Chapter 1 #2
The formal use of his clan name struck me—Ironforge.
Orcs didn't use last names in their culture.
Names were personal, sacred even. But Ironforge was the clan name, the collective identity that bound Kael and Argon and Ruka to their bloodline and their people.
In legal situations—arrest, court proceedings, official documentation—Orc clan names became surnames.
A translation into our system, our understanding.
It was just another way the Orc world collided with ours, forcing itself into categories that didn't quite fit.
But I wasn't watching Dawson. I was watching Kael's eyes, and they weren't on me or the sheriff. They were locked on Argon.
The groom stood frozen, Tori's hand clutched in his.
His face—so similar to Kael's but older, more weathered—was a mask of anguish and barely contained rage.
His massive frame tensed, muscles coiling beneath his formal tunic.
For one terrible moment, I thought he might charge forward, might do something that would land both brothers in custody.
"—if you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you—"
Kael's head moved. Just barely. The slightest shake, almost imperceptible. No. Don't.
Argon's jaw worked, his tusks prominent as he ground his teeth together. His free hand clenched into a fist so tight I saw it trembling from where I stood. But he didn't move forward. He stayed rooted to the spot, his brother's silent command holding him in place.
"Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?" Dawson finished.
Kael's eyes finally left his brother's face and found mine. "Yes," he said, his voice steady despite the cuffs biting into his wrists. "I understand."
If someone had told me back in law school that I'd be defending Orcs, I would have laughed in their face. Or maybe I would have recoiled in horror—because five years ago, when they first emerged from whatever underground world had hidden them for centuries, I'd been terrified like everyone else.
I still remembered that first broadcast. The shaky cell phone footage of massive green figures climbing out of a cave system in Alabama, blinking in sunlight they hadn't seen in centuries.
The news anchors struggling to maintain composure as they reported what seemed impossible.
The panic rippled through every small town.
People buying guns. Locking doors. Whispering about monsters.
I'd been one of them. I'd clutched my pepper spray tighter walking to my car. I'd crossed the street when I saw that first Orc family trying to navigate the grocery store, their children wide-eyed and overwhelmed, their parents moving with careful, deliberate slowness.
As if they were the ones who needed protecting.
The shame of that memory still burned. I was supposed to be educated, enlightened, better than base prejudice. But fear didn't care about my law degree. Fear was primal, and it had sunk its claws deep.
Then I'd met Ruka.
He'd appeared in my office doorway on a Tuesday morning, three months after I'd hung my shingle and started drowning in student loan payments. My "practice" consisted of a cramped office above a dry cleaner, a secondhand desk, and a growing sense of panic about how I'd pay next month's rent.
"Sarah Potter?" His voice had been surprisingly soft for someone nearly seven feet tall and built like a brick shit house.
I'd frozen, my hand halfway to the desk drawer where I kept—stupidly, uselessly—a letter opener. As if that would do anything against an Orc.
"I... yes. That's me." I'd forced myself to stand, to extend my hand like a professional. Like someone who wasn't fighting every instinct to run.
His handshake had been careful, controlled. Later, I'd learn that was how most Orcs moved in our world—constantly aware of their strength, constantly holding back.
"I need help with the federal land grants," he'd said, settling into the chair across from my desk with the same careful precision. The thrift store find creaked so loudly, I felt sure it would break. "The ones they're offering to Orc clans for resettlement. The paperwork is... complicated."
It was complicated. The government had thrown together the program in a panic, trying to manage the sudden appearance of thousands of Orcs who had as much right to be here as anyone—more, maybe, given that they'd been here first, just underground.
The grants were generous, probably out of guilt or fear or both.
But the legal framework was a mess of hastily written regulations and contradictory requirements.
I should have said yes immediately. I needed the work. I needed any work. I couldn't afford to turn away clients. Even green ones.
Ruka had met my eyes steadily, waiting. Not pleading, not angry. Just... waiting. Giving me the space to be better than my fear.
"My retainer is five thousand dollars," I'd finally said, naming a figure I'd pulled out of my ass—high enough to sound legitimate, low enough that I hopefully wouldn't lose a client I desperately needed.
"That's fair." He'd said without hesitation.
Orcs were known to be wealthy—something about the precious metals and gems they'd brought up from their underground cities—and my bank account had exactly two hundred and seventeen dollars in it.
So I'd said yes.
I'd expected... I don't know what I'd expected.
Someone intimidating, maybe. Someone who'd make me regret my mercenary decision.
Instead, Ruka had arrived the next day with a leather portfolio, reading glasses perched on his nose, and a nervous habit of tucking his dark hair behind his pointed ears.
He'd been meticulous, asking intelligent questions about mineral rights and treaty law.
He'd caught an error in the federal paperwork that I'd missed.
By the end of that first meeting, I'd forgotten to be afraid.
By the end of the second, I'd started to feel ashamed that money had been what finally pushed me past my prejudice.
By the end of the third, when he'd brought me coffee—"You look exhausted, and that office pot smells like battery acid"—we'd started becoming friends.
I'd handled dozens of cases for the Orcs since then.
Mostly real estate. And then there were the times Sheriff Dawson thought he could railroad them.
A noise complaint that somehow escalated to "disturbing the peace.
" A traffic stop for a broken taillight that turned into a vehicle search.
An "anonymous tip" about stolen property that never materialized but gave him an excuse to show up with deputies and harass everyone in the village.
I'd beaten Dawson every single time, and he hated me for it. The feeling was mutual.
Word had spread through the Orc community. The human lawyer who actually fought for them. Who didn't just take their money and phone in the defense. My practice had gone from barely surviving to thriving, and somewhere along the way, these clients had become friends. People I genuinely cared about.
They weren't monsters. They were just... people. Green people, yes, but people who loved and feared and hoped just like anyone else.
And now here I stood, watching Kael—infuriating, impulsive, impossibly handsome Kael—being led away in handcuffs for a murder he didn't commit, to protect a brother who'd only been defending his mate.
A male who was about to make my job infinitely harder because he couldn't keep his damn mouth shut.
The old Sarah—the one who'd clutched pepper spray and crossed streets—would never have believed this moment possible.
But as Kael's amber eyes met mine over Dawson's shoulder, something fierce and protective surged through me that had nothing to do with billable hours or professional duty.
I was going to save him. Even if I had to save him from himself.
I followed as Dawson's deputies led Kael toward the patrol car, my heels clicking against the stone pathway. The night air had turned cool, carrying the scent of late-blooming honeysuckle and the faint strains of music playing—a tall Orc named Sarbek with a fiddle who was surprisingly good.
Kael walked with his head up, shoulders back, as if the handcuffs were an accessory he'd chosen rather than a restraint. Typical. Even now, he couldn't help but project that infuriating confidence.
I caught up to them just as they reached the cruiser, its light bar dark but somehow still menacing in the soft glow of the wedding lights. My hand found Kael's arm—warm, solid muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt—and I tugged him slightly away from the deputies.
"Don't say a word," I murmured, low enough that only he heard. My fingers pressed into his bicep, probably harder than necessary. "Not to Dawson. Not to the deputies. Not to anyone. Do you understand?"
His amber eyes found mine, and something in their depths made my breath catch. Not the usual cocky amusement I'd come to expect, but something quieter. More serious.
"I understand," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, we just stood there, close enough that I felt the heat radiating from his body and notice the way the lights caught the green undertones in his skin. My hand was still on his arm. I should let go. I was his lawyer, not his—
Not his anything.
"Good." I forced my mouth into something that wasn't quite a smile, dropping my hand to my side where it belonged. "I'm a damn good lawyer, and I'm going to make sure you don't spend the rest of your life in prison for being a self-sacrificing idiot."
The corners of Kael's mouth twitched. That almost-smile that suggested he found something amusing in all of this, in me, in the absurdity of the situation.
"Ma'am, we need to go," one of the deputies said, not unkindly.
They guided Kael into the back of the cruiser, and I watched him fold his considerable frame into the too-small space. His eyes never left mine through the window.