Knox turns to look at me, and the battle-fury in his eyes softens into something almost approaching concern as he takes in my shell-shocked expression and white-knuckled grip on my tablet. "You are unharmed, Cypress Evans?"
"Me? I'm fine. I didn't do anything except stand here and try not to faint." I laugh, and the sound comes out higher and more hysterical. "You're the one who just fought off two armed men with your bare hands. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"
He looks down at himself, apparently conducting some kind of internal damage assessment, and I follow his gaze to the small tear in the sleeve of his incredibly expensive suit jacket. The fabric has been sliced cleanly, probably by a blade I didn't even see in the chaos of the brief confrontation, and beneath the ruined silk I can see a thin line of dark blood welling up from a shallow cut on his forearm.
"A scratch," he says dismissively, flexing his fingers to demonstrate that the arm still functions properly. "Nothing of consequence. The healers of my clan have treated far worse."
But I'm already stepping forward, my professional instincts overriding my common sense as I lift his arm to examine the wound more closely. The cut isn't deep, but it's still bleeding sluggishly, dark droplets staining the torn fabric of his jacket and dripping onto the pavement below. Orc blood smells like copper.
"That needs to be cleaned and bandaged. When did you last have a tetanus shot? Do Orcs even need tetanus shots? God, I have no idea how any of this works, but you're bleeding on your Armani and I refuse to let you get an infection on my watch because I'm pretty sure that would reflect poorly on the company's liability insurance." I'm babbling, the words tumbling out of my mouth without any input from my higher brain functions, and I can't seem to stop them no matter how firmly I tell myself to shut up and act like a normal human being. "My apartment is just up the street. Two blocks. I have a first aid kit and some butterfly bandages and at least three different kinds of antiseptic because I'm paranoid about cuts getting infected ever since I read that article about flesh-eating bacteria."
"You wish to tend my wound yourself? This is not necessary. The cut will heal within hours. Orc physiology is highly resistant to?—"
"I don't care about Orc physiology. I care about the fact that you just saved my life, or at least saved me from a very unpleasant mugging, and the least I can do is make sure you don't bleed all over the subway platform on your way home." I grab his uninjured hand before I can think better of it, my fingers wrapping around two of his because that's all I can physically encompass, and I start tugging him toward the street with a determination that probably looks ridiculous given our relative sizes. "Come on. My apartment has better lighting than this alley, and I need to sit down before my knees give out completely."
He could resist me easily—could plant his feet and refuse to move and I would have about as much success relocating him as I would have pushing the Empire State Building across Fifth Avenue—but instead he allows himself to be led, falling into step beside me with a bemused expression that makes his tusks catch the streetlight at an angle that is, I notice despite my best efforts not to notice, surprisingly attractive. The briefcase is retrieved from where he dropped it, tucked securely under his uninjured arm, and we make our way out of the alley and onto the main street like the world's most mismatched pair of combat survivors.
My apartment is exactly where I said it would be, two blocks north in a walkup that hasn't been renovated since the Reagan administration, and I lead Knox up three flights of narrow stairs that creak ominously under his weight and seem to shrink around his shoulders with every step we climb. The building was not designed to accommodate seven-foot Orc warlords, and I wince every time his tusks scrape against the ceiling or his shoulder catches on the peeling wallpaper, but he navigates thecramped space with surprising grace, ducking and angling his body through the tight turns like a man who has learned to exist in a world built for creatures half his size.
I fumble with my keys at the door to 3B, my hands still shaking from the adrenaline aftermath of the alley encounter, and Knox waits patiently behind me while I drop the keyring twice and finally manage to fit the correct key into the lock on my third attempt. The door swings open to reveal the tiny studio I've called home for the past four years, and I'm suddenly acutely aware of every dirty dish in the sink and every romance novel scattered across the coffee table and every piece of laundry I didn't quite manage to fold before I left for work this morning.
"It's small," I say, which is the understatement of the century and possibly the decade. "I mean, it's fine for me, but you might want to watch your head on the ceiling fan, and the kitchen is basically a closet, and I'm pretty sure the radiator has been possessed by demons since last winter, but it's home and it has a first aid kit, which is the important thing right now."
Knox steps inside, and the apartment immediately feels like it's shrunk by approximately fifty percent, his presence filling the space in a way that makes my carefully arranged furniture look like dollhouse accessories. He surveys the room with those piercing golden eyes, taking in the overstuffed bookshelves and the tiny kitchen alcove and the window that overlooks the fire escape I sometimes sit on when I need fresh air and a moment of peace, and I find myself holding my breath waiting for his judgment on the space where I spend most of my non-working hours.
"It is a good nest," he says finally. "Small, but defensible. One entrance, clear sightlines, elevated position for tactical advantage. You have chosen your dwelling wisely, Cypress Evans."
"I chose it because it was the only thing I could afford within walking distance of a subway station, but sure, let's go with tactical advantage." I gesture toward the floral sofa that my grandmother left me when she passed, a overstuffed monstrosity in shades of pink and green that looks like it was designed by someone who really loved English gardens. "Sit down before you put your tusks through my ceiling, and try not to break anything. That couch has survived two moves and a flood, but I don't know if it can handle an Orc warchief."
He settles onto the couch with the careful deliberation of a man who has learned the hard way that human furniture is fragile, and the visual contrast is so absurd that I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud. Knox Bloodaxe, Conqueror of the Northern Markets, Vanquisher of the Quarterly Report, is sitting on my grandmother's floral sofa with his knees practically up around his ears and his elbows tucked carefully against his sides to avoid knocking over the lamp on the end table. The pink cushions sag dramatically under his weight, and the springs creak in protest, but somehow the ancient sofa holds together, proving itself worthy of its survivor status.
I retreat to the bathroom to retrieve my first aid kit, a professional-grade case that I bought during a particularly anxious period in my early twenties when I was convinced that I needed to be prepared for any possible medical emergency. The kit is overstocked to an almost ridiculous degree, containing everything from basic bandages to emergency suture supplies that I have never once needed to use, and I carry it back to the living room with the focused determination of someone who has finally been given a task she can accomplish without fumbling.
"Jacket off," I order, settling onto the coffee table in front of him so that I'm at roughly neck height, which is the best Ican manage given our respective sizes. "I need to see what I'm working with."
Knox complies without argument, shrugging out of the ruined Armani with a grace that really shouldn't be possible for someone with shoulders that broad, and I'm confronted for the second time today with the reality of what lies beneath his expensive human clothing. His shirt is still intact, pristine white cotton stretched tight across muscles that look like they were carved from green marble by a sculptor with very specific ideas about masculine perfection, and I have to force myself to focus on the injured arm rather than letting my gaze wander across the expanse of his torso and shoulders.
The cut is shallow, as he said, but longer than I initially estimated—a clean slice about four inches along the outside of his forearm, the edges already beginning to knit together with a speed that confirms his earlier comment about Orc healing capabilities. The bleeding has mostly stopped, leaving only a thin line of dried blood crusted along the wound, and I pull on a pair of nitrile gloves from the kit before I begin the careful process of cleaning away the debris and disinfecting the area.
"You don't need to do this." He's quieter than I've heard it before, stripped of the bombastic confidence he wields like a weapon in the boardroom. "The wound is superficial. It will heal on its own before morning."
"I know." I dab antiseptic along the cut with more concentration than the task strictly requires, focusing on the movement of my hands rather than the intensity of his gaze. "But you got hurt protecting me—protecting the company, protecting the plans we need to save everyone's jobs—and even if it's just a scratch, I want to make sure it heals properly. Call it a compulsion. Call it gratitude. Call it whatever you want, but I'm doing this, so just sit there and let me finish."
He's silent for a long moment, watching my hands as I apply a thin layer of antibiotic ointment and begin carefully positioning butterfly bandages along the length of the cut. The work is delicate and requires my full attention, but I'm hyperaware of his nearness anyway—the warmth radiating from his skin like a furnace, the scent of him filling my nostrils with every breath I take, something wild and earthy and masculine that doesn't belong in my tiny apartment but somehow fits perfectly against the backdrop of my grandmother's flowers and my secondhand furniture.
"Why did you stay?"
The question catches me off guard, and I fumble the last bandage, pressing it crookedly across the wound and having to peel it back and reposition it before I can answer. "What do you mean? When the takeover happened? I stayed because you offered me triple my salary and the alternative was unemployment in this economy, which seemed like a poor career choice."
"No." He shifts on the couch, the movement bringing him closer to me. "In the alley. When the attackers came. You did not run. You did not scream for help or attempt to flee. You stayed, and you watched, and when I turned to find you, you were still there."
"Where else was I going to go? It's not like I could outrun them. And besides—" I peel off my gloves and drop them into the small trash bag from my kit, busying my hands with the mundane task of cleanup so that I don't have to look directly at him. "Besides, you were fighting them. For me. For the company. For the briefcase full of plans we spent all afternoon putting together. I wasn't going to just abandon you to deal with that alone, even if the only thing I could do was stand there and try not to hyperventilate."
He leans forward, and suddenly his face is very close to mine, his golden eyes filling my field of vision and his breath warm against my neck in a way that sends shivers cascading down my spine. I can see every detail of his features from this distance—the slight roughness of his green skin, the darker green of his lips, the way his tusks curve upward from his lower jaw in a way that should be intimidating but somehow isn't, not when he's looking at me like that, like I'm something precious and confusing and worth examining more closely.
"Cypress Evans. Valkyrie of Commerce."
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. "Yes?"
