Page 13 of Brotan

"Asked to leave," I repeat. "He shot it down. Said we're stretched too thin with all the shit going down, and I've built... connections here."

Understanding dawns in her expression. "So we're both stuck in this town."

"Looks that way."

She stares at me for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes. "Well, that settles it then. I'm not giving up this opportunity because things are awkward, and apparently, you can't leave. Guess we're both just going to have to deal with it."

The declaration hits with unexpected weight. There's something in her tone, a finality, a challenge, that stirs the beast inside me. Not with anger, but with something far more dangerous.

"When's the clinic opening?" I ask, changing the subject before I say something I'll regret.

"I'm aiming for next week," she says, dropping her arms. "Place is a disaster—dust everywhere, outdated equipment, barely any supplies. But if anyone needs urgent care, I'll be there. Day or night."

Her gaze finds mine again, deliberate. The memory of her hands on me six months ago flashes hot and unwelcome—stitching my wounds, gentle yet efficient. The only human touch I'd felt in years that wasn't meant to harm.

"Why are you really here, Maya?" I ask before I can stop myself. "New York has plenty of people who need doctors."

"I couldn't—" She stops, something raw flickering across her face before she locks it down. "Let's just say New York and I needed some distance from each other."

The evasion is obvious, but I don't push. We all have our reasons for running, our ghosts that chase us from one life to the next. Whatever haunts her, whoever she lost, the wound is still fresh.

"Well," I say, the words scraping my throat, "this shithole town could do worse than you."

Her eyebrow raises slightly. "Was that almost a compliment?"

"Don't get used to it."

The ghost of a smile touches her lips before vanishing. "Good night, Crow."

She gets in her car, and I step back as she pulls away. The taillights recede into darkness, leaving me alone with questions I can't answer and a hunger under my skin that demands release.

I need release. Need the familiar rhythm of violence, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath my knuckles, the metallic tang of blood in the air. Need something—anything—to burn away the confusion Maya Johnson stirs up in me and the gnawing guilt over how I treated her.

But violence is what landed me in her path to begin with. Something fundamental shifted that night in New York, watching her stand between me and a mob that wanted me dead. The primal hunger that's driven me since the camps quieted under her touch, replaced by something equally dangerous—a craving for connection I'm not ready to name.

I straddle my bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The familiar vibration travels up through my legs, into my spine, a comforting rhythm that's steadied me through years of chaos. Two paths stretch before me—the highway that leads to the underground fight club two towns over, where I could lose myself in the only therapy I've ever trusted, or the road back to the clubhouse, to safety, to something resembling a future.

My phone weighs heavy in my pocket. I could call Ryker back. Get ahead of whatever game he's playing. Return to the life I know, where everything makes sense, where I understand the rules.

Instead, I rev the engine and turn toward the clubhouse. The choice feels deliberate, significant—the first time I've chosen restraint over violence when the hunger for blood burns in my veins. Not out of fear for myself, but something more complicated. Whatever game Ryker's playing, Maya could end up caught in the crossfire. The thought of her hurt because of me, because of my past, cuts deeper than any blade I've faced.

The realization slams into me as I accelerate into the darkness. I actually give a damn what happens to her. And that terrifies me more than Ryker, Quinn, and all their threats combined.

ChapterFour

Maya

Eleven patients in two days. Not exactly the emergency rush I'd promised the town, but each face that walks through my clinic door hammers home the same truth—Shadow Ridge is desperate for medical care.

The clinic itself is slowly taking shape around me, though the weight of its history presses against the freshly painted walls. Decades of medical care, followed by years of abandonment—both ghosts lingering in the building's bones.

Each patient's story has wrapped itself around my heart more quickly than I expected. Mrs. Abernathy, seventy-eight, clutched my hand with fingers twisted by arthritis when I promised that she wouldn't have to make the forty-mile drive for her heart medication anymore. The relief in her watery blue eyes made my throat tight. Mr. Wilson brought me tomatoes from his garden as payment, even as his blood pressure readings made my pulse quicken with concern—how was he still standing? When little Aiden Cooper's fever broke after two days of antibiotics, his mother called me an angel, though she'd been treating his strep throat with honey and prayer for a week before bringing him in. The rest showed up with barely-there complaints—obvious excuses to size up the new doctor, to determine if I'm worth investing their trust in.

I get it. Trust is currency in a town this small, and I'm still a stranger. Each examination is as much about proving myself as it is about medicine.

"Last box," Diesel announces, dropping a heavy container of medical supplies onto the recently cleaned counter. The tattooed orc has been showing up daily since the town meeting, hauling furniture, unpacking supplies, fixing the clinic's ancient plumbing—all while pretending it's no big deal.

"Thanks." I wipe dust from my forehead with the back of my hand, leaving what I'm sure is a grimy streak. "You don't have to keep helping, you know."

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