Page 24 of Protective Pucking Orc

Dakvaar hesitated, then jerked his head toward the hall. “Give your mother a goodnight kiss, Rosa. Then I’ll set up your bed while you brush your tusks.”

Rosa giggled as she slid off me. “I don’t have tusks, silly! I have teef!”

They disappeared down the hall, still bickering, and I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips. It faded quickly, though, replaced by the weight of everything pressing down on me.

You can’t stay here.

He’d done too much for us already—the ridiculous tips, entertaining Rosa when he didn’t have to—and he didn’t seem to expect anything in return. Maybe orcish males thought differently than human males, because Dakvaar was full of surprises.

I needed to do something to pay him back, to make myself useful. Dinner, maybe? Rosa had eaten in the cafeteria at the ice complex, but my jaw had hurt too much to do more than allow bread to dissolve in my mouth.

With the distant murmur of voices telling me he’d kept his promise of a bedtime story, I struggled out of the warm cocoon he’d made me, and stumbled toward the kitchen.

I blinked against the glare of the overhead lights, my fingers gripping the countertop. The pain in my wrist was a dull, insistent throb, and my ribs ached with every breath. But I could do this. I could help pay him back.

The fridge hummed as I pulled it open, the cold air biting at my skin. Vegetables. Pasta. A block of cheese. My stomach growled, but my hands shook as I reached for a pot on the drying rack.

“Sofia.”

I jumped, nearly dropping the pot. Dakvaar stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

“You should be resting,” he said, his voice low.

“I—” My throat closed. “I wanted to make dinner. To thank you.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t owe me anything.”

The words made me drop my gaze to his chest, ashamed. I wanted—I needed to do something, anything, to make this feel less like charity. To make it okay that he was putting himself in danger for me.

He exhaled, then stepped forward, his hand gentle as he took the pot from me. “Sit. Please.”

I didn’t argue. My legs were trembling anyway.

The small table by the window was bathed in the soft glow of the snowfall outside, fat flakes drifting past the glass like slow-motion stars. Dakvaar guided me into a chair, then moved around the kitchen with an efficiency that spoke of long practice. The kettle hissed as it heated, the clink of spoons against mugs strangely soothing.

“You designed this house,” I said, my voice rough. I’m not sure how I guessed; it was just so him.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes glowing green in the dim light. “Yes. My second year with the team.”

“It’s beautiful.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “It’s functional.”

I watched him move—a male who knew exactly where everything was, who didn’t waste a single motion. “You’re very organized.”

He didn’t answer, just turned back to the stove. The scent of garlic and something rich filled the air, and my stomach growled again.

“Is canned soup okay?” he asked, not looking at me. “I would make it from scratch, but I suspect you want to eat as soon as possible.”

I nodded, then winced as the movement sent a jolt of pain through my skull. “Yes. Thank you.”

He set a bowl in front of me a few minutes later—creamy crab bisque, steaming and fragrant. A basket of soft bread sat between us, still warm from the oven.

“Eat,” he said, his voice gruff.

I did.

The soup was rich, velvety, the crab sweet and tender. It slid down my throat without needing to be chewed, the warmth spreading through me like a balm. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I’d finished half the bowl.