Page 5

Chapter Five

Vargan

T he bed in Savvy's parents' room isn't long enough for me—few human beds are—but it's a vast improvement over the couch. I spent most of the night with my feet hanging over the edge, listening to the old farmhouse settle around me, trying not to think about the woman sleeping just down the hall.

Morning came too quickly, and I've been working on the bike since dawn. Now it's afternoon, and I'm stuck. The damage to the frame is worse than I initially thought; Silas had to order a part that won't arrive until tomorrow. Until then, I'm at a standstill.

I wipe sweat from my brow and step outside the garage, scanning the street. The diner is busy—lunch rush. Through the window, I can see Savvy moving between tables with practiced efficiency. With her fry cook quitting after the incident with Victor and Royce, she's been pulling double duty in the kitchen and out front. No sign of Victor's truck or Royce's smug face. Still, I've positioned myself to keep the parking lot in view. Old habits.

Back inside the garage, I pace restlessly. Orcs don't do well with idle time. In the camps, they kept us busy from sunrise to sunset—learning, training, working. Idle hands invite rebellion, they said. They weren't wrong.

My eyes fall on a tarp-covered shape in the corner of the garage. I pull back the dusty cover to reveal an old Ford pickup, probably from the '60s—faded blue paint, rusted in spots, but the frame looks solid. The keys are in the ignition.

Perfect. Something to keep my hands busy.

I pop the hood and inspect the engine. It's been sitting a long time, but nothing that can't be fixed with a little attention. I gather tools and get to work, losing myself in the familiar routine—checking spark plugs, examining belts, cleaning corrosion from battery terminals.

My mind drifts as my hands work automatically. Back to the camps. I was eight when we crossed the Rift—old enough to remember the Before, young enough to be "rehabilitated" as they called it.

The camps weren't cruel, exactly. We were fed, kept clean, educated on human ways. But they were prisons all the same. Humans feared what they didn't understand, and they definitely didn't understand us. So they shaped us into something they could control.

I was lucky, in a way. I had an aptitude for mechanics that my human handlers recognized and encouraged. It gave me something to focus on besides my rage. Besides losing everything and everyone I knew.

I'm so deep in the memory, my face practically inside the engine block, that I don't hear the approaching footsteps until a throat clears behind me. I straighten, instinctively reaching for a weapon that isn't there before recognizing Willie's scent—young, human, tinged with the stitch of raging male hormones.

His face is a mask of teenage hostility. "Why are you still here?"

I wipe my hands on a rag, taking my time to answer. "Can't leave until my bike is fixed."

"And when will that be?" There is challenge in his voice, with fear barely concealed beneath it.

"If you've got a problem with me being here," I say evenly, "blame the asshole who drove a truck over my bike."

That takes some of the wind out of his sails. He shifts his weight, eyes dropping to my arms where my clan tattoos are visible beneath my rolled-up sleeves.

"What are all those?" he asks, curiosity overriding his hostility.

I consider brushing him off, but decide honesty is better. This kid deserves to understand what he's dealing with.

"Different things," I say, extending my right arm where a barcode and number are tattooed on my inner wrist. "This one was used to track me by the humans at the camps."

Willie steps closer, eyes wide. "They tagged you like an animal?"

"That was the idea." I keep my voice neutral, not wanting to color his perception. "Easier to identify us if we ran."

"Do you have more?" Wariness, but genuine interest too enter his voice.

I nod. "Several. It's the way of Orcs to use tattoos as what humans would call a memory book. I have ones from being taken to my first camp, from being moved to the military barracks when I wasn't much older than you."

I roll up my sleeve further to reveal the MC's insignia—a motorcycle breaking through a circle of chains. "This one is my club's logo. The Ironborn."

Willie stares at it, then at me. "Is that why you ride? Because of your club?"

"I rode before I found them. But they gave me a reason to keep riding."

He's quiet for a moment, clearly wrestling with something. Then: "I can help. If you want."

It's an olive branch, however reluctant. I nod toward the truck. "Know anything about engines?"

"A little," he admits, stepping closer. "My dad used to let me help change the oil in his truck."

"Hand me that wrench," I tell him, pointing. When he does, I start explaining what I'm doing in simple terms—how engines work, what each part does. He listens carefully, asking smart questions.

The roar of a loud exhaust system pulls my attention to the diner parking lot. A pickup truck is pulling in—newer model, not Victor's but similar enough to put me on alert. I tense, ready to move if needed.

"It's not Victor, if that's what you're worried about," Willie says, surprising me with his perception. "He drives a Ram and he never comes around during busy times." He says it matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the engine.

Less witnesses that way, I think, then wonder if Willie was thinking the same thing. Smart kid. Too smart for his own good, maybe.

"What do you think of them?" I ask casually. "Victor and Royce?"

Willie fiddles with a spark plug, not meeting my eyes. "If Savvy had just married Royce, we'd be living in the nicest house in town, and she wouldn't have to work so hard." He glances up at me. "He's not a bad guy."

My beast stirs at that, a low growl building in my chest that I quickly suppress. I remind myself that Willie's just a kid. He's fifteen, not even old enough to drive without an adult. He's never been outside this town, never seen how big the world really is. It reminds me of myself when I crossed the Rift, thinking help would be on the other side. Naive. Hopeful.

"Sometimes the things that look good on the surface aren't what they seem," I say carefully. "Especially people."

Willie shrugs, but I can tell he's listening.

I glance back toward the diner to check on the new arrival—just a customer—and find Savvy standing in the garage doorway. She's still in her work uniform, hair escaping from her ponytail, eyes tired but alert. She must have slipped out during the lunch rush to check on us.

"Willie, go do your homework," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Helen's got a piece of pie waiting for you if you finish before dinner."

Willie seems about to protest, then thinks better of it. He gives me a small nod before heading toward the house, leaving Savvy and me alone in the garage.

"Hope you don't mind me working on the truck," I say, wiping my hands on a clean rag. "I'm not good at just sitting around."

"It's fine," she says, moving further into the garage to inspect what I've been doing. "It was my dad's when he was in high school. He always dreamed of fixing it up for Willie someday."

There's that sad note in her voice again, the one she gets whenever she mentions her father. I've heard it in my own voice often enough to recognize the sound of loss.

Savvy leans against the workbench, arms crossed over her chest. "I overheard what Willie said about Royce."

I don't respond, waiting for her to continue.

"After my father died," she says, eyes fixed on some distant point, "I was left with Willie to raise, a mountain of debt, a dried-up peanut farm, a diner to run, and no idea how I was going to do it all." She gives a small, humorless laugh. "Royce felt like the right choice at the time. He could be charming when he wanted to be. Helpful, even. I didn't know it was wrong to let Willie get attached until it was too late."

I set down my tools and straighten, moving a step closer to her. "That's not what I was trying to do with Willie," I say, needing her to understand. "I wasn't—"

"I know," she cuts me off, meeting my eyes briefly before looking away. "I was just trying to explain why Willie thinks we'd be better off if I'd just given in and married Royce." She rubs her arms as if suddenly cold. "And as sad as it sounds, there were times I wondered myself if I should have just sucked it up and gone with it. At least when I was doing what he wanted, he was a nice enough guy."

My beast stirs again at the defeat in her voice, at the image of Savvy—fierce, proud Savvy—thinking she had to settle for a man like Royce just to survive. Anger rises in my chest, not at her, but for her.

"You were right to push him away," I say firmly, taking another step toward her. "It took strength to do that, especially when you had no support. No family."

She looks up at me, surprise in her eyes. "How would you know?"

"Because I've seen it before. Strong people broken down until they believe it's their fault. Until they think they deserve it." I don't tell her where I've seen it—in the camps, in the military, in the faces of refugees who crossed the Rift only to find themselves prisoners in a new world. "You did the right thing, Savvy."

She studies me for a long moment, then asks, "What about your family?"

The question catches me off guard. I rarely talk about them, but something about Savvy makes me want to be honest. "My mother didn't cross the Rift, only the men did. But my father was killed as soon as we made it safely across." I swallow, memories rising that I usually keep buried. "All the adults were."

Savvy's expression softens, her eyes sad. "So you know all about not having family."

I step closer, close enough now that I could reach out and touch her if I wanted to. And I do want to—to offer comfort, to feel the warmth of her skin against mine. But I hold back, knowing it's a line I shouldn't cross.

"For a while, the kids in the camps were my family," I tell her instead. "Then my brothers in the military. Then the Ironborn MC. So even though I lost my blood family early on, I've never been without one."

Savvy smiles, but there's a sadness to it that pulls at something deep inside me. "That's good," she says softly. "Everyone needs someone."

A strand of hair falls across her face, and before I can think better of it, I reach out to tuck it behind her ear. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips. She doesn't pull away.

“Who’s your someone, Savvy? Who’s fighting for you?”

Her eyes widen slightly at the question, a flash of vulnerability crossing her face before she can mask it. For a moment, I think she might actually answer, but instead she takes a shallow breath and presses her lips together, that wall I've seen before sliding firmly back into place.

For a moment, we just stand there, too close, a current of something dangerous passing between us. Her eyes finally lift to meet mine again, dropping briefly to my mouth, then back up, and I feel my pulse quicken.

She straightens, pushing away from the workbench, leaving my question unanswered. "I need to get dinner started and then head back to the diner for the evening shift. She runs a hand through her hair, breaking the spell. "Helen's covering for me, but I can't leave her alone too long."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As she walks away, I watch her go, this strong human woman carrying the weight of a dying town on her shoulders. And I can't help but wonder why I'm the one who hates humans so much when humans have done nothing but hurt Savvy while she tries to love them back.

The thought is unsettling. I've spent my whole life with clear lines drawn—humans on one side, my kind on the other. But Savvy blurs those lines. Makes me question things I've always believed to be true.

I turn back to the truck, but my focus is gone. All I can think about is the way she looked at me just now, like she understood my loss because it mirrors her own. Like maybe, we're not so different after all.

And that scares me more than anything Victor Hargrove or his nephew could do to me.

Because if Savvy isn't like other humans—if she's genuinely good in a way I haven't allowed myself to believe humans can be—then what else have I been wrong about? What other walls have I built that don't need to be there?

I slam the hood of the truck closed with more force than necessary, startling a bird from the rafters of the garage. I need to get back to work on the bike. I need to get out of Shadow Ridge before I start caring too much about what happens here. Before I start caring too much about her.

Because caring makes you vulnerable. And vulnerability gets you killed. That's the first lesson they taught us in the camps, and it's one I've never forgotten.

Until now.