Page 19 of Vargan

"But you didn't," Vargan says softly.

"No." I meet his eyes. "I'd rather struggle every day of my life than sell my soul for comfort."

The understanding in his gaze is almost too much to bear. No pity, no judgment—just recognition of a kindred spirit who knows what it means to stand alone against the tide.

"After I left the military," Vargan says, breaking the heavy silence, "I had nothing. No purpose, no place. Humans were happy to use my strength when they needed it, then discard me when they were done." His voice is low, measured. "I wasdrifting, taking odd jobs, getting into fights. Anything to feel something besides anger."

I stay quiet, giving him space to continue.

"One night, I was in this dive bar outside Tulsa. Some drunk humans decided to have fun with the 'green freak.' Five on one." A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "I was handling myself fine until one pulled a knife. That's when the Ironborn showed up—a whole chapter, fifteen bikes roaring into the lot, led by an orc almost as big as me."

"They saved you?" I ask.

"They joined me," he corrects. "Made it a fair fight. Afterward, their president, Hammer, offered me a ride, a meal, and eventually, a family." Vargan's eyes take on a faraway look. "First time since the camps I felt like I belonged somewhere. I’d die for my brothers because I know they’d do the same for me."

The quiet intimacy of his confession settles over us. We're both guardians of broken things—me with my father's legacy, him with his found family among the outcast.

"So that's why you're running," I say softly. "To protect them."

He nods. "The woman whose boyfriend I killed recognized my patch. If I stay, the whole club could be targeted. Hammer ordered me to Mexico until they can clear my name."

"And you always follow orders?" I ask, surprised to find myself smiling slightly.

"Only the ones I agree with." He returns my smile, the tension between us easing into something warmer, more dangerous.

The storm crashes overhead, rattling the windows, but neither of us looks away. Something is shifting between us—invisible barriers lowering, walls being dismantled brick by brick.

"I should get back to the garage," Vargan says suddenly, standing and taking his plate to the sink. "I want to finish what I was working on before it gets too late."

The abrupt withdrawal stings, but I nod. I understand pulling back—I'm the queen of building walls. Royce always made me feel guilty for needing space. He'd press and press until I gave in, just to make the pressure stop.

Vargan hesitates at the door, looking like he wants to say something more. Then he ducks outside into the rain, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

I clean up mechanically, scrubbing plates with unnecessary force. Why am I like this? Why can't I just let someone in, even a little? Even someone who's leaving soon anyway?

Because everyone leaves eventually, a voice whispers in my head. Or they die. Or they turn out to be someone different than you thought they were. Better to keep my distance, to not get attached.

Thunder crashes directly overhead, making the windows rattle. I jump, the glass in my hand slips and shatters in the sink. Sharp pain lances through my palm as glass slices skin.

"Shit!" I hiss, just as the lights flicker and go out, plunging the kitchen into darkness.

Blood, warm and slick, pools in my palm as I fumble for a towel in the dark. The back door bursts open with a bang that makes me scream.

A shadow fills the doorway, and I freeze. Heart stopped, breathing halted. It's not until he growls that I realize it's Vargan filling the doorway, rain dripping from his hair and shoulders, chest heaving like he ran the short distance from garage to house. His eyes, those amber eyes, glow faintly in the dim light, finding me instantly.

"What happened?" he demands, moving toward me with surprising speed for someone his size.

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "Just broke a glass. Cut my hand."

He's beside me in two strides, gently taking my arm and pulling it from the sink. Even in near-darkness, he seems to see perfectly, turning my hand to examine the wound.

"Sit," he says, guiding me to a chair.

I obey, too stunned by his sudden appearance to argue. He pulls another chair close, sitting beside me and laying my arm across his thigh. His leg is solid muscle beneath my arm, radiating heat even through his jeans.

He reaches for a clean dish towel, wrapping it firmly around my palm. His hands are huge compared to mine, but incredibly gentle as he applies pressure to stop the bleeding.

"It's not deep," he says, his voice a low rumble in the dark kitchen. "But you might need stitches."

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