Page 17 of Brotan

I prepare a suture kit, mentally calculating how many stitches each wound will need. "Tell me about Shadow Ridge. How'd you end up here?"

His eyes follow my movements, watchful but no longer hostile. Something like trust has begun to build between us, fragile as new skin over an old wound. "Hammer bought properties after Victor got arrested. Club's trying to rebuild the place."

"So you're what—the local muscle?" I thread the needle, noting how he doesn't flinch when I begin the first stitch. His pain tolerance is remarkable, though that thought brings no comfort given how it was likely acquired.

"Me and Diesel. Keep the peace. Support the residents. He's good with building and I'm…" He drops off, and my mind fills in the blanks. He's good at destroying.

"So you 'Keep the peace'? While moonlighting as an underground fighter?" I can't keep the skepticism from my voice as I tie off the first stitch and move to the next wound.

"Never claimed to be consistent, Doc." Something like humor flickers in his eyes, gone before I can be sure I saw it.

We fall into silence as I work. His body heat seeps into me each time my fingers brush his skin, an unwanted awareness building with every point of contact. I focus on the wounds, on the rhythmic in-and-out of the needle, on the clinical reality of mending damaged flesh. But beneath that practiced focus runs something quieter—an awareness of him as more than a patient. The broadness of his shoulders beneath the thin t-shirt, the flex of muscle when my fingers press against his skin, the rumble of his voice that seems to vibrate through me when he speaks.

God, Maya, get it together. He's a patient. You're his doctor. There are ethical boundaries here, not to mention the complications of being new in town, of his clear issues with violence, of the worlds of difference between us.

"Why haven't you shown your face at the clinic until now?" The question escapes before I can catch it, hanging between us like a live grenade.

His posture stiffens, shoulders drawing back slightly. "I told you after the town meeting. I'm trying to build something here."

"And being seen with me threatens that?" The hurt in my voice is embarrassingly obvious.

"Not the way you think." His voice is low, almost reluctant. His eyes meet mine, intense in their amber clarity. "People here—they've started to trust me. To see me as something more than just muscle. If they knew about New York, about Quinn's fight pit..."

I understand his meaning. If the town knew about the violence I witnessed that night, they might view him differently. I'm a walking reminder of his past, of the parts of himself he's trying to leave behind.

"I wouldn't have told anyone," I say softly. "Doctor-patient confidentiality isn't just for show."

"I couldn't take that chance." His gaze drops to my hands as they work on his injury. "Trust... it doesn't come easy for someone who looks like me."

The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. For all his intimidating size and gruff exterior, there's something painfully human in the way he guards himself. I wonder how many times he's been betrayed, how many doors have been closed in his face, how many people have seen only his green skin and tusks instead of the person beneath.

I tie off the last stitch, deliberately tighter than necessary. "There. Try not to bust them open for at least three days."

"No promises." The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

I step back, creating necessary distance.

"Your turn," he says unexpectedly.

"What?"

"Why Shadow Ridge?" His eyes stay on mine, unwavering. "Why leave New York? The fancy hospital? The career?"

The question hits too close to Jamie Matthews, to the ghost that follows me. "I needed a change." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"Bullshit." The word is soft but definitive. "Nobody gives up a surgical career to patch up farmers in the middle of nowhere. Not without a reason."

I busy myself with cleaning up, avoiding his gaze. The instruments clatter too loudly as I drop them in the metal basin. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're running from something." He shifts, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at fresh stitches. "Recognize it 'cause I've done enough of it myself."

The quiet certainty in his voice breaks something loose inside me—a hairline fracture in the careful wall I've built around Jamie's memory. The weight of the secret presses against my chest, making it hard to breathe. For months, I've carried it alone, letting it fester inside me like an untreated wound.

"I lost a patient." The words fall between us, heavy with unspoken weight as I arrange instruments that don't need arranging. "My fault. My responsibility."

"Doctors lose patients." His tone isn't dismissive—there's understanding there, recognition of pain.

"Not like this." My hands tremble slightly as I dispose of bloodied gauze. The memory of that night floods back—the blaring monitors, the controlled chaos of the code, the moment I realized what I'd missed. "She was twenty-six. Two kids. Routine procedure. I missed something I shouldn't have."

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