourth.
Blood streaks across the grey surface, and my hand throbs in protest. I can't care about something as insignificant as split knuckles when every primal instinct in my body is screaming at me to turn around, to go back outside, to eliminate the threat to my mate the way my ancestors have eliminated threats for thousands of years.
With violence. With finality. With absolute, brutal certainty.
But I don't.
I stand here, breathing hard, staring at the damaged wall and my ruined hand, because she asked me not to. Because she needs me to be something other than what I am. Because she deservesa partner who can function in her world, not a relic from a bloodier age who solves every problem with his fists.
The freezer hums quietly around me, and I rest my forehead against the cold concrete, closing my eyes.
I did what she asked. I used her laws. I used her methods. I recorded evidence and recited statutes and let those pathetic criminals run away instead of tearing them apart with my bare hands.
And it felt wrong. Every single second of it felt wrong.
But her voice in my head, telling me she needed a partner who respected her agency, was louder than my instincts.
Barely.
I push away from the wall, flexing my damaged hand experimentally. The knuckles are split and swelling rapidly, but the bones are intact. It will heal. Everything heals eventually.
Except the look on her face when she told me she was done.
That might be permanent.
I move through the dark shop on autopilot, pulling my phone from my pocket with my good hand. The video footage is clear, damning, and thoroughly documented. I pull up my email and attach the file, addressing it to Quinn's bakery account exactly as I promised.
Then I open a second email and send the same footage to the police department, along with a detailed written statement of what I witnessed. I include timestamps, descriptions of the individuals involved, and the exact legal violations I observed.
My newly hired corporate lawyer—an efficient, no-nonsense human woman who didn't even blink when a massive Orc walked into her office three days ago—receives the third copy, along with instructions to pursue every available legal remedy against both the hired criminals and the developer who likely sent them.
I hit send on all three emails and set the phone down on my cutting block.
Done.
The threat to Quinn's business is being handled through proper legal channels. Her building is protected. Her lease is secure. The developer will face consequences that actually matter in human society—fines, lawsuits, potential criminal charges.
Not broken bones and fear.
Not the Orc way.
The Quinn way.
I should feel satisfied. Accomplished. Proud that I managed to protect her while still respecting her boundaries.
Instead, I feel hollow.
I look around my shop, taking in the gleaming stainless steel surfaces, the custom-built cutting blocks, the carefully organized tool racks. I spent months setting up this space. I chose this location specifically because the neighborhood felt right, small businesses, tight-knit community, people who valued craftsmanship over corporate efficiency.
