1. Esmerelda #2
Barrett peels away with a nod to me, headed toward the command center where Kieran is issuing orders in that calm, commanding voice that makes everyone stand a little straighter.
I watch him go, this massive, scarred orc who used to terrify me with his silver eyes and his absolute control, and I think about how wrong I was.
Not about the danger, because he is dangerous.
But about the man underneath, the one who looks at Kira like she hung the stars and rearranged them just for him.
The back room is smaller, more intimate, clearly designated as the women's space for the duration of the lockdown.
Margot has joined us now, settling onto one of the cots that have been set up along the wall.
Eliza is stress-baking, already pulling ingredients from a cabinet with the manic energy of someone who needs to keep her hands busy.
Camille has commandeered a corner, a knife in her hand that Elias must have given her, sharpening it with methodical precision.
And June is there, sitting quietly on a cot near the door, her dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and her expression carefully blank.
She looks up when I enter, and something in her shoulders relaxes just slightly.
We might not be the oldest friends in this room, but right now we're the ones who don't have men to anchor us, and that creates its own kind of bond.
"Hey," I say, dropping onto the cot beside her. "You okay?"
"Shouldn't be here," she murmurs, so quiet that I have to lean in to hear her over Eliza's clattering in the kitchen. "I'm not one of them."
"Neither am I." I find her hand and squeeze it. "But here we are."
She looks at me, really looks, and for a moment I see something shift behind her careful mask.
There's more to June Novak than she lets anyone see.
I've known that for a while, catching glimpses in the way she moves, the way she watches everyone and everything with those assessing eyes.
But whatever secrets she's keeping aren't my business, not unless she decides to share them.
"Coffee?" a voice asks, and I look up to find a young orc standing over us with two steaming mugs.
He's younger than the others, maybe early twenties, with a friendly face and an easy smile that seems wildly out of place given the circumstances.
His tusks are still relatively short, his amber eyes bright with the kind of optimism that hasn't been beaten out of him yet.
"I'm Marcus," he adds, handing over the mugs. "Welcome to the chaos."
"Should you be socializing?" June asks, accepting her coffee with a raised eyebrow.
"I'm on interior rotation later." His grin widens. "Figured I'd make sure our guests weren't panicking. You looked like you could use the caffeine."
"We're not panicking," I say, though the lie is obvious even to me.
"Sure you're not." Marcus's smile softens into something kinder.
"Look, I know this is a lot. But you're safe here, okay?
The brothers won't let anything happen to you.
It's kind of our whole thing." He gestures vaguely toward the main room.
"Stellan makes the coffee too strong, so I added extra cream. Let me know if you need anything else."
"Which one's Stellan?" The question comes out before I can stop it, and I feel June's gaze sharpen beside me.
Marcus points toward the main room, and I follow the line of his finger before I can think better of it. "The mountain by the door. Don't let him scare you, though. He's a teddy bear."
The mountain by the door.
I've seen Stellan Vargas before, of course.
You can't not see him. Seven foot one of terrifying muscle, scarred and tattooed and massive even by orc standards, with tusks that curve past his cheekbones and eyes so dark they're almost black.
He's the biggest orc in the club, the one that other brothers give space to without seeming to notice they're doing it.
I've watched him move through parties like a storm system, all contained power and careful distance, never staying long enough for conversation.
I've also felt him watching me. Not just tonight, but for months now, every time I'm at the clubhouse.
That dark gaze following me across rooms, cataloging my movements, tracking me with an intensity that should be terrifying.
I've caught him looking more times than I can count, and every time our eyes meet, he's the one who looks away first. Like he's afraid of what I might see if I look too long.
He's watching me now.
I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing, a pressure against my skin, and when I turn my head he's exactly where Marcus said he would be.
Standing by the door with his arms crossed over his massive chest, his expression blank and unreadable.
Anyone else might think he's just doing his job, monitoring the room with professional detachment.
But I see the way his eyes track my movement, the slight tension in his jaw, the way his hands flex against his biceps like he's fighting the urge to move.
Our gazes lock across the crowded room, and something electric passes between us.
He's not threatening. That's what strikes me every time.
For all his size and his scars and his terrifying reputation, when Stellan Vargas looks at me, I don't feel afraid.
I feel seen. I feel like he's looking past everything I show the world and finding something underneath, something I didn't know was there.
He looks away first. He always does.
"Interesting," June murmurs beside me, and when I turn to her she's watching me with that careful, assessing gaze of hers.
"What?"
"Nothing." But there's the ghost of a smile on her lips, something I rarely see. "Just noticing things."
Before I can press her, Kieran passes through the room, issuing quiet orders to the men who approach him like supplicants before a king.
He moves with the easy authority of someone who's been carrying this weight for years, his expression carved from granite, his presence commanding attention without demanding it.
I've always found him a little intimidating, this man who built the Ironfang into what it is, who holds the loyalty of killers with nothing more than his word and his will.
But what I notice now is June.
She goes completely still beside me, her coffee mug frozen halfway to her lips.
Her eyes track Kieran's progress through the room with an intensity I've never seen from her, something hungry and guarded and almost desperate lurking behind her careful mask.
She's not just watching him. She's memorizing him, like she's afraid he might disappear if she blinks.
Kieran pauses near the door to speak with Stellan, his voice too low for me to hear, and as he turns to leave his gaze sweeps the room in one of those automatic checks that leaders learn to do.
It passes over us, over June, and for just a fraction of a second his step falters.
The hesitation is so brief that I might have imagined it, a single heartbeat where the President of the Ironfang Brotherhood looks at my quiet coworker like he's seen a ghost.
Then he's gone, swallowed by the chaos of war preparation, and June exhales a breath she's been holding.
"June," I say slowly, watching her face, "how long have you been coming to the garage?"
"Seven years," she says, and her voice is perfectly steady, perfectly controlled, perfectly blank. "Give or take."
Seven years. She's been orbiting this world for seven years, watching from the edges, never quite coming inside. And in all that time, Kieran Cole has apparently learned to notice when she's in a room.
There's a story here, something buried and complicated and completely unexpected. I can feel it humming in the air between us, in the way June's hands have tightened around her coffee mug, in the careful way she's not looking toward the door.
Interesting, indeed.
Whatever's coming, whatever this lockdown brings, I have a feeling the war outside isn't the only battle we're going to be fighting.