Page 8

Chapter Eight

Savvy

T he diner is painfully quiet for a Thursday. I've wiped the same spot on the counter three times now, reorganized the syrup bottles twice, and checked my phone more times than I'd like to admit. Anything to keep my mind off what's happening across the street.

Vargan's leaving today.

I know this because I overheard him telling Silas this morning. "Frame bracket's installed," he'd said, voice low but carrying through the open kitchen window. "Should be on the road by sunset."

Sunset. The word had lodged in my chest like a shard of glass.

"Savannah Elizabeth Greene!" Helen's voice cuts through my thoughts. "If you polish that counter any harder, you're going to wear a hole right through it."

I drop the rag, forcing a smile. "Sorry. Just keeping busy."

"On your day off." Helen raises an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. "Instead of, I don't know, being at home where a certain green-skinned biker has been working himself to death fixing things all over your property."

My cheeks heat. "I had inventory to catch up on."

"Bullshit. You're hiding."

The diner is empty except for Old Man Jenkins in the corner booth, half-asleep over his coffee and pie. No one to overhear Helen's bluntness or my discomfort.

"I'm not hiding," I insist, grabbing the ketchup bottles to start marrying them. "I'm being practical."

Helen snorts, sliding onto a stool across from me. "Practical. Right. That's why you're here on your one day off while Romeo is over there working up a sweat."

My hands shake slightly as I unscrew a ketchup cap. "It's not like that."

"Oh? Then what is it like?"

I focus on pouring ketchup, avoiding her eyes. "We kissed. Once. And it was..." I swallow hard, the memory washing over me—his mouth on mine, gentle despite his tusks, his hands so careful yet so strong. "It was wonderful. Then he pulled away."

"Mmhmm. And?"

"And I thought I'd misread him. That it was just a mistake." I move to the next bottle. "But then yesterday, we had this... moment. When the power went out, he built a fire, and it was so warm and cozy. I was so close to just giving in and letting whatever was between us happen."

"But you didn't," Helen says, not a question.

I set the ketchup bottle down harder than necessary. "No. I didn't. Because I looked into his eyes—those kind eyes that have never looked at me with an ounce of anything but respect—and realized how much it's going to hurt to watch him leave. How much worse it would be if I let myself get any closer."

Helen is quiet for a moment, then she reaches across the counter and takes my hands in hers, stopping my nervous fidgeting. "Savvy, honey. Are you blind? Did Royce mess you up so bad you can't recognize a genuine feeling when it's right in front of you?"

I stare at her, stunned by her sudden shift from wariness about Vargan to apparent advocacy. "Wait, you actually like him now? Last week, you were hiding kitchen knives every time he walked in."

Helen has the decency to look a bit chagrined. "I was wrong, okay? I've watched that man look at you like the center of his universe just shifted, and you’re now it. And I've seen how he treats everyone in this town—with respect, even when they don't deserve it." She squeezes my hands. "He's not what I expected."

"Helen—"

"Let me finish. That man, or orc, or whatever the hell he is—he may be just passing through, but he's fixing things only someone who cares would bother with. I've seen how he looks at you when you're not watching, and I'd kill to have someone look at me that way, even if I could only have it for a little while." She leans closer, her eyes fierce with conviction. "It’s better to have love like that for a day than never at all."

Something clicks into place at her words—a realization forming like the first ray of dawn breaking through the darkness. I've spent the last few years protecting my heart by avoiding situations that might hurt it, but all that's done is prevent any chance of healing.

"Oh god," I whisper, the truth hit me hard enough to rock my foundation. "I'm an idiot."

Helen pats my hand. "Yes, you are. But you're my idiot, and it's not too late to fix this."

I stare at her, heart racing. "What if it’s too late?"

"Only one way to find out."

I'm moving before I can second-guess myself, tearing off my apron and grabbing my bag from beneath the counter. "Can you finish this for me?"

Helen waves me toward the door. "Go get your orc, honey. Lord knows you've earned some happiness."

The diner’s door hinges protest as I throw it open, the thick spring air hitting me like a wall. Across the street, I can see the garage doors open, Vargan's motorcycle parked inside, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

He's still here. I'm not too late.

I run across the street, not caring who might see, not caring about anything except reaching him before he leaves. My heart pounds against my ribs, part fear, part exhilaration. What if he rejects me? What if Helen is wrong, and I've imagined the whole thing?

Too late for doubts now. I'm already at the garage entrance, breathless and probably wild-eyed.

Vargan is inside, his back to me as he secures a saddlebag to his newly repaired bike. He's wearing his leather cut, hair slicked back, looking every inch the dangerous biker he is. His backpack sits on the workbench beside him.

He turns at the sound of my approach, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of me. "Savvy. I was just coming to find you."

"You're leaving," I say, my voice steadier than I expected.

He nods once, expression guarded. "Bike's ready. It's time."

I step closer, close enough to smell the leather of his jacket, the clean scent of his skin beneath it. "Were you even going to say goodbye?"

"That's why I was coming to find you." His voice is gentle but distant, like he's already miles away. "I wanted to thank you. For everything."

I look up at him—this massive, green-skinned warrior who crashed into my life and somehow, in just a week, made me feel more than I have in years. His face is carefully blank, but his eyes... his eyes tell a different story.

Helen was right. The way he's looking at me—it's like I'm water, and he's been crossing a desert.

"Stay," I say, the word escaping before I can stop it. "Just one more night."

His brow furrows, confusion crossing his features. "Savvy—"

I reach out, my hand settling on his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath my palm. "Just for me," I whisper. "One night. That's all I'm asking."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a heat that makes my breath catch. For a moment, he doesn't move, and I wonder if I've miscalculated horribly.

Then his hands are on my waist, lifting me effortlessly until we're eye to eye. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that I can feel in my bones. "Because if I stay tonight, Savvy... I don't know if I'll be able to leave in the morning."

The raw vulnerability in his voice nearly breaks me. This powerful, dangerous man is afraid—not of Victor Hargrove or the law hunting him, but of the feelings surging between us.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my forehead to his. "I don't want you to go," I admit, the words barely audible. "I know you have to. I know there are a million reasons why this can't work. But tonight... can we just pretend none of that exists?"

His hands tighten on my waist, his breath warm against my lips. "You deserve better than a lost cause like me."

"Let me decide what I deserve," I whisper and close the distance between us.

This kiss is nothing like our first—this one is hunger incarnate, primal, and demanding. His tusks press against my cheeks, as his tongue claims mine. I moan into his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer like I could meld us together if I just tried hard enough.

He growls in response, the sound vibrating through me, setting off sparks of desire that race down my spine. Without breaking the kiss, he carries me out of the garage and toward the house, his strength making me feel weightless. We stumble through the back door and up the stairs, a tangle of desperate hands and hungry mouths.

The bedroom door crashes open against the wall as Vargan kicks it, carrying me to the bed. He sets me down with surprising gentleness, then stands back, eyes burning as he looks at me sprawled across the sheets.

"Last chance to change your mind," he says, voice strained with restraint.

In answer, I pull my shirt over my head, tossing it aside. "I'm not changing my mind."

Something carnal crosses his face—possessive, hungry, almost reverential. He sheds his leather cut, placing it on a chair, and then pulls his t-shirt off in one fluid motion.

My breath catches at the sight of him—broad chest covered in a tapestry of tattoos, muscles rippling beneath green skin that bears the marks of a hard life. Scars, both old and new, map his torso like constellations. He was right. Orcs do heal faster than humans. The stab wound has almost healed completely. I don’t know why that’s such a turn-on, but it is. I reach out an unsteady hand and trace the scar with my finger.

“You’re all healed,” I whisper.

A low, grumbling sound comes from low in his throat. “Nothing about me is healed, Savvy.”

He moves over me, one knee on the bed, and I reach for him, pulling him down until the delicious weight of him presses me into the mattress. His skin is hot against mine, his hands seeming to be everywhere at once—tracing my waist, cupping my breast through my bra, tangling in my hair.

"I've wanted this since the moment I saw you," he confesses against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. "Standing in that diner, so fierce, so strong."

"Show me," I demand, arching into his touch. "Show me how much you want me."

His mouth trails down my neck, across my collarbone, as his hands make quick work of my bra. When his lips close around my nipple, I gasp, hands clutching at his shoulders. His tusks graze the sensitive skin beneath my breast, sending shockwaves of pleasure through me.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, moving to my other breast. "So perfect."

His hands slide lower, unbuttoning my jeans, easing them down my hips. I lift to help him, suddenly desperate to feel his skin against mine with nothing between us.

Once I'm naked beneath him, he pauses, amber eyes taking me in with naked appreciation. "I want to taste every inch of you," he growls.

Before I can respond, he's moving down my body, broad shoulders pushing my thighs apart as he settles between them. The first touch of his mouth against my core has me crying out and my fingers clutching at the sheets.

He's devastatingly good at this—his tongue exploring, teasing, building a rhythm that has me writhing beneath him. One large hand splays across my stomach, holding me still as he works, the other sliding up to cup my breast, thumb circling my nipple in time with his tongue.

"Vargan," I gasp, the pressure building inside me, coiling tighter and tighter. "Please—"

He responds by sliding one thick finger inside me, curling it to find that spot that makes my vision blur. I'm close, so close, my body strung tight as a bow.

When he adds a second finger, stretching me in the most delicious way while his tongue continues its relentless assault, I shatter. The orgasm crashes through me in waves, drawing a cry from my throat that I barely recognize as my own.

He works me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, until I'm a trembling, boneless heap on the bed. When he rises above me, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression is smug and satisfied.

"That was just the beginning," he promises, voice rough with desire.

I reach for his belt, suddenly desperate to see all of him, to feel him inside me. "Take these off," I demand. "Now."

He complies, standing to remove his jeans and boxers in one motion I prop myself up on my elbows, watching with undisguised hunger as he reveals himself to me.

He's magnificent—every inch the warrior, powerful and primal. His cock is as unique as the rest of him—the same olive green as his skin but with deeper shading at the head, thick and impressively long without being intimidating. Different from a human's in subtle ways—ridged texture along the underside, more pronounced veins—but still fundamentally familiar. I lick my lips, imagining how he'll feel stretching me, filling me.

"Come here," I whisper, reaching for him.

He returns to the bed, settling between my thighs, his weight supported on his forearms. The head of his cock presses against my entrance, hot and insistent, but he doesn't move.

"Are you sure?" he asks again, eyes searching mine. "I'm not like human men, Savvy. I might hurt you."

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "I'm not afraid. I want this. I want you."

Slowly, with exquisite control, he begins to push inside me. The stretch burns at first—he's big, bigger than I've ever taken—but the pain is edged with pleasure so intense I forget to breathe.

"God," I gasp as he sinks deeper, filling me completely. "Vargan—"

"I've got you," he murmurs, holding still to let me adjust. "Tell me when."

I take a moment to breathe, to feel the incredible fullness of him inside me. When I'm ready, I lift my hips, taking him impossibly deeper. "Now."

He begins to move, setting a rhythm that starts slow and steady but quickly builds in intensity. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure radiating through me, building toward something bigger, something shattering.

His mouth finds mine, swallowing my moans as he drives into me. One hand slides beneath me, lifting my hips to change the angle, and suddenly he's hitting a spot that makes make my whole body hum and my vision blur.

"There," I gasp against his mouth. "Right there. Don't stop."

He growls, his pace increasing, the controlled restraint of earlier giving way to something more instinctual. "Never," he promises, voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I’ll never stop wanting you."

The second orgasm hits me without warning, crashing over me in waves that have me clawing at his back and crying out his name. He follows me over the edge moments later, his release triggering aftershocks that leave me trembling beneath him.

For a long moment, we lie tangled together, breathless and sweat-slicked. He's careful not to crush me with his weight, but I pull him closer, wanting to feel the solid reality of him against me for as long as possible.

Eventually, he rolls to his side, taking me with him, keeping us connected. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back as our breathing slows, our heartbeats gradually returning to normal.

"That was..." I trail off, unable to find words adequate to describe what just happened between us.

"Yeah," he agrees, a satisfied rumble in his chest. "It was."

I trace one of the tattoos on his chest—intricate linework forming what looks like a constellation. "Tell me about these," I say, fingers exploring the map of ink on his skin.

He catches my hand, bringing it to his lips. "You sure you want to hear my life story now?"

"I want to know everything about you," I admit, surprising myself with my honesty. "While I have the chance."

Something flickers in his eyes—sadness, maybe, or regret—but he nods. "This one," he says, guiding my fingers to a symbol over his heart. It's angular and bold—sharp runic lines intersecting to create something that resembles a stylized axe head with three distinct points, surrounded by what looks like mountain peaks. "It's my name in the old language. Vargan—the name of my father, and his father before him, passed from father to firstborn son for so many generations we've lost count."

My fingers trace the bold, powerful lines, feeling tiny ridges in his skin from where the ink was embedded deeply. "It's beautiful. What does it mean?"

"Mountain guardian," he says, his voice softening. "In the old days, my ancestors were tasked with protecting the mountain passes of our homeland."

I trace the symbol again, memorizing it. "A protector. That suits you."

"What about you?" he asks, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Is Savvy short for something?"

"Savannah," I admit. "But no one called me that except my grandmother, and only when I was in trouble."

His thumb traces my cheekbone. "Family name?"

"No." I smile at the memory. "Well, kind of. My parents met on a school trip to Savannah. They always said they'd name their first daughter after the place they fell in love. But when I turned out to be too high-spirited for such a feminine name, Dad shortened it to Savvy. Said it suited me better."

Vargan's lips quirk in a half-smile. "It fits you. Strong. Smart."

A comfortable silence falls between us, and a question I hadn't considered before drifts into my mind. Was I his first human? The thought makes me both curious and strangely vulnerable. I almost ask, but something holds me back—fear of the answer, perhaps, or not wanting to remind us both of the differences between us when, for this moment at least, they don't seem to matter.

Vargan's eyes narrow slightly, studying my face. "What are you thinking about? You got quiet all of a sudden."

"It's silly really. Nothing," I say, dropping my gaze.

His finger gently lifts my chin until I'm looking at him again. "Don't start keeping secrets from me now. Not after what we just shared."

Heat rises to my cheeks, but I meet his eyes. "I was wondering...you know...if I was your first...human."

Instead of being offended, Vargan smiles - a genuine smile that softens his entire face. He pulls me closer, his lips against my hair as he whispers, "Yes. My first and my only."

The simple declaration sends a wave of warmth through me, more powerful than I expected.

We lie together as the afternoon fades into evening, his fingers combing through my hair, my head resting on his chest where I can hear the steady beat of his heart. “Tell me about your club?” I ask, just wanting to hear his voice so I can memorize the sound.

"The club saved me," he says, his voice low as he describes finding his brothers. "After the military, I was lost. Angry at everything. The Ironborn gave me purpose, gave me a family again."

I tell him about growing up in Shadow Ridge, about my parents, about my dreams before life forced me to be practical. I confess how I'd wanted to go to culinary school, maybe open my own restaurant someday, not just run the local diner.

"Still could," he says, tracing patterns on my bare shoulder. "You're young. Talented."

"Maybe someday," I say, but we both know the weight of responsibilities that keep me here—Willie, the diner, my father's legacy. Dreams deferred, perhaps forever.

It's easy talking to him—easier than it should be with someone I've known for so little time, someone who will be gone tomorrow. The thought brings a pang of sadness, but I push it aside. I made my choice. One night with Vargan is worth the pain that will come after.

As dusk settles outside the window, a quiet peace falls over us. Vargan's breathing deepens, his hand stills in my hair, and I realize he's fallen asleep. I watch him, memorizing the planes of his face, the curve of his tusks, the way his eyelashes fan against his cheeks.

Have I made a mistake? I wonder, the doubt creeping in despite my resolve. Will this make it harder when he leaves?

But then he stirs, amber eyes opening to find mine, and the warmth in them chases away all doubt. He pulls me closer, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.

"No regrets?" he asks, voice husky with sleep.

I shake my head, settling more comfortably against him. "No regrets."

And I mean it. Whatever tomorrow brings, whatever pain awaits when he rides away, this moment—being held in his arms, feeling his heartbeat beneath my cheek—makes it all worthwhile.

Better to have him for a day than never at all.