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Chapter Four

Savvy

T he dinner rush won't start for another hour, but I'm already prepping in the kitchen—kneading dough for tomorrow's biscuits, slicing tomatoes for burgers, anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off the green-skinned man working on his bike across the street.

It's been a day and a half since Vargan crashed into my life. A day and a half of trying not to notice how my heart jumps a little every time he walks into the room. A day and a half of reminding myself that getting attached to anyone, especially an orc on the run for murder, is the definition of stupid.

And I stopped being stupid about men the day I walked away from Royce.

Helen pokes her head into the kitchen. "Dining room's clear if you want to take a break. I'll finish the prep."

I wipe flour from my hands. "You sure?"

"Hon, you've been wound tighter than Victor's wallet since that big green fella showed up. Go take five before you snap." She gives me a knowing look. "Besides, I hear he's making good progress on that bike. Might be gone soon."

The way my stomach drops at that thought is inconvenient at best. "Thanks. I'll be quick."

Outside, the late afternoon sun beats down on Shadow Ridge's empty main street. The parking lot of Greene's is half-full—better than most days, thanks to the town's morbid curiosity about this week's excitement. Everyone wants to see where the fight happened, where the "monster" took on Victor and his goons.

I cross the street quickly, eyes automatically scanning for Victor's black truck. All clear for now.

The sound of metal on metal guides me around the side of the farmhouse to the detached garage. The doors are open wide, and inside, Vargan is hunched over the mangled remains of his motorcycle. Silas's tools are spread around him, the old man himself nowhere in sight.

I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to observe him unnoticed. His back is to me, muscles shifting beneath his t-shirt as he wrenches something free from the bike's wreckage. His clan tattoos peek out from beneath his sleeves, trailing down his forearms in intricate patterns. There's a focused intensity to his movements, a kind of reverence in the way he handles each piece.

"How's it coming?" I ask, announcing my presence.

He turns, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. "Slower than I'd like."

I step into the garage, careful to avoid the scattered parts. "That bad, huh?"

"I've fixed worse." He crouches back down beside the frame. "But Victor did a thorough job."

I lean against the workbench, watching his hands—so large they make the tools look like toys—work with surprising gentleness. "I'm expecting Willie back tonight," I say, not sure why I'm telling him this. "My brother."

Vargan glances up at me. "You want me gone before he gets here."

It's not a question, but I find myself shaking my head. "No, I just—" I'm not even sure what I'm trying to say. "I haven't figured out how to explain you yet."

That gets me a slight quirk of his lips, almost a smile. "Most don't bother trying. 'Monster' seems to cover it for most humans."

The casual way he says it makes my chest tighten uncomfortably. Like he's heard it so many times he's just accepted it as truth.

"You're not a monster," I say firmly.

He looks at me then, really looks at me, his eyes searching my face for a lie he seems to expect to find. I don't look away.

"You might be the only human who thinks so," he finally says, returning to his work.

I'm about to respond when the screen door of the house slams shut, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps.

"Savvy!" Willie's voice carries through the yard. "Savvy, where are you?"

I straighten, alarmed by the panic in his voice. "Out here!"

Willie rounds the corner at a run, skidding to a stop when he sees Vargan. My brother has shot up in the past year, lanky at fifteen with my coloring and our father's height. Right now, his face is flushed, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and anger.

"Willie, what's wrong?" I move toward him, but he backs up a step.

"What the hell, Savvy?" he hisses, eyes darting between me and Vargan. "What is he doing here?"

"This is Vargan," I say calmly, reaching for my brother's arm. "He's—"

"I know who he is!" Willie cuts me off. "The whole town knows! Royce was waiting for me after school, told me I better get my sister to get rid of the 'green freak' staying with us, or his uncle's protection might come to an end."

My blood runs cold, then hot with fury. "Royce had no right to approach you."

"Well, he did!" Willie's voice cracks with tension. "And he wasn't playing around, Savvy. He said if that thing—" he jabs a finger toward Vargan "—is still here tomorrow, he can't guarantee our safety anymore."

I'm vaguely aware of Vargan rising to his full height behind me, but I keep my focus on my brother. "You know better than to believe a word that asshole says."

"He's serious this time!" Willie's eyes are desperate. "Why are you doing this? Wouldn't it just be easier to sell and leave? Everyone else has!"

The words hit me like a slap. "No," I say, my voice dropping to steel. "It would never be easier to just give up and tuck tail. This is our home, Willie. Our family. We stand and fight for what is ours." I step closer, gripping his shoulders. "And I never want to hear you say that again. Do you understand me?"

Willie's eyes fill with tears. He tries to pull away, but I wrap my arms around him instead, holding him against me as his shoulders shake.

"I'm just tired of fighting," he whispers against my hair.

"I know, buddy," I murmur, my anger dissolving. "I am too."

I forget sometimes that fifteen isn't fully grown, even if Willie has already surpassed me in height. He's still a kid, carrying a burden that would break most adults.

The sound of footsteps makes me look up. Vargan stands a few feet away, his expression unreadable. It's obvious from his posture that he's heard most of our conversation.

I gently disengage from Willie, keeping one arm around his shoulders. "Willie, this is Vargan. He's going to be staying with us while he fixes his motorcycle."

Willie stiffens. "Why is he here? Why are you helping him?"

"Because he helped me," I say simply. "And because it's the right thing to do."

Willie looks at Vargan, his face a mask of teenage defiance despite the tear tracks on his cheeks. "You're the reason Royce is threatening us."

Vargan meets his gaze steadily. "Your sister was handling Royce's threats long before I got here."

"Yeah, and we were doing fine without—"

"Willie," I cut him off with a warning tone. "Enough. Vargan is our guest."

My brother's jaw sets in that stubborn way that reminds me so much of our father. Without another word, he turns and stalks back to the house, the screen door slamming behind him.

I sigh, rubbing my temples where a headache is forming. "I'm sorry about that."

"No need," Vargan says, his deep voice surprisingly gentle. "He's protecting what's his. Can't fault him for that."

I look up at Vargan, trying to read his expression. "You're awfully understanding for someone who just got called a 'thing' by a teenage boy."

He shrugs one massive shoulder. "Been called worse by better." His eyes take on a distant look. "At least he's got someone worth protecting."

There's something in his tone—a loneliness, maybe—that tugs at something inside me. I wonder how long it's been since Vargan had anyone he cared about enough to fight for.

He turns back to the bike, adding, "Go talk to your brother. I've got work to do here."

I hesitate, then nod. "I'll bring dinner out later."

Inside, I find Willie in his room, headphones on, pretending I don't exist—typical teenage defense mechanism. I let him be. He'll come around when he's hungry.

I spend the next hour making dinner—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans from last year's garden I froze for winter. Comfort food. Peace offering food. By the time I've set the table, the screen door opens, and Vargan ducks his head through the entrance, looking uncertain.

"There's a shower upstairs if you want to clean up," I tell him, gesturing to his grease-stained hands.

He nods. "Thanks."

"How's the bike coming?" I ask, trying to sound casual as I move around the kitchen.

"Progressing," he says, watching me work. "But there's more damage than I thought. Silas had to order a few parts. I might have to stick around longer than planned." He pauses. "He offered up his couch, if that's better for your brother."

My heart jumps a little at the thought of Vargan leaving, which is ridiculous. Of course he's leaving. That was the deal from the start. But the idea of him going to Silas's feels wrong somehow.

I stop stirring the gravy and turn to face him. "Are you suggesting that because of what Willie said? Because he tends to exaggerate when it comes to Royce." I straighten my spine, chin lifting slightly. "I've been fighting Victor Hargrove off for years. I can keep doing it without your help."

His eyes narrow slightly. "It didn't look that way two nights ago."

His words hit a nerve. "Royce was never going to hurt me," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. "He was putting on a show for Victor. And you played right into his hands."

"You believe that?"

I avert my eyes, unable to maintain the lie under that intense amber gaze. "Look, weren't you in a big hurry to get somewhere? Mexico, right? What about that patch on your jacket? Those Ironborn people—don't they need you back?"

Vargan crosses to the sink, turning on the water to wash his hands. His back is to me when he answers, "I am. Ironborn MC. But at the moment, I can't return."

"What about your family?" I'm pushing, I know, but suddenly I need to understand this man—this orc—who's disrupted my carefully balanced life.

"Either stuck on the other side of the Rift, or killed when they crossed." His voice is flat, emotionless, but I can hear the pain beneath it. "Humans can't be trusted. That's why I don't trust that Royce won't hurt you for siding with me."

The raw honesty in his words makes me pause. I think about what Willie said, about Royce's threats. I remember the pain of Royce's fingers digging into my arms the last time I refused him, the terror when Victor suggested Royce "convince me" to sell. Maybe having Vargan stick around a little longer wouldn't be the worst thing.

"Silas's place is too small for both of you," I say finally. "I've got a perfectly good king-size bed upstairs in my parents' old room. Might still be a tight fit for you, but it's better than a couch."

He turns, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Don't get any ideas," I add quickly. "You don't trust humans, and I'm not getting tangled up with another bad guy—especially not one running from the law. There's no way in hell anything is going to happen between us anyway."

A slow smirk spreads across his face. "Didn't say a word."

"You didn't have to." I turn back to the stove, hoping he doesn't notice the flush creeping up my neck. "Dinner's in twenty. Go clean up."

As he leaves the kitchen, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. What am I doing? Inviting a fugitive orc to stay in my house, in my parents' bed, with my teenage brother under the same roof? An orc who admitted to killing a man, even if it was self-defense.

But when I think about the alternative—Vargan leaving, Royce returning with a vengeance, the endless struggle of fighting alone—I know I've made the right choice. For now.

The sound of the shower starts upstairs, and I try not to think about the massive green-skinned man standing under the water in my bathroom. Try not to imagine the intricate tattoos that cover his torso, what they might mean, how they follow the contours of muscles that—

No. Stop it, Savvy. This is business. Protection. Nothing more.

I slam the spoon down harder than necessary, splashing gravy onto the stovetop. This is exactly why I don't let people in anymore. The minute I do, I start hoping. And hope is the one thing I can't afford.

I've spent three years holding Victor at bay, keeping my brother safe, my father's legacy intact. I'm not about to risk it all because I've got some weird attraction to an orc who'll be gone as soon as his bike is fixed.

Because that's the truth—Vargan is leaving. He has to. He's got the Mexican border to cross, a life to save, and I've got a diner to run and a brother to raise. Our worlds were never meant to collide.

And when he does leave, I'll still be here, fighting the same battles I've always fought.

Alone.