Page 50 of Single Mom's Orc Daddy
His hand touches mine, not pulling it down, just grounding it. Warm and steady and real.
“You’re not him,” Hardin says. “You don’t fight like he does. Don’t let him make you something you’ll regret.”
My whole body shakes. My heart is thudding so loud I can barely hear anything else. But Hardin’s there, anchoring me.
Slowly, I lower my hand.
The magic retreats, crackling like a fire dying too fast. My skin burns where the energy bled into it. I let it go.
And then Mari’s voice cuts through the quiet.
“I want you to leave.”
Michael’s head snaps toward her. She’s on the porch now, little chin lifted, eyes red-rimmed but clear.
“You’re not my daddy,” she says. “You’re a bad man and I don’t want to see you anymore.”
Michael opens his mouth, closes it.
“You said I was too loud. You said I was weird. You made Mommy cry. You don’t get to come back.”
She takes a step forward.
“You’re the scary man in my dreams. And I don’t want you in them anymore.”
That does it.
Whatever thread Michael was holding on to snaps right there. I see it happen. The anger flickers. The control breaks. And all that’s left is a man who knows he lost and doesn’t know how to exist without winning.
He turns, doesn’t say another word.
Just walks.
And this time, he doesn’t look back.
Later,the house is too quiet.
The kind of quiet that comes after something heavy passes through and leaves everything different in its wake.
Hardin’s sitting on the floor with Mari, helping her glue pressed leaves into a scrapbook. He doesn’t say much, just listens while she talks about how she wants to find purple moss and maybe a toad to be the book’s guardian.
I stand in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself, watching them.
My magic still aches behind my ribs. But it’s not heavy like it used to be. It feels clean now. It feels like mine.
Hardin glances up and catches my eye. He doesn’t smile. He just nods.
And I nod back.
Because the line’s drawn now, and we know who we are on this side of it.
CHAPTER 28
HARDIN
The storm comes without warning. Not thunder. Not lightning. Not the usual kind that makes roofs rattle and lanterns gutter. This one is born of blood and ash, rolling in low over the ridges, choking the air until every breath tastes like rust and fire.
I know before the bells toll. I know when the scent reaches me—thick, bitter, iron sharp. Blood magic. The kind that stains the ground for years. The kind my brother always favored.
