The sky opens up.
There is no graceful transition, no gradual increase in precipitation that might allow us to seek shelter in an orderly fashion. One moment we are sitting on a concrete wall enjoying post-victory hot dogs, and the next moment we are being absolutelypummeledby a torrential downpour. I yelp and grab my tablet, trying to shield it with my body, while Knox lets out a string of Orcish words that I'm fairly certain translate to something extremely profane about weather deities and their parentage.
"This way!" He grabs my elbow and hauls me toward the nearest building. We duck into a narrow doorway—some kind of service entrance for the building next to the park, recessed just enough from the street to provide marginal protection from the rain. It's barely big enough for one person to stand comfortably, which means two people—especially when one of those people is a six-foot-eight Orc with shoulders like a mountain range—have to press together so tightly that personal space becomes an abstract concept rather than a practical reality.
Knox's back is to the rain, his body forming a wall between me and the elements, and I find myself wedged into the corner of the doorway with his body approximately three inches from my face. His suit is soaked through, the expensive fabric clinging to muscles that I am absolutely not cataloging in inappropriate detail, and water streams down his tusks and drips from the ends of his braids in a way that should look ridiculous but somehow just looks... devastating.
The doorway is too small, the rain is too heavy, and Knox is toobig, his presence filling every available inch of space. My back presses against the cold metal of the door, and I shiver—from the temperature differential, I tell myself firmly, not from anything else.
"Are you cold?"
He is staring at my lips like a starving man staring at a feast, like a warrior staring at the spoils of a hard-won battle, like?—
The rain hammers against his back, streaming around us in silver curtains that blur the rest of the world into insignificance. We are trapped in this tiny pocket of almost-dry space, pressed so close together that I can feel the rise and fall of his breath, can smell the rain and something deeper beneath it, something warm and wild and utterly, unmistakablyhim.
His hand rises slowly, giving me every opportunity to pull away, and his fingers brush a strand of wet hair from my cheek with a gentleness that seems impossible for someone his size.
"Cypress." My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer, like a battle cry, like something sacred and dangerous all at once. "Tell me to stop."
I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, my fingertips, the soles of my feet. Every rational thought I've ever had about professional boundaries and workplace relationships and the absolute insanity of getting involved with my terrifying Orc boss has fled my brain entirely, replaced by the singular, overwhelming awareness of his mouth inches from mine and the hunger burning in his eyes.
The rain keeps falling. The city keeps moving. And Knox Bloodaxe keeps staring at my lips like they hold the answer to a question he's been asking his whole life.
8
KNOX
She looks up at me with those wide eyes behind her rain-spattered glasses, her lips slightly parted, her breath coming in quick little puffs in the humid air between us.
Water streams down her face, plastering dark strands of hair to her cheeks and neck, and she is so small, so fragile, so utterly perfect.
I could kiss her. The thought thunders through my blood like a war drum, drowning out the rational thoughts in my head that sounds suspiciously like my clan's elder strategist. I can read the signs of battle readiness in the flush of her cheeks, the rapid flutter of her pulse at her throat, the way her body leans toward mine despite the cold metal at her back. She is poised on surrender, waiting for me to claim the victory.
But this is not how a true warchief conquers.
My ancestors did not build their empire through hasty raids and impulsive charges. They planned, they strategized, they waited for the perfect moment to strike and ensure total, devastating victory. A kiss stolen in a doorway, rushed and desperate, with rain soaking our clothes and the battle with Vance still unwon—this is not the conquest Cypress deserves.She is no common territory to be seized in a moment of weakness. She is a kingdom, vast and complex and breathtaking, and I will not claim her until I have proven myself worthy of such a prize.
I step back. The movement costs me more than any wound I have ever sustained on the battlefield.
"The rain begins to slow." I clear my throat and gesture toward the street, where the torrential downpour has indeed begun to ease into a steady drizzle. "We should return to headquarters before the enemy regroups."
Cypress blinks at me, as the fog of desire slowly clears from her eyes, replaced by disappointment before turning into professional neutrality. She pushes her glasses up her nose with a hand that trembles slightly, whether from cold or something else I cannot determine, and nods briskly.
"Right. Yes. The office. We should definitely get back to the office and do... office things."
The awkwardness in her would be amusing if I were not currently fighting the most difficult battle of my entire existence against my own base urges. I shrug off my suit jacket, which is soaked through and heavy with water, and hold it over her head like a makeshift canopy. The fabric is useless for keeping her dry at this point, but the gesture seems to startle her, her eyes going wide again as she looks up at the dripping material and then at my face.
"What are you?—"
"You are cold." I state the obvious because my brain has apparently lost the capacity for eloquent speech. "This will provide minimal protection, but it is better than nothing. We will move quickly."
I do not give her time to argue. My hand finds the small of her back, guiding her out of the doorway and into the street, and I keep the ruined jacket held over her head as we walk. The rainhas slowed enough that it no longer feels like being pelted with small stones, but it continues to fall in a steady, miserable drizzle that soaks through my shirt within moments. The fabric clings to my skin, cold and uncomfortable, but I find I do not care. All of my attention is focused on the small woman beside me, on the way she huddles close to my side to stay under the meager shelter of my jacket, on the soft sounds of her breathing and the occasional shiver that runs through her frame.
We do not speak during the walk back to the office. The silence between us feels charged, electric, like the air before a winter storm, heavy with potential energy waiting to be released. I am acutely aware of every place our bodies almost touch, every brush of her shoulder against my arm, every moment when the movement of walking brings her hip close enough to graze my thigh. The restraint required to maintain appropriate distance while still keeping her sheltered beneath the jacket is a form of torture I would not wish on my worst enemy, and yet I endure it because the alternative—giving in to the primal urge to sweep her into my arms and carry her somewhere warm and private—would be a violation of everything I believe about honor and conquest.
By the time we reach the lobby of our building, we are both thoroughly soaked. The security guard at the front desk takes one look at us and wisely decides not to comment, merely buzzing us through with a sympathetic nod. The elevator ride to our floor feels interminable, the small enclosed space thick with the smell of rain and the lingering tension that has followed us since the doorway. I stare straight ahead at the elevator doors, watching the floor numbers climb, and try very hard not to think about how easy it would be to press the emergency stop button and pin her against the wall.
The office is empty when we arrive, most of the staff having either gone home for the day or fled early to escape the storm.The silence feels strange after the chaos of the trade show and the rain, too quiet, too still, and I find myself on edge in a way that has nothing to do with enemy combatants and everything to do with the woman shivering beside me.
