Page 14 of Brotan

His gold-flecked green skin gleams with sweat as he flashes a grin that displays impressive tusks. The expression looks more threatening than friendly, though I'm learning that's just how orc smiles appear to human eyes.

"Club orders. Make sure the doc's taken care of."

"Right." I carefully unpack blood pressure cuffs, arranging them by size on the metal shelving. The methodical task grounds me, gives my hands something to do besides shake with exhaustion. "Tell Hammer I appreciate it."

"Not Hammer's orders." Diesel's smile stretches wider at my obvious confusion. "Crow told us to help you set up. Then threatened to rip out our spleens if we bothered you." He shrugs, as if death threats are normal conversation. Maybe among Orcs, they are. "First time I've seen him care about any human. Must've made quite an impression in New York."

A flash of warmth cascades from my scalp down to my chest, my pulse quickening traitorously. I haven't seen Crow since our conversation after the town meeting. True to his word, he's stayed away. I tell myself the hollow feeling in my chest is relief, not disappointment.

"I just did my job," I mutter, focusing intently on organizing the pressure cuffs into perfect alignment. But even as I say it, I know it's not entirely true. Treating Crow that night had felt different—more personal, more defiant. I'd faced down an entire hospital not just because of my oath, but because something in his eyes had reached past my professional distance and touched something human in me.

"Uh-huh." Diesel's tone makes it clear he doesn't believe me. He watches me with a knowing look that makes me irrationally defensive. "Well, your water heater's fixed. Exam rooms are clean. Anything else before I go?"

"No, that's everything. Thanks."

After Diesel leaves, I continue organizing supplies, trying to create order from chaos. The clinic waits, almost expectant in its quiet. Afternoon sunlight filters through freshly cleaned windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. I've spent every waking hour cleaning, organizing, and inventorying to keep my hands busy so my mind doesn't wander to things I can't fix.

Like Jamie Matthews flatlined under my hands. Like my career in flames. Like Crow's amber eyes following my movements in the parking lot.

I shake it off, nearly dropping a box of syringes. Fantasies about brooding orcs have no place in my professional life. If I'm honest with myself, which I rarely am these days, it's not just about professional boundaries. It's about the growing awareness that the attraction I feel toward him would be the final nail in the coffin of my parents' approval. Not that I haven't already hammered that coffin shut by coming here, but being drawn to an orc would confirm every fear they've ever voiced about my "impulsive decisions."

My only focus needs to be rebuilding this clinic and proving to myself that I still deserve to call myself a doctor. Healing others might be the only way I can begin to heal myself.

Savvy insists I take breakfast at the diner each morning—"Doctor can't run on empty"—her generosity barely disguising her strategy. People see me there, get used to my presence, and start to believe I might stick around. Smart woman. I like her immediately, understanding why she's become the heart of this broken town.

I lock up the clinic and head to my car just as my phone rings. Mom's name flashes on the screen, sending a ripple of dread through my body. I wait until I've pulled out of the lot and am on the road before answering.

"Maya! Darling!" Her voice carries its usual artificial brightness. "How's the... adventure going?"

"It's not an adventure, Mom. It's my job." I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. "The clinic's seeing patients already."

"That's... nice." The pause speaks volumes. "And your... accommodations? You said it's a cabin or something?"

"A bungalow. It's fine."

"How... rustic." The word drips with wealthy Manhattan disdain.

"When do you think you'll be ready to come home?" She shifts tactics, abandoning pretense. "This little sabbatical is understandable, darling, but there's no need to punish yourself indefinitely."

"I'm not punishing myself." The lie burns my throat raw. "These people need a doctor."

"Maya." Her voice drops, maternal concern pushing through the society wife veneer. "What happened wasn't your fault. The hospital review made that clear."

The familiar knife twists in my gut. "The review was a cover-up. You know that. Bought with money that could have been used to save lives."

"Sweetheart—"

"How's Dad?" I interrupt, unable to stomach another round of absolution I don't deserve.

"Oh, you know. Busy as always. Actually, he's right here. Let me put him on."

The phone rustles as it changes hands. Dad's voice comes through, crisp and businesslike, as if this is one of his surgical consultations.

"Maya."

"Hi, Dad."

Silence stretches between us. Charles Johnson has never mastered the art of small talk, especially with his only daughter.

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