Chapter 003 Clay and Steel
The walk to the Pottery Barn gave me time to catalogue the changes in Cassidy’s posture.
On the street, exposed to the open air and the wandering eyes of tourists, her shoulders remained tight, drawn up toward her ears as if anticipating a blow. Her gaze never rested on one thing for long, flickering from the rooftops to the alleyways, scanning for threats I knew weren’t there. It was a behavior I’d seen in soldiers returning from the front lines, or in animals that had survived a predator’s jaws.
My mating mark burned against my wrist, a steady, grounding heat that urged me to wrap my arm around her, to place my bulk between her and the world. Mine to protect. The instinct was a low growl in the back of my mind, constant and demanding. But I kept my hands to myself, swinging loosely at my sides, maintaining a respectful distance. She didn’t need a smothering blanket; she needed to learn that the ground here was solid.
"The Pottery Barn," I said, gesturing to the low, sprawling building ahead. It sat slightly back from the main thoroughfare, framed by native scrub oak and sagebrush. "My brother Vorn runs it. It’s... quieter than the Saloon."
Cassidy looked up, shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun. "Another brother? How many of you are there?"
"Enough to field a baseball team, almost." I offered a small smile. "We’re a pack. Where one goes, the rest tend to follow."
She didn't smile back, but the tension around her mouth softened. "That sounds... nice. Crowded, but nice."
I opened the door for her. The scent hit us immediately—rich, damp earth, drying clay, and the sharp tang of glazes. It was a smell that always made my shoulders drop an inch. While the Saloon was noise and energy, the Pottery Barn was patience and silence.
Inside, the space was open and airy, sunlight streaming through skylights to illuminate rows of pottery wheels and drying racks. Shelves lined the walls, filled with mugs, bowls, and vases in shades of desert sage, sunset orange, and deep river blue.
In the center of the room, my brother Vorn was bent over a wheel, his large hands cupping a spinning mound of gray clay. A young human woman—a tourist taking a class, by the look of her clean apron—sat at the wheel next to him, struggling to keep her own clay centered.
"Ge-gently," Vorn murmured, his deep voice rumbling through the quiet room. He didn’t look up as we entered; his focus was absolute. "Let-let the clay tell you what it w-wants to be. Don't f-f-force it."
Cassidy stopped just inside the door, watching. I saw her eyes track the movement of Vorn’s hands—massive, green, and scarred, yet moving with a delicacy that defied physics. He guided the spinning wall of clay upward, transforming a lump of mud into a graceful neck of a vase in seconds.
"He's amazing," she whispered.
"He is," I agreed softly. "Vorn speaks better with his hands than his mouth sometimes."
A movement from the back of the studio caught my eye. Allie emerged from the glazing room, wiping her hands on a rag that was more paint than fabric. She was tiny, even for a human, with messy brown hair pulled back in a clip that was losing the battle against gravity. Smudges of cobalt blue stained her cheek and forehead.
She spotted us and her face lit up. "Thokk! I didn’t know you were bringing company."
"Allie, I’d like you to meet Cassidy Smith," I said as she approached. "Cassidy, this is Allie, Vorn’s mate and the co-owner of this place."
Allie didn't offer a hand—hers were covered in glaze dust—but her smile was warm enough to bridge the gap. She looked Cassidy up and down, not with judgment, but with a sudden, sharp clarity. Allie had a way of seeing people. Really seeing them.
"Hi, Cassidy," Allie said, her voice dropping an octave, losing its bubbly projection. "Welcome to Dusty Gulch."
Cassidy shifted, her hand tightening on the strap of her bag. "Hi. It’s... you have a beautiful studio."
"Thank you." Allie’s gaze lingered on Cassidy’s eyes. Recognition flashed across her face—a silent acknowledgment from one survivor to another. I didn’t know the details of Allie’s life before she found Vorn, only that she had come here broken and Vorn had helped put the pieces back together with gold, like Kintsugi. "It’s a good place to breathe. If you ever need a quiet corner to just... exist, you’re welcome here. No questions asked."
Cassidy blinked, taken aback by the directness of the offer. "I... thank you. I might take you up on that."
Vorn slowed his wheel and wiped his hands, standing up to join us. He towered over the student beside him, a mountain of muscle and clay dust.
"N-nice to meet you," Vorn said, nodding to Cassidy. He moved to stand next to Allie, his hand automatically finding the small of her back. The size difference was comical—he could likely bench press a truck, and she looked like a strong wind might carry her off—but the way they leaned into each other spoke of perfect balance.
"Cassidy is our new deputy," I explained.
"We need one," Vorn said. "To k-keep Thokk from organizing the jaywalkers by h-height."
I sighed. "That was one time, and it was for a parade formation."
Cassidy let out a small, genuine laugh. It was a rusty sound, like something she hadn’t used in a long time, but it made my chest ache with a sudden, fierce pride.
Then, a shadow detached itself from the corner of the room.
Cassidy froze. I saw her hand twitch toward her hip, a reflex for a weapon she wasn’t carrying.
Tressa, Vorn and Allie’s pure white wolf, padded silently across the concrete floor. She was massive, her head coming up to Cassidy’s waist, with eyes the color of amber and a gait that was all predatory grace.
"It’s okay," I said quickly, stepping closer to Cassidy but stopping myself from grabbing her. "She’s friendly. She’s part of the family."
Cassidy didn’t move. She held her breath, her eyes locked on the animal. Tressa didn't growl or posture. She simply walked up to Cassidy, sniffed her jeans, and then, with a heavy sigh, leaned her entire weight against Cassidy’s thigh.
The wolf looked up, her amber eyes soft, and nudged Cassidy’s hand with a wet nose.
"She likes you," Allie said softly. "Tressa is... particular. She doesn't usually take to strangers this fast."
Cassidy stared down at the white wolf. Slowly, hesitantly, she uncurled her fingers and buried them in the thick fur behind Tressa’s ears. The wolf closed her eyes and leaned harder.
"She's heavy," Cassidy murmured, a tremor in her voice. But it wasn't fear anymore. It was disbelief.
"She knows," Vorn said quietly. "She knows you’re g-good people."
I watched Cassidy scratch the wolf’s ears, her posture finally, truly relaxing. The tension that had held her rigid since I met her began to bleed away, draining into the floor. For the first time, she looked less like a flight risk and more like someone who might actually stay.
"That's Dusty Gulch," Vorn added, his hand tightening on Allie’s shoulder. "We t-t-take care of our own."
Our own.
The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Cassidy Smith had come to Dusty Gulch running from something. I could see it in the shadows under her eyes and the way she checked the exits. But if I had anything to say about it, she’d never have to run again.
"Come on," I said, my voice rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat. "I should show you the office before the day gets away from us."
Cassidy gave Tressa one last scratch, and the wolf licked her hand before trotting back to her bed in the corner. When Cassidy looked at me, her eyes were brighter. Clearer.
"Lead the way, Sheriff."
The walk to the Sheriff’s station was different. Cassidy still scanned the street, but the frantic edge was gone. She walked a little closer to me, not touching, but near enough that I could smell her scent—vanilla and rain—over the dust of the town.
The station was a sturdy brick building near the center of town, built to last and, more importantly, built to be defensible. I unlocked the front door and ushered her into the cool, climate-controlled interior.
"Welcome to headquarters," I said, flipping on the lights.
The front room was dominated by two large desks. Mine was on the left, an organized sanctuary of labeled file folders, perfectly aligned pens, and a calendar that was color-coded to within an inch of its life. The other desk—formerly belonging to a deputy who had retired to Florida—was empty, waiting.
"This is... tidy," Cassidy noted, walking over to my desk. She hovered a finger over my stapler, which was aligned parallel to the edge of the blotter.
"I like order," I admitted, closing the door behind us. "Chaos is part of the job, but I don't have to invite it onto my desk."
"I can respect that." She moved to the empty desk, running a hand along the wood. "So this would be mine?"
"If you want it. We can get you whatever supplies you need. Ergonomic chair, left-handed scissors, specific pens. Just put in a requisition."
She looked at me, an eyebrow raised. "Specific pens?"
"Writing instruments are important. A bad pen can ruin your whole day."
She laughed again, and this time it came easier. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Let me give you the grand tour. It won't take long." I gestured to the hallway behind the desks. "Break room is through there—coffee machine is ancient but functional. And here..." I opened a narrow door on the right. "...is the facilities."
Cassidy peeked inside the small bathroom. "Standard issue."
"For a human, maybe." I stepped into the doorway to demonstrate. I had to duck my head to clear the frame, and once inside, my shoulders practically brushed both walls. "For an orc, it’s a geometry puzzle. I have to enter sideways and exit in reverse."
Cassidy snorted. "I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. That looks... uncomfortable."
"It’s a daily struggle. I’ve petitioned the mayor for an expansion, but apparently 'orc-sized lavatory' isn’t a budget priority." I backed out of the room, straightening my uniform.
"And this," I said, leading her to the heavy steel door at the back of the hallway, "is where things get complicated."
I punched the code into the keypad and swung the heavy door open. Beyond lay the holding area—two cells with authentic steel bars, a concrete floor, and a small, high window that let in a square of afternoon light.
"Authentic," Cassidy said, stepping into the corridor. She ran her hand along the black iron bars of the nearest cell. "You don't see real steel like this much anymore. Most places have gone to plexiglass and reinforced doors."
"Dusty Gulch prides itself on the aesthetic. But the locks are modern. Electronic deadbolts with a manual key override."
She turned to face me, leaning her shoulder against the bars. In the dim light of the holding area, her eyes seemed to darken. The air between us suddenly felt thinner, charged with a static electricity that made the hair on my arms stand up.
"So," she said, her voice dropping to a playful, husky register I hadn't heard before. "This is where you put the bad guys."
"Only the ones who disturb the peace," I said, my voice sounding deeper in the confined space. "Or steal pies from the bakery window."
"I have a confession, Sheriff." She took a half-step toward me. "I once jaywalked in downtown Chicago. Didn't even wait for the light."
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. My mating mark seared, sending a pulse of heat straight to my groin. She was teasing me. Flirting with me. And I was absolutely, completely unprepared for how much I liked it.
"A serious offense," I managed to say, struggling to keep my professional mask in place. "I might have to write you up."
"Are you offering to arrest me, Sheriff?" Her lips curved into a challenge.
I swallowed hard. The image that flashed through my mind—Cassidy pressed against the bars, my hands on her, reading her rights while my mouth explored the curve of her neck—was vivid enough to make my knees weak.
"This might be the only way to keep you in Dusty Gulch," I murmured, the words slipping out before I could check them.
Her smile faltered slightly, softening into something more vulnerable. "You might not need handcuffs for that."
The air was thick, heavy with unspoken promises. I took a step toward her. I didn't know what I was going to do—kiss her? Touch her cheek? Confess my undying devotion after knowing her for four hours?
"Sheriff Thokk!"
The high-pitched shout shattered the moment like glass.
We both jumped. Cassidy spun away from the bars, her cheeks flushed. I turned to see a small boy, maybe five years old, standing in the doorway of the holding area. He was wearing a plastic cowboy hat that was two sizes too big and holding a toy revolver.
Behind him, an older woman—his grandmother, Cara Winslow—huffed into view, fanning herself with a pamphlet.
"Billy! I told you not to run ahead!" Cara scolded, though she smiled when she saw me. "Hello, Sheriff. He insisted on seeing the 'bad guy jail'."
I let out a long breath, willing my heart rate to return to double digits. "Hello, Mrs. Winslow. Hey there, Billy."
Billy holstered his plastic gun with a flourish. "Are you catching bandits?"
Cassidy recovered faster than I did. She stepped forward, crouching down to Billy's eye level. "We sure are. In fact, we were just inspecting the cells to make sure they're strong enough for the worst outlaws."
Billy’s eyes went wide. "Who's the worst outlaw?"
"Well," I said, crouching beside Cassidy. The proximity of her shoulder to mine was a distraction I definitely didn't need, but I forced myself to focus on the kid. "That depends. Have you eaten all your vegetables today?"
Billy looked guilty. He scuffed his sneaker against the concrete. "I didn't eat my broccoli at lunch."
"Aha!" I stood up, feigning shock. "Broccoli evasion. That’s a serious offense in this county."
Cassidy looked up at me, her eyes dancing with amusement. "I think that definitely qualifies for our special tourist arrest experience. What do you say, Sheriff? Should we show him how it works?"
"I think we should." I pulled the cell door open wider. "Step inside, Deputy. We need to demonstrate proper incarceration techniques for the citizen."
Cassidy walked into the cell, playing along perfectly. I followed her in, turning to face Billy through the open door.
"Now," I explained to Billy, using my best lecture voice. "When we catch a broccoli-evader, we put them in here to think about their nutritional choices."
Billy giggled. "You're in jail!"
"That we are," Cassidy said, grabbing the bars. "Oh no! We're trapped!"
"Billy, come on now," Mrs. Winslow called from the hallway. "The reenactment starts in ten minutes. We need to go."
"Wait!" Billy shouted. "I gotta lock 'em up!"
Before I could register what was happening, Billy lunged forward. He grabbed the heavy steel door with both hands and threw his small body weight against it.
The door swung shut with a smooth, well-oiled glide.
Clang.
The sound of steel meeting steel echoed in the small space. Then came the distinctive, mechanical click of the deadbolt engaging.
I stared at the lock. Then I looked at Billy, who was beaming with pride.
"I got 'em, Grandma! I caught the bandits!"
"That's nice, dear," Mrs. Winslow called, her voice fading as she walked back toward the front of the station. "Come on! Hurry up!"
"Billy," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Billy, the door is locked. I need you to—"
Billy saw the key ring hanging from the hook on the wall—the manual override key I kept there for emergencies. He grabbed it.
"I'm the Sheriff now!" he cheered.
"Billy, put the key back," I said, a little more urgency creeping into my tone.
"Billy!" Mrs. Winslow shouted from the front door. "I'm leaving!"
"Coming!" Billy turned and sprinted out of the holding area, the heavy brass key clutched in his fist.
"Billy!" I roared.
The heavy outer door of the station banged shut.
Silence descended on the holding area.
I stood there for a moment, processing the sequence of events. I was locked in a cell. In my own station. By a five-year-old.
Slowly, I turned to look at Cassidy. She was standing in the middle of the cell, her hands pressed over her mouth. Her shoulders were shaking.
For a second, I thought she was crying. Panic flared in my chest—had the confinement triggered a trauma response? Was she terrified?
Then she lowered her hands, and a snort escaped her nose. She wasn't crying. She was laughing.
"I can't believe it," she wheezed, leaning against the bunk for support. "The big bad Sheriff. Taken down by a broccoli bandit."
I slumped against the bars, scrubbing a hand over my face. "This is going to be a paperwork nightmare."
"Imagine the headlines," she teased, though her laughter sounded a little breathless. "Sheriff and Deputy locked inside their own cell."
"It's not funny," I grumbled, though the sound of her laughter was doing strange things to my insides. "Do you have your phone?"
She patted her pockets, then froze. Her expression shifted from amusement to realization. "It's... in my purse."
"Which is?"
"On your desk," she said quietly.
I closed my eyes. "Mine is also on my desk. I never bring it into the holding area. Signal interference."
The reality of the situation settled over us like a heavy blanket. The station was empty. The town outside was gearing up for the daily reenactment show—loud gunshots, cheering crowds, and music that would drown out any shouting we did.
We were trapped. In a six-by-eight cell. Together.
I opened my eyes and looked at her. The humor was fading from her face, replaced by a creeping awareness of just how small the space was.
"Thokk?" she said, her voice small.
"Yeah?"
"How long until someone comes back?"
I looked at the narrow bunk, the single toilet in the corner, and the few feet of concrete floor separating us. My mating mark throbbed against my wrist, a rhythmic reminder of the woman standing arm's length away. The woman I wanted with a desperation that was quickly becoming a physical ache.
"I don't know," I admitted, meeting her gaze. "Could be an hour. Could be morning."
Cassidy swallowed hard. She looked at the bars, then back at me. "Okay. Okay. We just... wait."
"We wait," I agreed.
But as I looked at her—her scent filling the small cell, her body heat radiating in the cool air—I knew that waiting was going to be the hardest thing I’d ever done.
I was locked in a cage with my mate. And I had nowhere to run from the feelings threatening to consume me.