Page 5 of Vargan

Vargan stands, wincing. "Then I'll buy a truck. Load this up. Fix it elsewhere."

I stare at him. Blood trickles from a cut above his eye. His breathing is labored, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. He can barely stand, let alone drive.

"You're in no condition to go anywhere," I say firmly.

"Not your problem," he growls, echoing his words from earlier.

"You made it my problem when you decided to play hero," I snap, then immediately regret my tone. "Look, you need to get cleaned up. Let me help you, at least until you can stand without looking like you're about to pass out again."

He studies me, suspicion plain on his face. "Why?"

I don't have a good answer for that. Because you stood up for me? Because I don't want your blood on my conscience? Because Victor will find you before you make it five miles out of town? Because that was his plan all along.

"Because I don't like owing debts," I say finally.

Something like amusement flashes in his eyes. "You don't owe me anything."

"My diner, my rules," I counter. "Now come on. I need to clean up these cuts before they get infected."

Back inside, I flip the "CLOSED" sign and lock the door. The place is a mess—overturned tables, broken dishes, blood on the floor. Tomorrow's problem. Right now, I need to focus on the wounded Orc eyeing me warily from across the room.

"This way," I say, leading him to the small bathroom in the back.

I grab the first aid kit from beneath the sink—the heavy-duty one Dad insisted on keeping stocked. Dad, who patched up more than one brawler in his day. The memory stings, but I push it away. No time for ghosts.

"Sit," I command, pointing to the closed toilet lid.

Surprisingly, he complies, though he has to duck to avoid hitting his head on the light fixture. In the small space, he seems even larger, his presence filling every corner.

I wet a clean towel and step closer, hesitating only briefly before tilting his face toward the light. His skin is hot beneath my fingers, fever-warm.

"Do Orcs run hotter than humans?" I ask, dabbing at the cut above his eye.

"Yes." His voice is a low rumble in the tiny room. "Higher metabolism."

I work in silence for a moment, cleaning away blood to reveal a deep gash. "This needs stitches."

"It'll heal."

"It'll scar."

He gives me a look that makes me flush. Of course. What's one more scar among so many?

As I clean his wounds, I can't help but notice the details of him—the scars that map his skin like roads on a forgotten map, the solid muscle beneath my fingers, the way he holds himself perfectly still despite what must be considerable pain. There's raw power here, but also restraint.

I shouldn't be noticing these things. I shouldn't be feeling this... whatever it is... buzzing beneath my skin where my fingers brush against him. This isn't right. He's an Orc. He's dangerous. So why does this feel so...safe?

My hand jerks away like I've been burned. This is ridiculous. Attraction isn't safe. Attraction leads to trust, and trust gets you hurt. You've been stupid before, Savvy. Don't do it again.

"Your ribs," I say, my voice harsher than intended. "Let me see."

Vargan studies me for a long moment, then slowly unzips his leather jacket. He's wearing a black t-shirt underneath that he carefully pulls up to reveal a torso landscaped with scars, intricate Orc clan tattoos, and fresh bruises blooming purple against green skin.

But it’s the bloodied bandage tied haphazardly around his waist that draws my attention.

I suck in a breath. "Jesus."

"I've had worse," he says, grimacing when I pull away the bandage.

---