Chapter 6
Kael
The road past Gatlinburg turned from asphalt to gravel to something that barely qualified as a road at all.
Sarah's Jeep bounced over ruts and rocks, the suspension groaning with each impact.
I braced one hand against the roof and the other on the door handle, trying not to crack my skull against the ceiling every time we hit another pothole.
"Sorry," Sarah muttered, wrestling with the steering wheel as we lurched over a particularly vicious bump. "It gets worse before it gets better."
"Worse than this?" I glanced out the window at the sheer drop-off just inches from the passenger side. No guardrail. No shoulder. Just a straight plunge down the mountainside into darkness.
"Much worse."
"Define 'much worse.'"
"You'll know it when we hit it."
"That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't trying to be." She yanked the wheel hard to avoid a boulder. "You wanted to come to the cabin. This is the price of admission."
"I didn't want to come. You kidnapped me."
"I rescued you from a murder plot."
"Semantics."
The Jeep climbed higher, the engine straining as the incline steepened. Pine trees crowded the narrow track, their branches scraping against the sides of the vehicle with sounds like fingernails on metal. The air grew thinner, colder, carrying the sharp scent of evergreen and mountain stone.
We passed a few scattered cabins in the first mile—vacation rentals, probably. Then those disappeared too, and there was nothing but wilderness. No lights. No signs of civilization. Just endless forest and the winding dirt road that seemed determined to shake the Jeep apart.
My Orc vision cut through the darkness easily, picking out details Sarah probably couldn't see: the way the trees grew denser here, older and more gnarled.
The glint of a stream far below, cutting through the ravine.
The eyes of nocturnal creatures watching us pass—deer, raccoons, maybe a black bear lumbering through the underbrush searching for the last bit of food before hibernation.
How much further?" I asked.
"Another mile. Maybe two." Sarah's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her jaw set with concentration. "The road gets really bad right before the turnoff."
"You keep saying that. I'm starting to think you don't know what 'really bad' means."
"Oh, I know exactly what it means."
"Really bad" turned out to be an understatement.
The Jeep bucked like a wild animal as we navigated a stretch where the road had partially washed out, leaving exposed roots and jagged rocks. I heard something scrape against the undercarriage—a sound that made me wince—but Sarah just gritted her teeth and kept going.
"Your Jeep's going to need therapy after this," I said.
"My Jeep's been through worse."
"What could possibly be worse than this?"
"You don't want to know."
Then, finally, the trees opened up into a small clearing.
The cabin sat in the center, barely visible in the pre-dawn darkness.
It was small—maybe eight hundred square feet—with a sagging porch and a metal roof that had seen better days.
The wood siding was weathered gray, and one of the shutters hung at an angle.
A stone chimney rose from one side, and I noticed a small woodpile stacked against the back wall, covered with a tarp.
Sarah killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening. No traffic. No voices. Just the whisper of wind through the pines and the distant call of an owl.
"This is it," she said quietly, staring at the cabin through the windshield. "Uncle Rufus's place."
I turned to look at her. "You own this?"
"He left it to me when he died." Her voice was soft, almost wistful. "Three years ago. Heart attack. He was only sixty-two."
There was grief in her tone, old but still present. I wanted to say something—offer condolences, maybe—but the words felt inadequate.
"He used to bring me up here when I was a kid after my dad died," she continued, still not looking at me. "Taught me how to fish, how to start a fire without matches, how to read the weather by watching the clouds. He was..." She trailed off, then shook her head. "He was a good man."
I studied the cabin with new eyes. This wasn't just a safe house. This was hers. A piece of her history, her family, her grief. And she was risking it—risking the memories, the sanctuary—to hide me.
"Sarah—"
"We should be safe here." She opened her door and climbed out, her movements brisk and businesslike. "No one knows about it except Jordan, Tori, and Kelsey. And they'd rather die than rat me out."
I followed her out of the Jeep, my boots crunching on the gravel. The mountain air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine resin and damp earth. It reminded me of the Orc village.
I grabbed the shopping bags from the back and we headed toward the cabin. I followed, watching as she produced a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. It swung open with a creak that echoed through the clearing.
Inside, the cabin smelled like dust and old wood and something faintly floral—lavender, maybe. Sarah flipped a light switch. A single bulb flickered to life overhead, casting weak yellow light across the interior.
It was sparse but functional. A main room with a kitchenette along one wall, a wood stove in the corner, a sagging couch and a couple of chairs.
A doorway led to what I assumed was a bedroom, and another to a bathroom.
The walls were bare except for a few faded photographs—a younger Sarah with an older man who must have been Rufus, both of them grinning and holding up fish.
Sarah set the bags on the counter. "It's not much. But it's sturdy. Weatherproof. And completely off the grid, only a couple of solar panels for electricity."
I looked around, taking it all in. The worn floorboards. The cobwebs in the corners. The way the whole place felt frozen in time, like a memory preserved in amber.
"No one knows about this place?"
"Only Tori, Jordan, and Kelsey." She ran her hand along the counter, leaving a trail in the thin layer of dust. Her fingers moved slowly, almost reverently.
"They're the only ones who've ever been here with me.
After Uncle Rufus died, I couldn't bring myself to come up here alone.
They'd drive up with me, help me air the place out, make sure everything was still in working order. "
She glanced at me. Something vulnerable flickered across her face before she looked away, her jaw tightening.
"They're like family to you." It wasn't a question.
"They are family." She pulled off her blazer and draped it over a chair, then started unpacking the groceries.
Her movements were precise, controlled. "Blood doesn't mean much if the people who share it don't show up when you need them.
But Jordan, Tori, Kelsey? They've been there for me through everything.
Bad times, career crises, that time I got food poisoning from gas station sushi and spent two days puking my guts out. "
Despite everything, I felt my mouth twitch. "Gas station sushi?"
"I was hungry and broke." She shot me a look that dared me to judge her. "We all make mistakes."
"That's not a mistake. That's a cry for help."
"It was one time—"
"One time too many."
"You know what?" She turned to face me fully, one hand on her hip. "I don't need judgment from someone who probably eats raw meat."
"Cooked, actually." I leaned against the doorframe, watching her bristle and rather enjoying it. "We're not savages."
"Could've fooled me with that blanket situation in the Walmart parking lot."
I grinned. "You're the one who made me scooch."
"And you complained the entire time."
"Because I don't scooch."
She turned back to the groceries, but I caught the smile tugging at her lips. "Noted. No scooching for the seven-foot Orc."
I watched her move around the kitchen, putting away canned goods and bread and coffee. Her movements were efficient, practiced. She knew this space. Had probably spent countless weekends here with her uncle, learning to be self-sufficient.
And now she was using it to hide a fugitive Orc who'd gotten himself arrested for a murder he didn't commit.
The weight of that settled over me. I pushed off the doorframe, closing the distance between us. "You're risking everything for me." My voice came out lower than I intended. "Your career. Your freedom. This place."
Sarah paused, her hand on a can of soup. For a moment, she didn't respond. Then she set the can down with deliberate care and turned to face me.
The space between us felt charged suddenly. Electric.
"I'm risking everything for what's right." She lifted her chin, meeting my eyes. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." Her gray eyes held mine, steady and unwavering. "Because if I let Dawson get away with this, then I'm part of the system that says some lives matter less than others. That Orcs are disposable. That justice is only for people who look a certain way."
She crossed her arms, and I tracked the movement—the way her shoulders squared, the defensive posture that somehow made her seem even smaller against my frame.
I took another step closer. Close enough now that I saw the faint dusting of freckles across her nose, the way her pulse jumped at the base of her throat. "That's a nice speech. Very inspiring. You practice that in the car?"
Her eyes narrowed. "You're an ass."
"And you're a martyr."
"I'm a lawyer—"
"Who's throwing away her career for a client she barely knows."
"I know you well enough." The words came out sharp, defensive.
"Do you?" I took one more step. Now I was close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, to catch the faint scent of her shampoo beneath the dust and old wood. "What do you know about me, Sarah?"