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Chapter One

Vargan

M y bike growls beneath me as I roll into Shadow Ridge, Georgia—another nameless dot on a map that's getting smaller by the hour. The engine's rumble vibrates through my bones, masking the pain that's spreading across my ribs. Two days on the run with barely any sleep, and I'm starting to feel it.

The "Welcome to Shadow Ridge" sign is sun-bleached and tilted, like the town gave up caring a long time ago. Perfect. The more forgotten this place is, the better chance no one's heard about a rogue Orc wanted for attempted murder.

I scan the main street as I slow the bike. Boarded-up storefronts. Empty parking spots. Only one place shows signs of life—a small diner with a neon sign reading "Greene's" flickering weakly against the one working street lamp. My stomach growls louder than my engine.

Two days. Two fucking days since I stopped for more than gas. Food, then fuel, then I'm gone. Where to? I don't even care as long as it’s as far as possible from New York and the mess I left behind.

I pull into the lot, ignoring the stares from the handful of humans pumping gas at the station next door. I'm used to the looks—the way human eyes widen, then narrow, their bodies tensing like prey animals who've spotted a predator. I'm 6'5" of green-skinned muscle with tusks and battle scars. To them, I'm a monster straight from their nightmares.

Let them stare. I don’t fucking care anymore.

The diner's door creaks as I duck through the doorway. Inside, it's all worn vinyl and faded photos, smelling of coffee and grease and disinfectant spray. Every head turns. Conversations die. A man at the counter actually drops his fork.

I take a booth in the corner, back to the wall, eyes on the exits—military habits die hard. The vinyl creaks under my weight as I settle in, trying not to wince at the pain shooting through my side. I survey the room: four customers, all human, all staring. Behind the counter, I spot an older woman with silver hair expertly flipping burgers on the griddle while keeping an eye on me through the service window. Near her, a twenty-something-year-old waitress with her back to me pours coffee for an old man at the counter.

When she turns, something inside me stills.

She's human—auburn hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, hazel eyes that catch the light, curves that her uniform can't hide. But it's not her appearance that catches me off guard. It's the way she looks at me—scanning, assessing, but not afraid. Cautious, yes, but not cowering.

She grabs a menu and approaches my booth with the steady gait.

"Coffee?" she asks, voice clipped but not unkind.

"Black," I grunt, my voice rumbling low in my chest.

She nods once and lays down the menu. "I'm Savvy. Holler when you know what you want." Then she's gone, moving with the efficiency of someone who's been doing this job too long.

I watch her walk away, my beast stirring somewhere deep in my chest. I shut it down immediately. I'm not here for connection. I'm here for fuel—both for me and my bike—and then I'm gone.

My leather cut shifts as I reach for the menu, and I notice her eyes flicker briefly to the patch on my breast—the broken chain circle of the Ironborn MC. Unlike most humans, her expression doesn't change. No extra fear, no judgment. Just that same steady assessment. Something about that strikes me in a place I thought had gone numb long ago.

I scan the menu without really seeing it. My instincts are humming, that sixth sense that kept me alive through war zones telling me I'm being watched beyond the usual human curiosity about an Orc.

The front door creaks open again. Two men enter—one older, one younger, both in suits that cost more than most people in this town probably make in a month. The younger one makes a beeline for the counter where Savvy is working. The older one's eyes lock on me immediately.

Great. Just what I need.

I keep my gaze on the menu as the older man slides into the booth across from me, uninvited. He's in his mid-sixties, silver hair slicked back, with the practiced smile of a politician or a con man. Sometimes they're the same thing.

"Don't believe I've seen you in Shadow Ridge before," he says, extending a manicured hand. "Victor Hargove, town Mayor."

I don't take his hand. "Just passing through."

His smile doesn't falter as he withdraws his hand. "We don't get many... visitors of your kind around here."

I stay silent, my jaw tightening.

From the counter, I hear the younger man's voice rise. "Come on, Savvy, don't be like that. One drink. For old times' sake."

"Not if you were the last man in Georgia, Royce," Savvy replies, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Now order something or get out of my diner."

"Your diner?" Royce laughs. "You're only keeping the lights on because my uncle allows it."

"Your uncle can kiss my ass, just like you can," she retorts.

I can't help but smirk. Her spine is steel. Almost like an Orc woman.

Victor clears his throat, pulling my attention back. "Where you headed, friend?"

"South," I say shortly. I don't owe this man answers.

"Where'd you come from?"

"North."

Victor chuckles, undeterred. "You sound like a man in need of a place to land.”

I ignore the comment and glance at Savvy again. She still holding her own with the jackass in the suit.

Victor's voice raises, I assume to get my attention. I roll my gaze back in his direction. “I’m sure you noticed our little town has fallen on hard times. We’re in the process of rebuilding Shadow Ridge. Making it into something special. Could use a man of your... stature. Strong back, I imagine. Good with your hands?"

I study him more carefully. The way the other patrons are watching him with more fear than they showed me tells me everything I need to know. This man doesn't rebuild—he demolishes and calls it progress.

"Not interested," I say flatly.

"You sure?" His smile turns cold. "Shadow Ridge can be mighty unwelcoming to those who don't fit in."

"I'm just passing through," I repeat. "You can keep your threats."

Victor's face hardens momentarily before his politician's mask slips back into place. "Suit yourself." He slides out of the booth and joins Royce at the counter.

Savvy approaches with my coffee, her eyes flicking between me and Victor. Behind her, I see the silver-haired cook watching us anxiously through the service window, spatula frozen mid-flip.

"You should drink up and hit the road," Savvy says quietly, setting the mug down. "Those two are trouble."

"I noticed." I study her face. "They don't seem to scare you."

A flash of something—pain, history?—crosses her features. "I've dealt with worse." She glances at my cut again, eyes lingering on the patch. “You ride in a club?”

“Something like that.”

"That doesn’t scare me either," she says with a small shrug, and something warm unfurls in my chest. Then she's businesslike again. "Ready to order?"

"Whatever's fastest," I tell her. "I'm not staying long."

She nods and walks away, jotting something on her pad. I notice Victor is gone, and Royce is watching me with undisguised hostility. Something about the way he looked at Savvy makes my blood boil. Like she's property.

My ears catch a commotion outside. I turn to look through the window and see two men taking baseball bats to my motorcycle while Victor watches from the sidewalk. Metal crunches. Chrome shatters.

My beast awakens. Every muscle in my body tenses, ready to spring. My fists clench so tight I hear my knuckles crack. They're baiting me, trying to draw me into a fight.

I force myself to stay seated. I can fix the bike. I can replace parts. What I can't do is afford another incident with humans. Not when I'm already wanted for allegedly trying to kill one.

Savvy returns with a burger and fries and sets it in front of me. Her eyes drift to the window, widening when she sees what's happening to my bike.

"Son of a bitch," she mutters. "I'm sorry. They're—"

"Not your problem," I cut her off, keeping my voice even despite the rage building inside me. "Neither am I."

The door creaks again. Victor returns, flanked by his two thugs with bat-wielding grins on their faces. Royce turns on his stool, looking smugly in my direction.

I take a bite of my burger, ignoring them all. From the kitchen, I hear the sizzle of the grill suddenly stop as the cook abandons her post to watch what's happening, her face pale with fear.

Victor walks to my table. "Seems your transportation is having some issues. Shame."

I say nothing, continuing to eat.

"I'll make you a deal," Victor continues. "Work for me for a few weeks, help me clear out some... reluctant property owners, and I'll not only get your bike fixed good as new, I’ll put you on my payroll."

I meet his gaze. "No."

His eyes harden. "Your choice."

He walks away as Royce stands up from the counter. In three strides, he's behind Savvy, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other around her throat.

"Maybe we can change your mind," Royce says to me over her shoulder. "What do you boys think? Should we show the big green freak what happens to those who don't play along in our town? Maybe take turns with this one?"

The diner falls completely silent. No one moves to help her. Not the customers, not the frightened cook. Not one of these cowards makes a move.

But Savvy—fierce, defiant Savvy—her eyes find mine across the room. There's fear there, yes, but also a silent plea. Not for herself, I realize. She's afraid of what I might do.

Something inside me snaps.

My beast roars to the surface, drowning out the voice of reason that's kept me alive and free for the past two days. I stand, the booth scraping across the linoleum with a screech.

"Let. Her. Go." My voice is barely recognizable, even to me.

Customers scramble for the exits. Victor smiles.

"Now he wants to play," he says to his men. "Show our guest how we welcome monsters in Shadow Ridge."

The first thug steps forward, fists raised. I don't give him time to swing. One punch to his sternum sends him flying back into a table, gasping for air.

The second one is smarter, circling me like he's had some training. He feints left, then springs right, a flash of metal on his knuckles catching the light. Brass knuckles connect with my jaw, sending stars across my vision.

I stagger back, shaking my head to clear it, then surge forward. My fist connects with his ribs. Something cracks. He falls.

The first man is up again, and now he's armed with a metal chair. It comes down across my back with a crash. Pain blooms across my shoulders, but I've had worse. Much worse.

I turn and grab him by the shirt, lifting him off his feet. "Stay down," I growl, then throw him into an empty booth. He doesn't get up this time.

Blood trickles down my chin from a split lip. My ribs scream in protest. But I'm still standing, and both of Victor's men are down.

I turn toward Royce, who's still holding Savvy, though his confident smirk has faded. I start toward them, my focus narrowed to the arm around her throat.

That's when I see it in her eyes—not fear of Royce or even of me, but something deeper. A warning. She's trying to tell me something.

It shouldn't matter what this human woman is thinking. I shouldn't care.

But I do.

I'm three steps away from them when white-hot pain explodes across my side. My muscles seize, contracting beyond my control. I drop to my knees, unable to command my own body.

Victor steps into view, holding what looks like a cattle prod—the same kind of electric weapon the human guards used in the camps when I was younger. He's smiling like he's enjoying this.

"Had enough?" Victor asks, crouching to meet my eyes.

I bare my tusks in a snarl. "Leave her alone."

Victor chuckles and stands. "Let her go, Royce. Wouldn't want the big bad monster to get you."

Royce releases Savvy with obvious reluctance. She stumbles forward, rubbing her throat, eyes wide and wet.

Royce steps closer to me. "Fucking abomination," he spits, literally spitting in my face. "Know your place."

I struggle to my feet, fury giving me strength where my muscles want to fail. Victor is ready, though, and the electric prod connects with my chest before I can stand. This time the shock is longer, stronger. My back arches, a roar of pain tearing from my throat before I collapse to the floor.

"Savvy," Victor says conversationally, like we're discussing the weather, "you might want to educate your animal on how this town works before he gets himself killed... or worse."

Footsteps recede. The door creaks. They're gone.

I try to push myself up, but my arms won't cooperate. My head feels like it's full of static. I manage to lift it just enough to see Savvy standing there, tears streaming down her face as she looks at me. Behind her, the cook has finally emerged from behind the counter, a dish towel clutched in her trembling hands, looking horrified at what she was too frightened to stop.

Through the window behind them, I see Victor and Royce in the parking lot. Victor slides behind the wheel of a massive black pickup truck while Royce climbs into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life. They're leaving, I think hazily. Then the truck lurches forward, tires squealing—straight for my motorcycle.

The crash of metal on metal is deafening even through the diner walls. My bike—my custom-built escape route, my one chance at freedom—crumples under the truck's weight like it's made of paper. Victor backs up and rams it again, pushing what's left of the machine across the pavement in a shower of sparks and broken parts.

My vision darkens at the edges. I'm not getting out of Shadow Ridge today. Maybe not ever.

I try to speak, to tell her I'm fine, to tell her to run, but darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision.

The last thing I see is Savvy rushing toward me before everything goes black.