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I’d learned to read him by the time I was ten, a few years after we met. When I was fourteen, his family took me in after my parents died and his parents invoked an ancient orc blood-oath I still didn’t fully understand. Back then, I just knew it meant I wouldn’t be alone. Crim was like a big brother before that, but he then became my brother in all the ways that made a family real.

“Kedish has a two-week expiration date,” he said after he’d swallowed. “You’re not a two-week kind of person.”

“How would you know what kind of person I am?”

“Because I raised you.”

“Your parents raised me. You were busy learning how to check people into the boards.”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “You need to be careful with that one, El. Some males collect women.”

I rolled my eyes, but my throat went tight. The issue wasn’t if I might get collected but if I was worth collecting in the first place.

Crim thought he was protecting me. Instead, he was trying to stuff me into a box labeled fragile and assuming I couldn’t handle a male like Brashe Kedish.

Crim thought I was soft.

Everyone thought I was soft.

“You’re doing the protective stepbrother cliché,” I said. “It’s not a good look.”

“It’s not a cliché if it’s warranted.”

“I’m twenty-seven. I have a doctorate. I think I can manage a conversation without your supervision.”

He ate more of his burger. Chewed. Watched me with those dark orc eyes that saw too much. “Just saying. Kedish isn’t…he’s not serious about anyone.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “Neither am I.”

Crim stayed at the table for another ten minutes, eating his meal while talking about the season and how Haley, Coach Beecham’s daughter and team video analyst, had shown him some opposing team weaknesses he was going to capitalize on. He didn’t mention Brashe again, though he didn’t have to. The drink in my hand was nearly gone, and I’d made a decision.

I placed the glass on the table and stood, then smoothed my yellow skirt that didn’t need it.

Crim looked up. “El?”

“Relax,” I said. “I’m going to get some fries.”

I walked across the pavilion, past the picnic tables, the grill, and a cluster of players arguing about something that involved a lot of hand gestures. My heart kicked up—that stupid, hopeful flutter I’d felt at sixteen when Jake Morris smiled at me in the cafeteria.

I was twenty-seven now and supposed to know better.

Brashe was still holding court. Mikael was there, and Fedor, plus a rookie whose name I couldn’t remember. They were talking about a save from the playoffs, the one where Brashe had gone full splits and caught the puck.

I walked right up to them.

Mikael noticed me first, his eyebrows shooting up.

Brashe turned my way.

Up close, he was even bigger than he looked from across the pavilion. Orcs were all massive—Crim was seven-one—but Brashe’s bulk came from spending his life as a last line of defense. Shoulders that could block out the sun. Slightly uneven tusks, the right one chipped at the tip.

Dark green eyes, almost black in the fading light.

“Hey,” I said.

Brilliant opening, but a girl had to start somewhere.

His head tilted. For a half-second, his expression did something that looked like surprise or recognition. Or maybe I imagined it because I wanted it to be there.