Page 16 of Brotan

His jaw tightens, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he schools his expression back to neutral. He hadn't expected me to reference our shared history so directly.

The memory hangs between us. The ambulance, his blood on my hands, the strange intimacy of emergency care. The metallic scent of blood mixing with antiseptic, the heat of his skin beneath my fingers like touching sun-warmed stone, the way his pulse had hammered against my fingertips as I'd worked. Feverishly hot compared to human temperature, yet somehow... right.

His eyes meet mine, hard and defensive. A muscle jumps in his jaw. "You didn't give me a choice then."

"I'm not giving you one now, either." I match his stare, refusing to be intimidated despite the fact that he towers over me. "Besides, having a patient might help others around here start trusting me. Think of it as your civic duty to the town."

Through the diner window, I spot Helen watching us, curiosity plain on her face. Her eyebrows rise suggestively when she catches me noticing, and she makes no attempt to hide her interest. Behind her, I notice two older women leaning toward each other, their gazes fixed on Crow and me. One nudges the other and whispers something that makes them both smile knowingly.

Great. Small town gossip mill already at work. By tomorrow, half of Shadow Ridge will be speculating about the new doctor and the intimidating orc. My professional reputation—the only thing I have left after New York—could be compromised before I've even properly established myself here. And yet, the warmth of his gaze makes it hard to care as much as I should.

"Fine," he finally mutters, the word sounding like it's been dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. "I'll stop by later."

"Now." I stand my ground, not budging.

He eyes my Honda with skepticism. "No way I'm fitting in that tin can."

"Then I'll follow you on your bike." I cross my arms, refusing to back down. "So long as you can ride with those hands."

He flexes his fingers, wincing slightly, the rough skin of his knuckles split and angry. "I've ridden with worse."

"Of course you have."

Twenty minutes later, I'm cleaning the first of many wounds in the clinic's main examination room. Crow sits on the table, leather cut discarded, wearing only a black t-shirt that does nothing to disguise the muscled bulk beneath. His body radiates heat that I can feel each time I lean in to work on his injuries, like standing next to a furnace. I try to maintain clinical detachment, but it's becoming increasingly difficult with every brush of my fingers against his skin.

The clinic seems smaller somehow with him in it, as if the space itself conforms to his presence. The antiseptic smell mingles with leather and motor oil, creating something uniquely him.

"You're going to need stitches in at least three of these," I say, examining his knuckles. "What were you hitting? Concrete?"

"Close enough." He watches me work, expression guarded but not hostile. Something in his posture has shifted since our first meeting—less defensive, more... accepting? "Some demolition work."

I pause, antiseptic swab hovering above a particularly nasty gash. "Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."

His eyes darken, something dangerous flickering in their depths that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. Not fear—something else entirely. "You calling me a liar, Doc?"

"I’m not calling you anything." I resume cleaning, the silence between us charged but not uncomfortable. The routine of medical care creates its own rhythm—disinfect, assess, repair. My hands move with practiced precision while my mind catalogs each injury, each old scar, building a history of violence written in his flesh.

"Why do it?" I ask finally. "The fighting."

He's quiet for so long, I think he won't answer. The hum of the old refrigerator, where I keep my medications, fills the room, punctuated by the occasional drip from the sink that still needs to be fixed.

"It's what I know," he finally says, voice low. "Been fighting since the camps. It's... simple. Clear."

"The camps?" I look up, meeting his gaze, my hands stilling against his skin.

Something shifts in his expression—guarded, wary. The shadows behind his eyes deepen. "Orc internment camps. After the Rift crossing. They put us there when I was five."

The medical part of my brain catalogs this information dispassionately. The human part recoils at what it implies—a child trapped, forced to fight for survival. The story is written in every scar I've treated. "I didn't know."

"Most humans don't." His voice takes on an edge that speaks of memories too painful to voice directly. "They shoved us into those camps when we first crossed over. Said it was for 'processing,' for our 'protection.' Really it was about fear. Control." His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the green skin. "Guards used to make us fight each other for extra food. Entertainment. I was small for an orc. Had to learn quick or die."

The matter-of-fact way he describes such horror makes my stomach clench. I want to say something, offer some comfort, but what words could possibly address such trauma? Instead, I continue cleaning his wounds, hoping my touch communicates what my voice cannot.

"Before the club, fighting was how I made my living," he continues after a moment. His shrug seems deliberately casual, but I catch the tension beneath it. "Underground circuits, bare-knuckle stuff. Only thing I was good at."

"And that's what this is?" I nod toward his battered hands.

The ghost of a smile touches his lips but doesn't reach his eyes. "Think what you want, Doc."

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