My Orc Santa Claus (Eastshore Isle #5)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Sakkara

Per tradition, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, Emmy and I did something each evening to prepare, even if it was something similar. For instance, last weekend we went to the mainland to a Christmas tree farm and dug up a small tree with the root ball attached—it was waiting on our back porch right now—and two days ago we decorated a wreath.

I figured since we missed out last night, when I was having dinner with her teacher, and she was playing with the puppies, I owed her double tonight.

Sure enough, as soon as she walked in from the bus stop, my daughter marched over to the “Christmas To-Do List” she’d written in glittery red marker the day after Thanksgiving and hung on the refrigerator, and pointed to one of the more daunting tasks on the list.

I managed to swallow my groan. “Baking Christmas cookies? ”

She nodded eagerly, and I heaved a theatrical sigh. “Are you sure we can’t postpone until Saturday? When we have enough time to screw up the first batch?” We were only a few days until the end of the term, then school would be out until after the new year, and I’d much rather attempt cut-out cookies next week.

But Emmy planted her tiny green hands on her tiny green hips and glared at me.

It took all my efforts to keep my lips from twitching.

“Fine,” I agreed. “But not till after dinner. Which is going to be PB&J sandwiches, if you expect me to devote my energy to baking.”

Too late I remembered that eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wasn’t a punishment for an eight-year-old, and I turned away to hide my smile when she hissed happily and pumped the air with her fist.

“You know the drill,” I called. “Lunchbox, shoes, hands.” Unpack your lunchbox, change into your play shoes, wash your hands . “Then go play. I have to go pick some grapes so I can squash them and make jelly for dinner tonight.”

Emmy giggled.

She giggled out loud, then rushed off to unpack her lunchbox, and I closed my eyes, right there in the hallway, allowing the sound to wash over me.

Moving to Eastshore Isle had been the right thing for her.

She had uncles—and their Mates—to care for her, she had a teacher who believed in her, she had friends, and she was slowly opening up. In the months we’d been here, she’d begun to laugh again, and each time I heard it, I recognized it for the miracle it was.

Weeks ago, she’d awoken in the middle of the night with a nightmare. It was something we were both used to. After she’d come to live with me, I’d become a light sleeper, to listen for her whimpers and cries. But that night, she’d stumbled from her room and called, “Sakkara!” and I’d fallen to my knees right there in the hallway.

To hear her say my name again, after all these years…

I’d held her and cried right along with her, although my tears had been ones of joy.

So yes, if my sassy daughter needed the experience of making homemade Christmas cookies to feel secure in our new home, then that’s what we’d do.

Of course, several hours later—after I’d polished off the loaf of bread making myself six sandwiches, and was wondering if we still had that block of cheddar as a snack—when I was fumbling with the cookie cutters, I was wondering if this was the right move.

“Why are these things so small?” I muttered, trying to manipulate a snowman cut-out between my thumb and forefinger. “I can fit three of these in my mouth at once. Maybe I could use a lid from one of the pans and make a giant circular cookie?”

Beside me, Emmy snorted and dug her shoulder into my side to move me out of the way. She wore an apron that was wrapped three times around her small waist. Of course, to be fair, I was wearing a frilly apron that was far too small across my chest, so we must have made a pair.

She reached over and plucked the snowman from my hand, then held it up to her mouth with an exasperated huff, to show me that the cookies were just the right size for her , which is what mattered. I snorted, and she began to place the cutters on the dough.

My daughter pointed imperiously at the loaf of dough. “You roll,” she demanded in a quiet voice, and my brows rose.

Yes, she’d been speaking more at home in the last weeks, but now she was giving me orders? I hadn’t come across that in any of the parenting books I’d read. What To Do When Your Kid Finally Starts Talking To You And Turns Out To Be A Bossy Know-It-All . I figured I’d wait until we were both more comfortable before I started disciplining her.

“Yes, ma’am.” I moved over and began to roll out the next batch, just as the oven beeped its pre-heated-ness. “But here’s the deal. I agreed to make a triple-batch because you’re going to eat so many of them—”

“ Me ?” she murmured, not looking up from her careful placement of cookie cutters, maximizing the dough space.

I hid my smile. “So it’s going to take all evening to bake these and let them cool. Tomorrow we can ice them, okay? You can eat one undecorated before you brush your teeth tonight.”

When she turned those big, dark, pleading eyes on me, I just shook my head. “One cookie.”

“ Tomorrow ?” she sniffled, as if I was breaking her heart.

It was good to know her sense of drama was intact. “Tomorrow, kitling,” I announced firmly. “You don’t want us to be awake till midnight, decorating, do you?”

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, as soon as I saw her expression light, I realized my mistake. “We don’t ,” I clarified. “You have three more days of school, then you can start staying up later, okay?”

“Taba, ” she whined.

And I forgot all about being firm, being respected, because she’d called me Taba. It was what she’d called me when she was very little, the title of uncle that Dahshur had given me. I stared down at this little miracle beside me, the one frowning up at me, the one who had gotten me through so much grief and pain, and felt my chest expand.

She’d called me Taba again .

Moments like this made the sleepless nights, the stress of her education, the worry over her health…all worth it.

I bent down and dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Love you, kitling. Make me extra snowmen, okay?”

Discussion closed, we both turned back to our tasks. But as the smell of baking sugar cookies and the sound of Christmas carols filled our kitchen, I swear my heart had grown.

As it was, I tucked Emmy into bed a full forty-five minutes later than usual. Of course, even though we’d baked three batches of cookies—and eaten one each—we still had to read a chapter of Anne of Green Gables , which is apparently considered riveting, and she had to do her own twenty minutes of self-reading. On most nights, I let her sneak in an extra ten or forty minutes there, because books were more important than sleep, but tonight her eyelids were already heavy as I leaned down to kiss her forehead.

“Love you, kitling,” I murmured.

She patted my hand, where it was resting on the bed beside her, and rolled over.

I told myself I wasn’t disappointed. She’d made so many leaps in the last few months—weeks, even!—and just because she hadn’t yet said the words didn’t mean she didn’t love me. She’d called me Taba tonight, and I’d hold that honorific in my heart forever.

As I swung by the kitchen to steal another two cookies—Dad Tax, I told myself—I found myself thinking of Emmy’s teacher, Ms. Rios. Nikki . I’d thought of her often since last night, but suddenly, I had the urge to email her, to tell her that tonight, Emmy had spoken more, had called me Uncle . Or godfather , or stepfather , depending on how you translated Taba .

I stepped into the house’s third bedroom, the one I used as my office, and pulled the door closed behind me. Settling at my desk, I deposited the cookies and my phone on the wood and leaned back, staring at the far wall and the painting of the beach Karnak had done especially for me.

It was soothing, but tonight I wasn’t ready to be soothed. I leaned forward and snatched up my phone, swiping it open and staring at the email app. Would it be strange to email Nikki? What would I tell her?

Emmy spoke today.

I’ve been thinking of you all day.

I really enjoyed our dinner together, and I’d like to do it again.

Thank you for sharing so much about yourself with me.

Thank you for caring for my daughter.

I’ve never met a female whose conversation I enjoyed as much as yours, and I’d like to spend another evening answering your questions and listening to your insights.

No.

No, all of that was likely a mistake.

Better to keep things professional.

She was Emmy’s teacher, and I was Emmy’s parent, and that’s where our relationship began and ended. Caring for Emmy.

In one quick movement, my thumb jabbed a different icon. The one for MonsterSmash.

The icon of the stylized ogre in neon colors popped up, and I swiped through it without my usual spike of exasperated disgust. Yes, the app objectified my kind in a strange sort of racism—speciesm?—that allowed humans to act out their fantasies. But becoming a parent had put a hold on any love life I might have once aspired to, and now this app was what kept me and my Kteer sane.

Finding lonely humans who responded to my Kteer’s need to command, to dominate, in the bedroom .

But two nights ago, with Turquoise, I’d felt a connection I don’t think I’d imagined. She wasn’t the first female I’d spoken to through the app, but she was the first one to respond to me with such enthusiasm. Her breathless little whimpers had wrapped themselves around my cock and stroked me as much as my own palm had.

It had been…a little alarming to react so strongly to a female like that, one I didn’t know. I’d spent yesterday confused, uncertain, how to think about her…until I’d met Nikki, and all thoughts of Turquoise were forgotten.

I hadn’t logged on to MonsterSmash last night, and tonight I wasn’t sure if I was ready for another session of sex—

Her name popped up.

Hi, she wrote.

Okay, that was simple.

Hello.

Are you up for another chat?

She was asking me that? Hmm. Turquoise must have really enjoyed our session the other night. My large fingertips flew across the screen.

Are YOU up for it?

Silence.

A few moments went by before she began to type, and then her words popped up.

Not sure if I’m ready for…you know. But maybe just talking, to start?

Interesting.

I frowned thoughtfully at my screen as I catalogued my response to her request. Something in my chest had leapt at the suggestion, which surprised me, because I hadn’t expected to want to talk to someone from MonsterSmash. My mind was a little worried, because the app was supposed to be about satisfying my urges, not connecting with people .

But my Kteer didn’t respond at all, and wasn’t that interesting?

If my Kteer wasn’t howling with displeasure, desperate for release with this female, then maybe…it would be okay for me to just talk to her for a bit.

So I typed,

I think that would be fine, Turquoise.

She called me.

When I jabbed the green icon to pick up, I lowered my voice significantly, the way I often did when using the app. “Hello. I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable the other night.”

“Oh—uh, no. Hello. Um.”

She sounded uncomfortable. “Turquoise, if I did something to make you uneasy, I need you to tell me before we continue our game. If you want to stop chatting with me, that is perfectly reasonable, but it would be helpful to know for the future—”

“No!” she blurted, a little breathless. “No, I…uh…I liked everything you did.”

Now my Kteer sat up and purred. She’d liked being called my pretty little human pet , even though she didn’t know me? She liked the way I’d commanded her to touch herself?

Interesting .

“Then what is the problem?” I murmured.

“Nothing! We can do it again if you want.”

I sighed, trying to hide my exasperation. “Turquoise, I’m not pressuring you, and you shouldn’t agree just because you think I want it. I’m merely asking why you seem hesitant to repeat it, if you enjoyed the experience.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. I heard her inhale. “I…uh…I met someone.”

And thus, this was something of a break-up. Well, it wasn’t the first time it had happened, but I was impressed she’d thought enough of me to tell me in person. I tried to keep my low tone and gentle my voice when I said, “I’m very happy for you. I hope you two will make lovely memories together—”

“No, no, it’s not like that!” she blurted, her voice too high. “I just…I guess I’m feeling confused. He made me smile, but you made me…”

“Ah.” I placed the phone on my desk and leaned backward in my chair. “But I made you come so hard you saw stars.”

“Yes,” she murmured in a small voice, and I smiled wolfishly.

“Well, you are my favorite little human”— Was that a lie ?—“but I understand. You’d like to see if I can make you smile?”

Gods of the ancestors, I heard her smile. “You already do, Daddy,” she said softly, and her words made a warmth fill my chest. “I guess I just want to…ask questions.”

“Per the terms of this app, I’m not going to tell you anything personal,” I was quick to point out. “And you don’t know enough about me to share details that might affect your safety.”

“You’re concerned about my safety?” I heard her shift and imagined her flopping on the bed she’d described the other night. “You really are a gentleman.”

I tried to be. “This is just who I am, Turquoise.” Of course I was concerned about her safety. I was concerned for the safety of everyone under my care. And she was most definitely under my care. “In the place where I was raised, we didn’t have concepts like gentleman . That is a historical concept from the human’s world.”

“Yes, but surely the concept existed?”

“No.” I found myself smiling as I settled back in my chair, steepling my fingers as I considered the debate. “The term gentleman implies a civilized quality, a man of the city. We had nothing like that in my home world.”

She snorted. “You had violence, didn’t you? So a male who rejected violence and embraced protection would be considered a gentle male , yes?”

Ah, etymology versus intent. My little human was something of a scholar.

And a bright one too.

Almost an hour had passed before I realized we were discussing medieval European history—something she knew quite a lot about, and which I found fascinating, considering what I knew of our Scottish cousins—and the proper ways to make Chinese soup dumplings.

I learned that she’d chosen the sobriquet “Turquoise” because of all the shades of blue, it was her favorite, and she adored the rock by the same name. And I found myself telling her of our time in the Denver facility, and the transition to human civilization. She asked insightful, interested questions, and I learned quite a lot about her thought process by how she asked them.

She had a truly fascinating mind, and the longer we spoke, the more I felt as if I knew her, despite having learned nothing personal about her. There was a familiarity to her, to her mind and her voice, which I felt I should know…but was just out of reach. As if, were I to speak to her not distorted by the phone’s speaker, I would recognize someone important.

Someone necessary to my happiness.

Hmm .

As I prepared for bed, I took her with me, and I heard her brushing her teeth as I brushed mine. The realization made me smile…because while it was sweet, it was also ridiculous. I didn’t know this female, despite thinking of her as mine .

I settled into bed with the lights off, the phone cradled against my shoulder, the weight of the night bearing down on me. And still we talked. We talked until her voice grew weak, until her words were stuttered with yawns.

We talked until she suddenly stopped talking altogether, and I knew she’d fallen asleep.

“Good night, my pretty little human,” I whispered, before I pressed the red end button and shut down the app.

I stacked my hands behind my head and stared up at the ceiling, wondering when I’d ever felt so content following an interaction with a female that hadn’t involved a sexual release.

My Kteer was at peace.