Page 13 of My Orc Package Deal

Korrad, being the scary-observant, mind-bogglingly thoughtful male he was, noticed my habit of migrating around the house with my laptop, searching for a quiet spot that wasn’t our bedroom (where a ten-year-old might be napping or loudly explaining Minecraft mechanics to his new brother). One Tuesday, I came home from a grocery run to find the music room… altered.

He’d pushed the drum kit and a keyboard into a more compact formation, and in the newly freed corner by the window—with its killer view of the oak tree and the distant cliffs—sat a desk. It wasn’t new; it was solid oak, scarred and beautiful, with a green leather inlay on the top and drawers that slid out with a satisfying, heavy thunk.

“Second Time’s A Charm is the thrift store downtown,” he’d said, hovering in the doorway while I ran my fingers over the wood grain. “Thought you might like a proper place to work. Unless you prefer the nomadic lifestyle.”

“I prefer not having pizza sauce on my editorial notes,” I’d replied, my throat suspiciously tight. “This is…” I swallowed. Everything I’d ever dreamed of. “A proper desk.”

“For a proper editor.”

It was the gentleness in his tone which drew my attention, and his smile was soft.

So was mine, and I felt my cheeks heating. “Thank you, Korrad. It’s…perfect.”

Yet another point in the Korrad ledger I wasn’t supposed to be keeping.

So that became my command center. I’d sit there, glaring at manuscripts where characters’ eyes kept changing colors or the family dog disappeared by chapter three, or I’d migrate to the beaten-up armchair, laptop on my thighs, so I could watch the boys through the window.

And oh, the boys.

If I’d been worried about Milo adjusting, I shouldn’t have bothered.

He took to life on Eastshore like a duck to… well, water. An island was apt, I guess. He was thriving. It was almost unnerving.

The meltdowns I’d braced for, the rigidity, the anxiety in new situations… it all just… didn’t happen. He was, for the first time in his life, consistently on his best behavior. It was like he’d decided this was a playdate at the coolest friend’s house ever, and he couldn’t screw it up.

I kept waiting for him to finally realize this wasn’t temporary, and that he was allowed to feel his Big Feelings, but I was grateful for the reprieve.

He and Jay were a unit. Milo’s computer was now permanently stationed in Jay’s room, and the sound of their combined laughter and strategic yelling—”Shoot that creeper before he explodes!”—was the soundtrack of hot summer afternoons.

But they also spent hours outside during the cool mornings, disappearing into the woods behind the house, heading towards the cliffs carrying tools and boards like small, determined architects. They’d come back dusty, with leaves in their hair, talking in hushed, excited tones about “staircases” and “the procurement of reclaimed lumber.”

“What are you building out there?” I’d ask, wiping dirt from Milo’s cheek.

“A fort,” they’d say in unison, then share a look that clearly meant She doesn’t need the details.

“A secret fort,” Jay would usually add, with a grin that was all Korrad.

The biggest surprise, though, was Korrad and Milo. I’d nearly had a coronary when Korrad casually asked my son if he wanted to try the drums. Visions of cacophonous, ear-splitting banging flashed before my eyes—followed by visions of my patient new husband developing a permanent eye twitch.

But Korrad was… unflappable.

He showed Milo how to hold the sticks, demonstrated a simple rock beat, and then just… let him try. When the first attempt sounded like a bag of cats falling down a metal staircase, Korrad just nodded. “Close. Watch my feet.”

He was preternaturally calm, his instructions clear and patient, exactly the kind of parenting Milo needed. Exactly the kind of parenting I kept failing at.

Within a few days, Milo could reliably keep a four-four beat. Within a week, even I could recognize his improvement. The fact that the drum kit had some fancy mute pads—a gift from the gods, or more likely, a considerate orc—meant the rest of us could still hear ourselves think.

Who would have thought that my kid had musical ability? Not me—and that was another point for Korrad.

Watching them, my big, gentle husband and my focused, earnest son, heads bent together over the snare drum, did something funny to my insides. It felt suspiciously like hope, but stickier.

Yearning?

This male was everything I could have dreamed of when I was planning my wedding with my Barbie dolls…big, handsome enough to make my toes curl, sexy in his running shorts or his mud-splattered jeans from the construction sites, and unbelievably kind.

Was it any wonder I was falling for him, slowly but surely? Watching him with my son, watching him laugh when I corrected Jay’s grammar and the kid pushed back? Of course my heart was getting involved…

And whenever I thought the word “love” in conjunction with my husband, I immediately felt guilty about it. Because Sharra had loved him first—she’d been the one chosen by whatever cosmic force decided these things, and had died as his Mate. He still loved her.