Page 1 of Vargan

Chapter One

Vargan

My 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 careas 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.

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