Page 51 of Vargan

There's a moment of charged silence between them, speaking volumes about conversations I haven't been privy to. When did these two start talking on a first-name basis? And why hasn't Helen mentioned it?

"Well," Helen says, breaking the moment, "I should get to the diner. Mandy will need help with the prep for tonight's meeting."

"I'll join you," Hammer offers quickly. "I need to check in with Crow and Diesel anyway."

They leave together, Helen in her truck, Hammer on his bike, but the way they glance at each other before departing tells me everything I need to know. Something is definitely going on there.

I'm still smiling about this development when strong arms wrap around me from behind and the familiar scent of motor oil and leather envelops me.

"What's so amusing?" Vargan asks, his tusks grazing my ear as he speaks.

I lean back against his chest, reveling in the solid warmth of him. "I think Hammer and Helen are... involved."

Vargan chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of us. "You just noticed? They've been dancing around each other since his first visit three months ago."

I turn in his arms, surprised. "And you didn't tell me?"

"Wasn't my secret to tell," he says with a shrug. "Besides, it was fun watching you not notice."

I swat his chest playfully. "Some friend you are. Does Willie know?"

"Willie's known longer than I have. Said he caught them talking behind the diner when Hammer was here in February."

The image makes me grin wider. Helen—pragmatic, no-nonsense Helen—talking to a orc like a teenager. And with the president of an outlaw motorcycle club, no less.

"Good for them," I decide. "Helen deserves happiness. They both do."

Vargan hums in agreement, his eyes warm as he studies me. "As do we all."

It still takes my breath away sometimes, looking at him in the daylight—this powerful orc with his green skin and imposing tusks, the beast who chose to stay when he could have run, who fought the charges against him not just for himself but for us, for the future we are building together.

"Speaking of happiness," he says, reaching into his jacket pocket, "I have something for you."

He pulls out a small velvet box, and my heart skips several beats.

"Vargan..."

"Before you say anything," he interrupts, sudden nervousness evident in his usually confident demeanor, "I know it might seem fast. It's only been six months since I came back. But I've known since the moment I saw you standing outside Victor's mansion, willing to give up everything for me, that there would never be anyone else."

He opens the box, revealing a ring unlike any I've seen before—a band of what looks like hammered silver, inset with a small amber stone the exact color of his eyes.

"It's orc tradition," he explains, seeing my puzzled expression. "Silver, not gold. Amber for protection. I made it myself, in the shop after hours."

Tears prick my eyes as I understand the significance—not just a ring from a jewelry store, but something crafted by his own hands, imbued with his culture, his heritage.

"In the camps," he continues, voice dropping lower, "they took everything from us. Our names, our culture, our traditions. I never thought I'd have the chance to honor any of it again. To pass it on." His eyes meet mine, vulnerable and hopeful. "To have a family to share it with."

I'm crying openly now, unable to contain the emotion welling up inside me. A family.Our family.The promise of a future neither of us thought possible a year ago.

"Savannah Greene," he says formally, dropping to one knee despite the ridiculousness of the gesture given our height difference, "will you marry me? Be my bondmate, my heart, my home?"

"Yes," I answer without hesitation. "Yes, Vargan Thronshade. A thousand times yes."

He slides the ring onto my finger, where it fits perfectly. Of course it does—he makes custom motorcycle parts; sizing a ring would be child's play for those skilled hands.

When he rises, lifting me off the ground in his enthusiasm, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him deeply, pouring all my love into it.

"We should tell Willie first," I say when we finally break apart, both breathless.

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