Page 32 of Vargan

Willie parks the truck, killing the engine with more force than necessary in his excitement. He's out the door in a flash, running to Savvy.

"Savvy! Did you see? Vargan got Dad's truck running! And he's teaching me to drive it!"

Savvy's smile seems forced as she approaches. "I saw. That's great, Willie."

Willie turns back to me, his grin threatening to split his face. Before I can react, he throws his arms around me in an awkward hug. "Thank you," he says, voice muffled against my chest.

Something shifts in my chest—a pressure I can't name. I pat his back, uncomfortable with the display but moved all the same. "No problem, kid."

Savvy's expression darkens further, her eyes meeting mine over Willie's head. There's something cold there, something I don't understand.

"Willie," she says, "why don't you put your stuff in the house? Then we can go to the diner for ice cream to celebrate."

Willie releases me and bounds toward the house, energy rolling off him in waves. Once he's out of earshot, Savvy turns to me, arms crossed over her chest.

"Is everything okay?" I ask, confused by her mood. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"I am happy to have the truck working," she says, voice tight. "Thank you. But I need to ask—have your plans changed? Are you staying?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"It's one thing for me to get attached," she continues, eyes hard. "I know better than to expect men will stick around. ButWillie hasn’t learned that lesson yet, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Understanding dawns, cold and sharp. "You think I'm trying to hurt him. Hurt you."

"Aren't you?" She jabs a finger toward the house. "You're acting like you're part of this family, like you're here to stay. Fixing the house, the truck, teaching Willie to drive..." Her voice cracks slightly. "But you're leaving. And when you do, he'll be devastated."

The accusation stings more than it should. "Is this about last night? Savvy, I made it clear. I never pretended I was staying."

"I know that, even though I tried to pretend this morning that I didn't," she says, the hurt in her eyes making my chest ache. "And maybe you know that, but he doesn't. Why did you have to play pretend with him?"

She's right. I let myself get lost in the fantasy, in the warmth of her, in the illusion of belonging. "I'm sorry," I say, the words inadequate even to my own ears. "I should have told you right away. I got a call from my club president this morning. Twenty-four hours. Less than that now. That's all I have."

Her eyes widen, the anger giving way to something closer to grief. "Twenty-four hours?"

"They're setting up a border crossing. Once they call, I'll have about an hour to get moving." I reach for her, but she steps back. "Savvy—"

"We'll be at the diner," she says, turning away. "When you finish packing, you can come by to tell Willie you’re leaving. Before he gets too attached."

I watch her go, feeling like I've been gut-punched. Even though I told her the truth, it wasn't soon enough. For the second time today, I've failed to say the words that matter when they needed to be said.

Inside the house, I shower quickly, trying to wash away the guilt and confusion. Savvy's right to be angry. I've been selfish, allowing myself to enjoy their company, their home, without honoring the truth of my situation.

I pack my bag methodically, checking the few possessions I've kept with me.

I understand Savvy’s implication. She wants me gone now. And she’s right. It would be better to leave now. Before Hammer calls, before law enforcement closes in, before I have to see the disappointment in Willie's eyes or the resignation in Savvy's.

My decision made, I sling the bag over my shoulder and head downstairs. I'll say goodbye properly, tell Willie some lie about why I'm leaving, then be on my way. It's the right thing to do.

Outside, the late afternoon sun casts shadows across the yard. I set my phone down on the motorcycle seat as I secure my bag to the bike, then turn toward the diner, steeling myself for what comes next.

That's when I see it—Victor's black truck, parked in the diner lot.

My blood runs cold, then hot with fury. My beast stirs, drawn by the sudden spike of adrenaline. I leave the bike, forgetting my phone in my haste, crossing the street with purpose, every sense on high alert.

Through the diner windows, I can see them—Savvy cornered near the register, Royce standing too close to her, his posture aggressive. Victor sits in a booth with Willie, leaning in close, the boy's face pale with fear.

Red bleeds into the edges of my vision as the beast claws its way closer to the surface. I force it down, knowing a full berserk episode now would only make things worse. But I let enough of it show to make my presence felt as I push through the diner door.

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