I’m not looking for love. I’m looking for a statistically optimal outcome.
I’m the woman who rates everything—like the abstract art that’s either a sunset or a medical diagram—because if I can assign a number, I can keep it at arm’s length.
So I walk into an alien matchmaking facility with a forty-six-question interview and a color-coded evaluation matrix. I’m not expecting a seven-foot, wild-haired, green hurricane of an orc to wedge through the doorframe mid-sentence and then go completely still the moment he catches my scent.
Brokk speaks in battle epics and motivational posters, delivered with equal sincerity. He can’t answer a single question without a tangent or a boar story, and he plates food like a natural disaster. Underneath all that noise is a warrior who’s spent his whole life being told he’s too much.
I came here because the math made sense. I stayed because the math stopped mattering—and the man underneath the chaos looked at me like he could see the woman keeping score.
For readers who love: short and spicy fated mates, orc romance, scent bonds that fog your glasses, “she can rate everything except him,” snarky accountants who think they can evaluate their way through a mating bond, golden retriever energy with a warrior underneath, chaos meets control, he-falls-first-and-harder, claiming bites, and the kind of heat that breaks the rating scale.
