Page 27 of Vargan

"Only one way to find out."

I'm moving before I can second-guess myself, tearing off my apron and grabbing my bag from beneath the counter. "Can you finish this for me?"

Helen waves me toward the door. "Go get your orc, honey. Lord knows you've earned some happiness."

The diner’s door hinges protest as I throw it open, the thick spring air hitting me like a wall. Across the street, I can see the garage doors open, Vargan's motorcycle parked inside, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

He's still here. I'm not too late.

I run across the street, not caring who might see, not caring about anything except reaching him before he leaves. My heart pounds against my ribs, part fear, part exhilaration. What if he rejects me? What if Helen is wrong, and I've imagined the whole thing?

Too late for doubts now. I'm already at the garage entrance, breathless and probably wild-eyed.

Vargan is inside, his back to me as he secures a saddlebag to his newly repaired bike. He's wearing his leather cut, hair slicked back, looking every inch the dangerous biker he is. His backpack sits on the workbench beside him.

He turns at the sound of my approach, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of me. "Savvy. I was just coming to find you."

"You're leaving," I say, my voice steadier than I expected.

He nods once, expression guarded. "Bike's ready. It's time."

I step closer, close enough to smell the leather of his jacket, the clean scent of his skin beneath it. "Were you even going to say goodbye?"

"That's why I was coming to find you." His voice is gentle but distant, like he's already miles away. "I wanted to thank you. For everything."

I look up at him—this massive, green-skinned warrior who crashed into my life and somehow, in just a week, made me feelmore than I have in years. His face is carefully blank, but his eyes... his eyes tell a different story.

Helen was right. The way he's looking at me—it's like I'm water, and he's been crossing a desert.

"Stay," I say, the word escaping before I can stop it. "Just one more night."

His brow furrows, confusion crossing his features. "Savvy—"

I reach out, my hand settling on his chest, feeling his heart thundering beneath my palm. "Just for me," I whisper. "One night. That's all I'm asking."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by a heat that makes my breath catch. For a moment, he doesn't move, and I wonder if I've miscalculated horribly.

Then his hands are on my waist, lifting me effortlessly until we're eye to eye. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that I can feel in my bones. "Because if I stay tonight, Savvy... I don't know if I'll be able to leave in the morning."

The raw vulnerability in his voice nearly breaks me. This powerful, dangerous man is afraid—not of Victor Hargrove or the law hunting him, but of the feelings surging between us.

I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing my forehead to his. "I don't want you to go," I admit, the words barely audible. "I know you have to. I know there are a million reasons why this can't work. But tonight... can we just pretend none of that exists?"

His hands tighten on my waist, his breath warm against my lips. "You deserve better than a lost cause like me."

"Let me decide what I deserve," I whisper and close the distance between us.

This kiss is nothing like our first—this one is hunger incarnate, primal, and demanding. His tusks press against my cheeks, as his tongue claims mine. I moan into his mouth,fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer like I could meld us together if I just tried hard enough.

He growls in response, the sound vibrating through me, setting off sparks of desire that race down my spine. Without breaking the kiss, he carries me out of the garage and toward the house, his strength making me feel weightless. We stumble through the back door and up the stairs, a tangle of desperate hands and hungry mouths.

The bedroom door crashes open against the wall as Vargan kicks it, carrying me to the bed. He sets me down with surprising gentleness, then stands back, eyes burning as he looks at me sprawled across the sheets.

"Last chance to change your mind," he says, voice strained with restraint.

In answer, I pull my shirt over my head, tossing it aside. "I'm not changing my mind."

Something carnal crosses his face—possessive, hungry, almost reverential. He sheds his leather cut, placing it on a chair, and then pulls his t-shirt off in one fluid motion.

---