I snap a shelf over my knee. The break reveals a clean cross-section of solid heartwood, dark red, tight-grained. I pause.
"It's an antique," Magnolia repeats.
"I'll add the replacement cost to expenses."
I lay the back panel flat on the floor between the bed and the window. The three shelves go on top, side by side, creating a raised platform. The twin bed's spare blanket, folded twice, serves as a minimal cushion. The sleeping pallet is hard, flat, three inches off the ground, and exactly the correct dimensions.
I'm kneeling on the floor, testing the pallet's weight tolerance with both palms pressed flat, when the door slams open behind me.
No knock. No pause. The knob cracks against the wall hard enough to chip plaster.
A woman stands in the doorway. Short. Magnolia's coloring but sharper at every edge. Her eyes are brown and bright and they sweep the room in a single merciless pass, cataloging the destroyed wardrobe, the makeshift pallet, and the shirtless Orc holding a mahogany shelf plank across both hands like a war club.
"Magnolia Renée Jenkins. What in God's name is happening in this room."
Magnolia's face goes white. "Hi, Mom."
CHAPTER 7
MAGNOLIA
Mom's shriek could strip wallpaper.
It starts in the neighborhood of a dog whistle and drops three octaves into a register that rattles the iron bed frame. Her manicured fingers fly to her collarbone. Her pearls, the good ones, the ones Grandma Eloise left her specifically because they were too ostentatious for anyone with taste, bounce against her knuckles.
"MAGNOLIA."
"Mom, this is?—"
"There is a CREATURE in your ROOM."
Dash doesn't flinch. Doesn't tense. Doesn't even shift his weight on the dismantled pallet. He sets the mahogany plank down with surgical precision, aligning it flush with the others. Then he rises.
And rises.
Mom's head tilts back. Back. Back. Her mouth, which has been open since the door hit the wall, keeps going. Dash at full height in a confined space is not a man standing up. It's a geological event. His shoulders block the window. The scars on his chest, pale green lines carved through darker skin, map outa history of violence that spans more surface area than Mom's entire body.
Her second shriek stalls in her throat.
Dash reaches for his shirt. Not rushed. Not embarrassed. He picks it up off the desk with two fingers, shakes it once, and threads his arms through the sleeves. The armor-silk catches on the ridges of his forearms. He doesn't button it. He rolls the cuffs twice, precise folds, each one even. The open collar frames the column of his neck and the thick scar tissue that crawls up from his sternum.
Then he steps forward.
Mom stumbles back half a step into the hallway. Her heel catches on the carpet runner. She grabs the doorframe.
Dash stops. Lowers his chin. Places his right hand flat across his chest, fingers spread wide over the silk. His left arm sweeps behind his back. He bends at the waist.
Not a nod. Not a dip. A full, formal, spine-straight aristocratic bow, the kind they teach at the Orcish War Academy in the northern territories, the kind that precedes treaty signings and surrender negotiations and state funerals. He holds the position for three full seconds.
The hallway goes quiet. Somewhere downstairs, a string quartet is warming up, and the faint whine of a violin drifts through the floorboards. Mom's mouth closes. Opens. Closes again.
"Madam Jenkins. Dash Roark. Your daughter's partner. Forgive my state of undress. The wardrobe required restructuring to accommodate the room's spatial limitations."
Mom blinks. Seven times. I count.
"You..." She swallows. Her hand hasn't left the doorframe. "You speak English."
"Four languages, Madam. English, Orcish High Tongue, conversational Elvish, and enough Dwarven to negotiate mining contracts."
