Page 11 of My Orc Package Deal

Not me, obviously, but I’d spent a decade editing manuscripts about finding love. Maybe I could check out some self-help books from the library.

How to Make Your Husband Happy Without Blowjobs, Since He Says This is Strictly A Marriage of Convenience 101

Oh, So You Married a Stranger? How to Make it Work, Volumes 1-4

What the Shit Were You Thinking? How to Avoid Jumping Into Bed With Your New Husband, You Daft Idiot.

Surely there was a list somewhere.

Because from everything I’d learned, Korrad deserved happiness in a way no other male I’d met had. He was kind and generous and noble, and I still had no idea what he got out of this marriage, other than burden and headache. I was beyond worried about this being one-sided, but I couldn’t pass up what he was offering.

So I just had to do my best to not be a burden or a headache.

And that started with being polite.

I took a deep breath and went to find my new husband.

He was in a room in the back of the house, what might have been intended as a sunroom, but now was filled with…music. Or the possibility of music.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, and the air itself seemed to hum with…latent creativity? Floor-to-ceiling windows—black mirrors now in the night—promised a stunning view come morning.

But it was the contents that stole my breath. In one corner, a sleek drum kit stood sentinel, cymbals gleaming. I’ll have to keep Milo away from there, or he’d do some damage. Several guitars rested on stands like sleeping beauties, and a keyboard occupied the opposite corner.

This wasn’t just a room; it was a sanctuary.

And in the center of it, on a worn leather ottoman in front of a cozy chair, sat Korrad.

A guitar was cradled in his lap, those huge, capable hands moving with a surprising delicacy over the strings. He wasn’t playing a song, just a progression of chords—a melancholy, wandering melody that filled the quiet space. His head was tipped back, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the dark glass, the lines of his face softened in the lamplight.

He looked…peaceful. And incredibly talented. The sound was rich and warm, and for a moment, I just stood in the doorway, mesmerized. This was a side of him I hadn’t imagined—the artist, the quiet creator.

Then he stiffened. The music stopped mid-chord, and his shoulders went rigid. Slowly, he turned his head, those dark eyes finding me in the shadow of the hall.

Right. Orc senses.

Had he heard my breathing? My heartbeat. Had he smelled me? My lotion mingling with wedding-day sweat and panic? A flush crept up my neck.

He didn’t speak, just held my gaze for a taut second.

Then, deliberately, he exhaled, and his fingers found the strings again. The chords resumed, slower this time, as if he were using the rhythm to steady his own pulse. Or maybe mine.

I cleared my throat, forcing a grin that felt wobbly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt the concert.”

“You’re not.” His voice was a low rumble, harmonizing with the final chord he strummed. He let it fade into silence before placing the guitar carefully on a stand, his attention on the instrument. “Milo settled?”

“Out like a light. Sugar crash is a powerful thing.” I hovered in the doorway, feeling like an intruder in this personal space. “This room is amazing. Do you play all of these?”

“A bit.” He shrugged, a modest gesture that didn’t match the obvious evidence of dedicated practice. “Jay likes listening but doesn’t have a lot of interest in learning. So I just come in here to mess around when my head’s full. It…helps.”

I understood helps. And I understood having a full head.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, and I meant the room, the instruments, the few moments of melody I’d heard.

Korrad nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands—the claws on the ends of his fingers. “Did you need something?” he asked without looking up.

A manual. A time machine. A Xanax. A hell of an orgasm. A cigarette?

Why did my fingers itch to reach for him?