Page 6 of Vargan (Ironborn MC Book #1)

Chapter Six

Savvy

A spring storm is rolling in with dark clouds promising rain as I chop vegetables for a salad. The radio plays an old country song—something about sunshine and sweet tea—and I find myself humming along, feeling lighter than I have in... well, longer than I can remember.

Willie is at Jacob's for the night, begging for a sleepover after I mentioned Vargan would be staying a few more days. I didn't fight it. Sometimes space is what we both need. Besides, Jacob's father is a good influence and he hates Victor Hargrove about as much as I do.

I glance at the two cuts of meat marinating on the counter—steak for Vargan, chicken for me. I read online that orcs are big meat and veggie eaters, their metabolism requiring more protein and nutrients than humans. Not that Vargan has complained about anything I've made. Every time I ask what he'd like for dinner, he just says "whatever you're making is fine" in that deep, rumbling voice that does strange things to my insides.

But tonight I'm determined to make something he'll really enjoy—my way of thanking him for working on Dad's old truck, and trying to make peace with Willie. It feels good having someone care about the things that matter to me, even if it's just fixing an engine and a lost boy.

Through the kitchen window, I catch a flash of movement on the street—a black pickup truck crawling past the house, too slow to be just passing through. Victor's truck. My muscles tense instinctively, but it keeps going, disappearing around the corner. Still, the message is clear: he's watching. Waiting.

Thunder rumbles in the distance as I toss the salad—romaine, spinach, tomatoes, cucumbers, bell peppers, avocado, walnuts. The back door opens, and I turn to see Vargan duck through the doorway, his massive frame filling the kitchen entrance.

He's a mess—dirt and oil smudged across his green skin, hair tossed and wild from running his dirty fingers through it, t-shirt clinging to his broad chest with sweat. He should look disgusting. Instead, he looks... God, I need to get out more.

Vargan crosses to the sink, reaching for the soap with filthy hands. I grab a dish towel and playfully swat at his arm.

"Don't you dare get my kitchen dirty while I’m cooking," I scold, though I'm smiling as I say it. "You need a full shower."

He looks down at himself, then at me, one corner of his mouth quirking up, revealing his lower tusk. It shouldn't be cute. But it is. "After dinner. Whatever you're making smells too good to wait."

"Nope." I plant myself between him and the stove, arms crossed. "You're not getting a bite of my special meal until you're showered and dressed. I've got standards, you know."

Vargan raises his hands in surrender, his eyes bright with amusement. It's not lost on me that this mountain of a beast could move me with one hand, but it's the fact that he wouldn't dare that sends a thrill trailing down my spine. "Yes, ma'am." He pauses, nostrils flaring slightly. "Victor drive by?"

I blink, surprised. "How did you—"

"I can smell him," Vargan says, his expression darkening. "Engine oil, expensive cologne, and arrogance."

"It's nothing new," I say, trying to sound casual. "He likes to remind me he's watching. He does it to everyone holding out."

Vargan's jaw tightens, but he doesn't push. "I'll be quick," he says, heading for the stairs.

As he disappears upstairs, I take a shaky breath. Having Vargan notice Victor's surveillance makes it feel more real somehow—more threatening. For years, I've pretended it doesn't bother me, that I'm untouchable. But the truth is, I'm terrified every day.

I set the table while the steak sizzles on the grill pan—plates in the center, forks on the left, knives on the right. The same way mom showed me years ago. Even after she passed, I made sure Dad and Willie and I kept the same routines and practices she'd instilled in us. We always set the table for dinner, always made our beds in the morning, and always, always stood up for what was right.

I'm staring at the table, lost in the past, when Vargan returns. He's cleaned up well—hair damp from the shower, wearing a fresh black t-shirt that stretches across his chest and shoulders, jeans that have seen better days but fit him perfectly. If he stays much longer we're going to need to find him some new clothes.

His expression shifts when he sees me, from relaxed to concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." I blink away the memory, moving to check on the steak.

"You sure?" He doesn't move closer, respecting my space even as his eyes track me. "You looked a million miles away."

Something in his voice—genuine concern, not forced sympathy or impatience—makes me answer honestly. "I was thinking about my parents. How this house used to be full of... life. Now it's just echoes."

Vargan nods, understanding in his eyes. "The camps were like that. Empty spaces where families should have been. You learn to live with the silence, but you never stop hearing what should be there."

His unexpected vulnerability catches me off guard. "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," he says softly. "We all carry ghosts."

We sit across from each other at the small kitchen table. Vargan looks almost comical on the human-sized chair, his knees nearly touching the underside of the table. But he doesn't complain, just waits until I've served myself before taking portions that would feed three normal men.

"This is good," he says after his first bite of steak. "Really good."

I feel a flush of pride. "Thanks. I wasn't sure what orcs like to eat."

"Pretty much the same as humans, just more of it." He gestures to the salad with his fork. "Though we do need more vegetables than most humans eat. Less junk carbs."

Thunder crashes outside, closer now, and rain begins to patter against the windows. The storm has arrived.

"What was the town like?" Vargan asks after a comfortable silence. "Before Victor, I mean."

I take a sip of water, considering. "When I was younger, Shadow Ridge was full of farmers and an auto parts manufacturer just outside town. The factory closed about fifteen years ago, and the town shifted to agriculture." I push a piece of chicken around my plate. "But as the price of produce dropped, people were forced to find other ways to make money. That's where the diner came from. Dad bought all local produce and fed the town."

Lightning flashes, illuminating the kitchen in stark white for a moment before plunging it back into the soft yellow glow of the overhead light.

"Then Victor started buying up abandoned farms," I continue. "Dad called him out on it, but no one wanted to listen, since Victor was the only person willing to pay." My throat tightens. "He died knowing his legacy would be bought and sold."

Vargan sets down his fork, his expression intense. "I'll do whatever I can to stop that from happening."

The sincerity in his voice makes my chest ache. "You have your own problems to face," I remind him gently. "I've weathered this storm long enough. I can hold on for as long as it takes."

"What happened with Royce?" Vargan asks suddenly, his voice careful. His attention returns to his steak, but I know he's hyper-focused on me. "Silas mentioned you two were together for a while."

The question stuns me. No one in town ever asks directly—they just whisper behind my back.

"You don't have to tell me," he adds, glancing up and catching my expression.

"No, it's—" I take a breath, surprised to find I want to tell him. "After Dad died, I was drowning. The diner was failing, the mortgage was underwater, and I had a pre-teen brother who'd just lost both parents. Royce was..." I search for the right words. "He was charming. Attentive. Made me feel like I wasn't alone for the first time in months."

Vargan is very still, listening intently.

"At first, it was good. He helped with the diner, spent time with Willie, talked about how we could fix up the house once we were married." The words taste bitter now. "I should have seen it earlier—how he gradually started making decisions for me. Small things at first: what to wear, who to hire at the diner, which bills to pay first."

Outside, the storm intensifies, rain lashing against the windows.

"Then came the suggestions about selling. Just casual mentions at first—how much easier life would be, how we could move somewhere better, start fresh." I swallow hard, the memory still raw. "When I refused, he started getting angry. Not violent, just... cold. Manipulative. He'd punish me by disappearing for days, then come back with gifts and apologies."

I push the memory away, continuing quietly, "The last straw was when I found out he'd been meeting with Victor behind my back, promising he could deliver the diner and the farm once we were married."

Vargan's hands clench into fists on the table. "What did you do?"

"I ended it. Threw every gift he'd ever given me at his head and told him to get out." I manage a small, bitter laugh. "He didn't believe me at first. Said I needed him too much to leave. That I'd come crawling back when I realized how hard it was to do this alone."

"But you didn't," Vargan says softly.

"No." I meet his eyes. "I'd rather struggle every day of my life than sell my soul for comfort."

The understanding in his gaze is almost too much to bear. No pity, no judgment—just recognition of a kindred spirit who knows what it means to stand alone against the tide.

"After I left the military," Vargan says, breaking the heavy silence, "I had nothing. No purpose, no place. Humans were happy to use my strength when they needed it, then discard me when they were done." His voice is low, measured. "I was drifting, taking odd jobs, getting into fights. Anything to feel something besides anger."

I stay quiet, giving him space to continue.

"One night, I was in this dive bar outside Tulsa. Some drunk humans decided to have fun with the 'green freak.' Five on one." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "I was handling myself fine until one pulled a knife. That's when the Ironborn showed up—a whole chapter, fifteen bikes roaring into the lot, led by an orc almost as big as me."

"They saved you?" I ask.

"They joined me," he corrects. "Made it a fair fight. Afterward, their president, Hammer, offered me a ride, a meal, and eventually, a family." Vargan's eyes take on a faraway look. "First time since the camps I felt like I belonged somewhere. I’d die for my brothers because I know they’d do the same for me."

The quiet intimacy of his confession settles over us. We're both guardians of broken things—me with my father's legacy, him with his found family among the outcast.

"So that's why you're running," I say softly. "To protect them."

He nods. "The woman whose boyfriend I killed recognized my patch. If I stay, the whole club could be targeted. Hammer ordered me to Mexico until they can clear my name."

"And you always follow orders?" I ask, surprised to find myself smiling slightly.

"Only the ones I agree with." He returns my smile, the tension between us easing into something warmer, more dangerous.

The storm crashes overhead, rattling the windows, but neither of us looks away. Something is shifting between us—invisible barriers lowering, walls being dismantled brick by brick.

"I should get back to the garage," Vargan says suddenly, standing and taking his plate to the sink. "I want to finish what I was working on before it gets too late."

The abrupt withdrawal stings, but I nod. I understand pulling back—I'm the queen of building walls. Royce always made me feel guilty for needing space. He'd press and press until I gave in, just to make the pressure stop.

Vargan hesitates at the door, looking like he wants to say something more. Then he ducks outside into the rain, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I clean up mechanically, scrubbing plates with unnecessary force. Why am I like this? Why can't I just let someone in, even a little? Even someone who's leaving soon anyway?

Because everyone leaves eventually, a voice whispers in my head. Or they die. Or they turn out to be someone different than you thought they were. Better to keep my distance, to not get attached.

Thunder crashes directly overhead, making the windows rattle. I jump, the glass in my hand slips and shatters in the sink. Sharp pain lances through my palm as glass slices skin.

"Shit!" I hiss, just as the lights flicker and go out, plunging the kitchen into darkness.

Blood, warm and slick, pools in my palm as I fumble for a towel in the dark. The back door bursts open with a bang that makes me scream.

A shadow fills the doorway, and I freeze. Heart stopped, breathing halted. It's not until he growls that I realize it's Vargan filling the doorway, rain dripping from his hair and shoulders, chest heaving like he ran the short distance from garage to house. His eyes, those amber eyes, glow faintly in the dim light, finding me instantly.

"What happened?" he demands, moving toward me with surprising speed for someone his size.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just broke a glass. Cut my hand."

He's beside me in two strides, gently taking my arm and pulling it from the sink. Even in near-darkness, he seems to see perfectly, turning my hand to examine the wound.

"Sit," he says, guiding me to a chair.

I obey, too stunned by his sudden appearance to argue. He pulls another chair close, sitting beside me and laying my arm across his thigh. His leg is solid muscle beneath my arm, radiating heat even through his jeans.

He reaches for a clean dish towel, wrapping it firmly around my palm. His hands are huge compared to mine, but incredibly gentle as he applies pressure to stop the bleeding.

"It's not deep," he says, his voice a low rumble in the dark kitchen. "But you might need stitches."

I don't respond. I can't. I'm frozen, watching his face in the flashes of lightning—concentrated, concerned. When was the last time someone took care of me like this? Not since my mother, certainly not Royce. I've patched up countless cuts and scrapes for Willie, for my father before he died, even for customers at the diner.

But no one does this for me. I'm the one who takes care of others.

"I can't remember the last time someone helped me," I whisper, the words escaping before I can stop them. "I'm always the one picking up the pieces."

Vargan's eyes lift to mine, something fierce and tender in their amber depths. "You don't have to do everything alone, Savvy."

"I do," I insist, my voice breaking. "Everyone I love either leaves or lets me down. It's easier not to need anyone."

"Is it?" he asks softly.

I shake my head, tears threatening. "No. It's exhausting."

His free hand moves to my face, tusks gleaming in the darkness as he gently brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch sends electricity down my spine, making me shiver.

"You're the strongest human I've ever met," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "But even the strongest warriors need someone to watch their back sometimes."

I lean forward, drawn to him by something I can't name or resist. His hand slides to cup my cheek, thumb stroking my skin with impossible gentleness. The air between us feels charged, electric like the storm outside. I close my eyes, my heart hammering as I feel his breath warm against my lips.

For one suspended moment, I think he's going to kiss me. I want him to—with an intensity that scares me.

But then his hand falls away. When I open my eyes, he's standing, conflict evident in every line of his body. His eyes still glow in the darkness, fixed on me with a mixture of longing and regret.

"I can't," he says, his voice tight with restraint. "You don't understand what I am, what I've done—"

"I do," I say, rising to my feet, leaving the bloodied towel on the chair. "You think you're the only one who's done things they regret? Who's had to make impossible choices?"

"It's different," he insists. "My kind—we have something inside us. A beast. When it takes over—" He shakes his head. "I fight it every day. But sometimes I lose. And when I do, people get hurt."

"You think I'm afraid of you?" I demand, moving closer until we're inches apart, my head tilted back to look up at him. "After everything I've been through, you think I could ever be afraid of someone as gentle as you?"

"You should be afraid," he growls, but he doesn't back away.

"Well, I'm not." The words come out with more force than I intended. "I'm tired of being afraid, Vargan. I'm tired of pushing people away because it's safer. I'm tired of—"

He cuts me off, not with words, but by closing the distance between us. His mouth finds mine in the darkness, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as I respond. His tusks press lightly against my cheeks, strange but not unpleasant. His hand cradles the back of my head, careful, so careful, as if I might break.

I've been kissed before, but not like this—not with this combination of restraint and hunger, of power held deliberately in check. I press closer, my uninjured hand sliding up his chest to the nape of his neck where his hair is still damp from the rain.

The kiss deepens, and I feel something inside me crack open—a door I thought I'd sealed forever, letting in light and air and danger.

Vargan pulls back suddenly, his breathing ragged. "I'm sorry," he says, stepping away from me like I've hurt him. "I shouldn't have done that."

The rejection stings. "Why? Because I'm human? Because I'm not worth the trouble?"

"Because I'm leaving!" he snaps, frustration evident in his voice. "Because in a few days, I'll be across the border, and you'll still be here facing Victor and Royce alone!" He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "I can't start something I can't finish, Savvy. I won't do that to you."

The truth of his words hits harder than any lie. He's right—he's leaving. And I'll be here, just like always.

"I know," I say quietly, wrapping my arms around myself. "You're right."

The lights flicker back on, illuminating the kitchen and the space between us—wider now than it was before. We stare at each other, the moment broken, reality rushing back in.

"I'll be in the garage until late," Vargan says, his voice carefully controlled. "Don't wait up."

He turns and walks out the door, closing it gently behind him.

I stand in the suddenly bright kitchen, my cut hand throbbing, my lips still warm from his kiss. The empty house feels emptier now, knowing what it's like to not be alone, even for a moment.

I press my uninjured hand to my mouth, trying to hold onto the feeling of his lips against mine. It was a mistake—we both know it. He's leaving, and I'm staying. That's how it has to be.

So why does it feel like something precious is slipping through my fingers? And why am I suddenly terrified of returning to the life I had before he crashed into it?

The storm continues to rage outside, but it's nothing compared to the one building inside me.