Chapter 2
Kael
The interrogation room reeked of stale coffee and desperation—mostly the latter.
I could tell from the scent markers that at least three other people had occupied this exact chair today, their fear soaked into the metal and wood like a permanent stain.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that sickly pale glow that humans seemed to think looked professional. To me, it just screamed tomb.
A really boring, poorly designed tomb.
The two-way mirror on my left was almost laughable.
Humans thought they were so clever with their one-way glass, not realizing that Orc eyes saw straight through it like it was nothing but air.
I could make out Dawson's silhouette clearly—pacing back and forth like a caged animal, his hand resting on his sidearm.
Two deputies flanked him, both looking nervous.
I gave them a little nod through the mirror. Just to see if they'd notice.
They didn't. Idiots.
The cuffs were the real joke, though. Cold iron, standard police issue, designed for humans but sized up for Orcs.
I could feel the metal's weakness in my bones, could sense exactly where the stress fractures would form if I flexed my wrists.
Breaking free would take less effort than cracking my knuckles.
I'd done harder things while half-asleep.
Hell, I'd done harder things while actually asleep.
But I didn't break them. Not yet. Sarah had told me to stay quiet, and despite my reputation for being a bit reckless, I could follow orders when it mattered.
Besides, watching Dawson strut around like he'd caught a dangerous criminal was too entertaining to cut short.
That kind of incompetence deserved to be savored.
The door swung open and Dawson strutted like a champion rooster. His weathered face flushed with satisfaction, his badge catching the light as he pulled out a chair and sat across from me. He was trying to look intimidating.
It really, really wasn't working.
"Well, well," he drawled, leaning back in his chair with smug confidence. "Looks like we finally got one of you animals to slip up."
Animals. How original. I'd heard that one at least a hundred times since we'd emerged from underground. You'd think humans would get more creative with their insults after five years, but no. Same old prejudices, same old slurs, same old small-minded bullshit.
I didn't respond. Sarah's voice echoed in my head: Don't say a word to anyone until I get there.
Dawson's eyes narrowed. "Cat got your tongue, boy? Or are you just too stupid to understand what kind of trouble you're in?"
Boy. That was new. Well, new-ish. With Orc lifespans, I was probably twice his age, but sure, let's go with "boy." I kept my expression neutral, my breathing steady. Let him talk. Let him think he was winning. This was becoming entertaining.
"We've got witnesses," he continued, pulling out a worn notebook that I was ninety percent sure was empty. "We've got forensic evidence. We've got motive—your brother wanted Tori for himself, so you took care of her ex for him."
Oh, this was rich. The lie was so transparent it was almost insulting, but what made it truly hilarious was how close he'd stumbled to the truth without even realizing it. Your brother wanted Tori for himself, so you took care of her ex for him.
If only he knew. If he had any idea how right he was, just with all the details scrambled like eggs.
Argon had wanted Tori, but it was her ex--the dead guy--that was the violent murderer.
The irony of it tickled something dark in my chest, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Dawson had the outline. He just couldn't see the picture. Couldn't see that protection and violence sometimes wore the same face. That sometimes taking care of someone meant doing exactly what he was accusing me of—just not for the reasons his small, prejudiced mind could comprehend.
I wondered what he'd do if I told him. If I laid it all out, every ugly, necessary detail. Would he even believe me? Or would he just hear what he wanted to hear—another savage Orc confirming every stereotype he'd ever held?
The thought was almost tempting. Almost.
"My lawyer told me not to speak to you," I finally said, my voice calm and measured.
Dawson's face darkened. "Your lawyer? You mean that Orc loving, bleeding-heart bitch who's been making my life hell? Sarah Potter?"
And just like that, my amusement died.
Something hot and sharp flared in my chest at the way he said her name. The casual disrespect, the venom in his voice. My hands clenched into fists, and I felt the cuffs bite into my wrists. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to remind me they were there.
Enough to remind me how easy they'd be to break.
"She's a better lawyer than you are a sheriff," I said, my voice dropping lower.
Dawson leaned forward, his face reddening. "You think you're smart, don't you? You think—"
"I think you should go talk to your deputies," I interrupted, tilting my head toward the mirror.
"They're getting bored. The young one just lost his third game of rock, paper, scissors.
Bright kid." Dawson's head jerked toward the window like he saw anything but his reflection.
"You might want to invest in better equipment if you want to actually interrogate Orcs.
Our senses are sharper than yours." I paused, letting that sink in.
"Significantly sharper, but I'm trying to be polite. "
The color drained from Dawson's face, replaced by mottled purple rage. He stood so fast his chair scraped backward with a screech that made my teeth ache.
"You think you're clever?" he spat, his hand moving to his belt.
"You think you can come into my town, kill a human, and just walk away?
I'm going to make damn sure you pay for this, you green bastard.
I'm going to make sure every Orc in this county knows what happens when you cross the line.
You're going to rot in prison or worse."
Or worse. Now that was interesting. Was he threatening to kill me? In an interrogation room? With witnesses on the other side of the mirror?
He was breathing hard now, his entire body vibrating with barely contained violence. For a moment, I thought he might actually try something. The deputies outside would have to intervene, and things would get messy. Fun, but messy.
But I held still. Waited. Let him rage. Sarah had told me to behave, and I was going to behave. For now.
Finally, Dawson stormed out, slamming the door hard enough that the mirror rattled. I heard ,him shouting at the deputies, his voice muffled but furious. I settled back in my chair, testing the cuffs again. Still easy to break. Still not worth the trouble.
Not yet.
The next hour crawled by. Dawson came back twice more, each time with new lies, new threats, new theories about what happened in that forest. I didn't say another word. Just sat there, calm and patient, waiting for Sarah and mentally composing increasingly creative insults I'd never get to use.
When she finally arrived, I heard her before I saw her. Her voice cut through the station like a blade—sharp, authoritative, demanding answers and making it clear she wasn't accepting any bullshit. The deputies scattered like leaves in a windstorm.
That's my girl, I thought, then immediately corrected myself. Not my girl. My lawyer. There was a difference.
A very important difference.
Then she was in the room, and everything else faded away.
She'd changed out of her bridesmaid dress—the deep green one that had made her skin glow—and into something far more practical.
Dark slacks, a cream-colored blouse, a tailored jacket that somehow made her look even more formidable.
Her long dark brown hair was pulled back in a neat braid, and her chocolate brown eyes were sharp as flint as she took in the scene.
She looked like she was about to rip someone's throat out with her bare hands and a briefcase.
It was... impressive. Professionally speaking.
"I want the medical examiner's report," she said, not bothering with pleasantries. "And I want it now."
"It's not back yet," one of the deputies stammered.
"Then what evidence do you actually have?" Sarah's voice was ice. She pulled out a chair and sat across from me, and that's when her scent hit me.
Vanilla and steel.
My pulse kicked up before I could stop it—a purely physical reaction I immediately resented.
This was the problem with Sarah Potter. She smelled good—not soft and sweet like the human women I usually preferred, the ones who giggled at my jokes and melted when I smiled at them.
No, Sarah smelled like a challenge wrapped in sugar, like something that would fight back if you tried to take a bite.
My body didn't seem to care about the distinction.
I forced myself to focus on her face, on the calculation happening behind her eyes.
She was already three moves ahead, already planning her next strategy.
It was one of the things I respected about her, even if her bossy, take-charge attitude made me want to do something aggravating just to see her reaction.
But underneath the vanilla and steel was something else. Something sharp and acidic that made my gut sit up and take notice.
Fear.
Not the kind of fear that came from being in danger. Sarah Potter didn't scare easily, and certainly not from a couple of small-town deputies. This was different. Subtler.
Her heartbeat was elevated. I heard it from across the table, a rapid flutter that didn't match the cool confidence in her voice. Her pupils were slightly dilated, and a faint tremor ran through her fingers—a tremor she hid by gripping her briefcase handle.
She was nervous.
But she was here anyway, ready to fight.
For me.
The thought did something uncomfortable to my chest.