Ravaged by the Orc Outlaw

1. Esmerelda

ESMERELDA

The phone wakes me at six in the morning, and I know before I answer that everything has changed.

Kira doesn't call this early unless something's wrong. She texts, she emails, she shows up at my door with coffee and that particular crease between her brows that means she needs to process something out loud. But she doesn't call at six AM on a Saturday, not unless the world is on fire.

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over the glass of water I always forget to drink.

The screen is too bright in the gray pre-dawn of my bedroom, Kira's name glowing like a warning.

My thumb finds the answer button while my brain is still catching up, still trying to convince itself that this is probably nothing, that I'm overreacting, that my best friend isn't about to deliver the kind of news that splits life into before and after.

"Bloodtusk moved last night." Her voice is clipped, efficient, stripped of everything soft. This is Barrett's Kira, the one who coordinates war councils and doesn't flinch from violence. Not mine. "Three locations hit. The club's going to lockdown."

I sit up too fast, heart hammering against my ribs. "Is everyone okay? Barrett, is he?—"

"He's fine. Everyone's fine, for now." A pause, and I hear something shift in the background, male voices, the particular quality of tension that fills a room when men are preparing for battle. "But it's bad, Esme. Worse than before. Kieran's calling everyone in."

"Everyone meaning..."

"Everyone connected to the club. All the women. You need to pack a bag."

The words don't make sense at first. I've orbited Kira's world with the Ironfang for months now, ever since she and Barrett collided at Camille's welcome dinner and neither of them ever recovered.

I've been to the clubhouse for barbecues and celebrations, watched these massive, scarred orcs laugh at each other's jokes and defer to their women with surprising gentleness.

But I've always been a visitor, someone who gets to leave when the party ends, who drives back to her quiet apartment and her demanding job and her life that doesn't include leather cuts and territorial warfare.

"Esme." Kira's voice sharpens. "Are you listening?"

"Yes. Yeah, I'm listening." I'm already moving, throwing back the covers, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. "How long?"

"Could be days. Could be weeks. Bring what you need." Another pause, and when she speaks again, there's a thread of the real Kira underneath the commander. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't what you signed up for."

I think about telling her it's fine, that I can handle it, that twelve years of friendship means I go where she goes, even into the belly of a motorcycle club preparing for war. Instead I say, "What about June?"

The silence stretches a beat too long. June Novak is my coworker at Redstone County Social Services, quiet and steady, the kind of woman who fades into the background until you realize she's been paying attention to everything.

She's been coming to club events with me for the past few months, though I've never been quite sure why.

She doesn't seem like the type to be drawn to this world, but something keeps pulling her back.

"She's on the list," Kira finally says. "She's been servicing their bikes for years. Bloodtusk knows about the garage. She's not safe at her place."

"I'll call her."

"Already done. She's on her way." Another burst of noise in the background, and Kira's attention shifts. "I have to go. Get here as fast as you can."

The line goes dead before I can respond, and I stand there in my dark bedroom with my phone still pressed to my ear, trying to remember how to breathe.

Through the window, the sky is just starting to lighten at the edges, pale pink bleeding into gray.

It looks peaceful, ordinary. It looks like any other Saturday morning in late spring, the kind of morning where I'd make coffee and read a book and maybe call my mother just to hear her voice.

Instead, I grab my duffel bag from the closet and start packing for war.

The Ironfang compound looks different in daylight, without the strings of party lights and the smell of grilling meat to soften its edges.

As I pull through the gates, security waving me past after checking my ID, I take in the transformation with a growing knot in my stomach.

Armed men patrol the perimeter in pairs, their expressions blank and watchful.

The fence has been reinforced with additional barbed wire, glinting wickedly in the morning sun.

There are vehicles I don't recognize parked in tactical positions, and the easy camaraderie I remember from my previous visits has been replaced by something harder, something that hums with barely contained violence.

I park where a prospect directs me and sit for a moment with my hands on the steering wheel, trying to steady myself.

The air smells like motor oil and gun metal and the particular desert-sage scent of the Nevada high country.

Through my windshield, I can see brothers moving with purpose, checking weapons, conferring in small groups.

These are the same men who teased each other at Roman and Margot's engagement party, who danced badly to classic rock and doted on each other's women.

Now they look like what they are: soldiers preparing for battle.

I don't belong here. The thought surfaces unbidden, uncomfortable.

I'm a social worker from a loving home, a woman who chose a career in helping people because she believes in the fundamental goodness of the world.

I've never held a gun. I've never witnessed real violence, not the kind that leaves bodies on the ground.

My friends joke that I see the best in everyone, and usually I take it as a compliment, but right now it feels like a liability.

Like I'm soft in a world that has no room for softness.

My phone buzzes with a text from Kira: Main building, common room. I'll find you.

I grab my bag and force myself out of the car.

The clubhouse is transformed inside, too.

The pool tables have been pushed to the walls to make room for what looks like a command center, maps and radios spread across folding tables.

The bar is still stocked, but no one's drinking.

The leather couches where I've sat laughing with the other women are now occupied by grim-faced orcs cleaning weapons with practiced efficiency.

The giant Ironfang emblem painted on the back wall seems to glare down at the organized chaos, a snarling orc skull that suddenly looks less like decoration and more like a promise.

I spot Margot first, sitting in the corner with Roman.

He's in full tactical gear, knives strapped to his thighs, a gun holstered at his hip.

But his hand is gentle where it cups her face, and he's murmuring something that makes her smile despite the tension radiating off him in waves.

She's been through this before, I remember.

She knows what it means to wait while the man she loves walks into danger.

When Roman finally pulls away, pressing a hard kiss to her forehead, Margot watches him go with steady eyes.

No tears. Just love, and faith, and the kind of strength that comes from surviving the worst and deciding to keep living anyway.

Eliza is nearby, clutching Harlan's hand like she might never let go.

He's speaking to her in that low, intense voice of his, the one that makes everything sound like a secret meant only for her.

She nods at whatever he's saying, her lower lip caught between her teeth, and when he finally extracts his hand from hers it takes visible effort.

The look he gives her before walking away could burn through steel.

And there's Camille, pacing near the windows with her arms crossed and her jaw set, the picture of barely contained fury.

Elias trails her like a golden shadow, that ridiculous grin still in place despite everything.

When he catches her arm and pulls her around to face him, she goes rigid for a half-second before melting into him, her face pressed against his chest. His expression shifts to something fierce and tender as he wraps his arms around her.

"He'll be fine," he tells her, loud enough for me to hear. "We'll all be fine. And then I'm going to annoy you for the rest of your life."

"You already annoy me," Camille mutters into his shirt, but her arms tighten around him.

I stand there in the doorway of the common room, my duffel bag hanging from my shoulder, feeling like an intruder at someone else's tragedy.

These women have men to worry about, men who are about to walk into violence with their names on their lips.

I'm just the best friend, the coworker, the extra body that needs protection without offering anything in return.

"Esme."

Kira appears at my side like she materialized from the tension itself, Barrett looming behind her like a silver-eyed shadow.

She looks exhausted already, dark circles under her eyes, but her spine is straight and her voice is steady.

This is the woman who took on the Vice President of a motorcycle club and made him fall in love with her.

This is my best friend, and she's been transformed by this world just like everyone else.

"You made it." She pulls me into a brief, fierce hug, then steps back to assess me with those sharp eyes. "Bag?"

"Just the one."

"Good. We're in the back room with the others." She's already moving, and I follow because that's what I've always done with Kira, ever since we were freshmen in college and she decided I was worth knowing. "June's already here. She got in about twenty minutes ago."

"Is she okay?"

Something flickers across Kira's face, gone too fast for me to read. "She's handling it better than I expected."