Page 16 of The Orc’s Comfort

When we reach his door, Rhazgar shifts me slightly to access his keys, and I take the opportunity to do something I’ve been wanting to do since he first lifted me. I let one fingertip trace the edge of his collar, feeling the texture of his skin where it meets fabric. He goes absolutely still for a heartbeat, his breath catching, before he continues with the key. Neither of us acknowledges what just happened, but the air between us feels charged, electric.

His door swings open.

“Welcome to my home,” Rhazgar says, his deep voice carrying a hint of uncertainty I’ve never heard before. “Khal-mek or dra.” Him repeating himself in what must be orcish makes something flutter deep in my stomach.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him honestly, taking in the harmonious blend of his cultural elements with Earth-adapted surroundings.

He carries me through the doorway, and I get my first look at his condo from the best possible vantage point, his arms.

It’s the mirror image of mine in structure and nothing else. Where my space disappears behind shelving and stacked books, his opens upward; the ceilings I’ve never thought about suddenly soaring. Colorful woven fabrics in rich jewel tones hang on the walls, clan symbols and cultural markers I recognize from my research but have never seen displayed like this, as living things rather than archived ones. The furniture is clearly custom-built, solid and unhurried. The whole space smells extraordinary: layered spice and earth and something I have no name for that I am already associating entirely with him.

He carries me to his kitchen and settles me onto a heavy wooden stool beside the counter, adjusting me until I’m steady. Even seated this high, my head barely reaches the middle of his chest.

“You can observe from here,” he says. “Tell me if you need to move.”

As he works, I’m mesmerized by the transformation. In my condo, he always seemed conscious of every inch of his size. Here he moves with fluid confidence, his hands, so massive yet so controlled, measuring and mixing with practiced ease.

“It’s like you’re conducting,” I say. “Only instead of an orchestra, you’ve got herbs.”

He glances up. “The principles are similar.”

“Really?”

“Timing. Balance. Knowing when something has reached its full expression.” He stirs the pot. “Each element enters when it is ready.”

“So it’s a composition.”

His gaze meets mine. “Yes.”

The reality of our physical proximity suddenly hits me. He stands close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the intimate scent that seems to emanate from his skin. From this distance, I can see details I’ve never been close enough to notice: a small scar near his temple, the way his breathing changes slightly when he looks at me, how his pupils dilate when our eyes meet.

“This one stimulates circulation,” he says, indicating a golden powder. Without warning, he takes my uninjured hand, turning it palm up with more care than the motion needed.

I freeze at the unexpected contact, my pulse quickening. His fingers dwarf mine, making my hand look impossibly delicate against his green skin.

With his index finger, he places a tiny portion of the golden powder in my palm, then applies gentle pressure with his thumb. The sensation hits at once: warmth spreading up my arm, a tingling that feels pleasurable rather than painful.

“Oh,” I breathe.

“Too intense?” he asks, immediately loosening his touch.

“No. It’s pleasant,” I assure him. “Just… unexpected.”

His gaze meets mine, and something shifts in their amber depths. I’m suddenly aware of how little space separates us.

“The direct application method is traditional,” he explains, his voice rumbling lower than usual.

“I like it,” I say, perhaps too quickly based on the subtle shift in his expression.

A moment of silence stretches between us, his thumb still resting lightly against my palm. I become acutely aware of every point of contact: the warmth of his skin, the strength he is visibly holding back.

“This one supports ligament, tendon, and muscle healing,” he continues, finally releasing my hand to indicate a deep red powder. “Fire stone. Used sparingly. Safe for humans in the prescribed amount, though the sensation surprises most people the first—”

Driven by research habit and perhaps a desire to impress him, I touch my finger to the powder and bring it to my tongue to taste before he finishes the sentence. The effect is instantaneous: heat explodes across my palate, followed by an alarming numbness that spreads rapidly.

“Mmph!” I manage, eyes widening in panic.

Rhazgar moves with startling speed, reaching for a small vial on the closest shelf. “Direct tasting is not recommended. Open, please.”