Page 22 of Brotan

"They all are, at first." She enters, setting the bowl within reach. There's something different in her expression now—not just the clinical assessment of a doctor, but something softer, more personal. "Most strays are. Takes time to realize not everyone wants to hurt them."

Her eyes meet mine, and I know she sees the connection between the burned animal and the scarred orc. Both strays. Both defensive. Both expecting pain from every outstretched hand.

"I didn't take you for the soft-hearted type," she continues, kneeling to join us in the pen. She moves more carefully than necessary, exhaustion evident in the way she braces herself against the floor.

"I'm not." The denial comes instantly, protectively, even as my fingers continue their gentle rhythm through matted fur.

"Evidence suggests otherwise." Her smile is small but genuine—the first real one I've seen directed at me, not the doctor's professional mask or the wary curve of lips humans offer when they're afraid to offend.

Heat crawls up my neck. I've stared down fighters twice my size without flinching, but this exposure makes me want to retreat. I need walls between me and whatever Maya's seeing right now. Need the safety of being feared rather than understood.

"Food's getting cold," I say, carefully extracting myself from the dog, who whines softly at the loss. The takeout containers sit forgotten on the counter, a reminder of my original purpose here.

"Heaven forbid." Her eyes hold mine, refusing to let me hide. "Who knew it would take a stray dog to crack that armor of yours?"

"Don't." The word emerges sharper than intended.

She shifts closer, deliberate and unafraid, closing the space between us until I can catch the faint scent of vanilla on her skin. Her eyes never leave mine, challenge flashing in their hazel depths. "Don't what? Notice that you're more than the weapon you pretend to be?"

I stand abruptly, needing the height advantage, needing to remind us both of who I am. The beast inside me stirs, the familiar comfort of anger rising to shield more complicated emotions.

"You don't know who I am." My voice drops to the growl that makes humans step back. Her gaze flickers to my mouth, to the tusks that mark me as other, but she holds her ground.

She rises to face me, unflinching despite my size, despite the threat implicit in my posture. "I know enough."

"You know what I let you see."

"And what about what you just showed that dog?" She gestures to the animal, who watches our exchange with renewed anxiety. "Was that an act, too?"

There's no answer that doesn't crack me open further, doesn't expose parts of myself I barely acknowledge exist. Parts that wouldn't have survived the camps, the military, the fights. Parts I don't know what to do with now that they're stirring to life.

For a heartbeat, I see her lips part as if she might say something else—something that could tear down what remains of my defenses.

We stand locked in that charged silence, neither willing to retreat, when both our phones come alive at once—hers ringing, mine vibrating in my pocket.

"Hello?" Maya answers, eyes still locked on mine.

I check the screen. Diesel. I swipe to accept, defenses already put back in place. "What?"

"Fire," Diesel's voice is strained. "Oak Street location. Silas was inside. Two others. The place is going up fast."

The beast inside me surges forward, a salvation from feelings I'm not equipped to handle. Action. Crisis. Danger. This I understand. I can be the protector, the fighter, roles I've perfected since childhood—anything but the exposed nerve Maya had somehow managed to touch with her probing words.

Maya's face drains of color as she listens to her caller. "How many injured?" she asks, doctor mode engaging, her earlier probing gaze replaced by professional focus.

"On my way," I tell Diesel, ending the call and already moving toward the door. The familiar surge of adrenaline floods my system, burning away the uncomfortable vulnerability of moments before.

"Fire at the demolition site," Maya says, stuffing gauze and bandages into a bag.

"I know. Diesel just called. Silas is inside." My voice returns to its customary growl, armor sliding back into place, where it should have stayed.

She pauses, medical kit half-packed. "You have transportation?"

"My bike."

"I'll follow in my car." She resumes packing, all business now. "Burns, smoke inhalation—I need to bring oxygen. The closest hospital is over an hour out. We'll need to triage until they arrive."

The dog whines from his pen, sensing the sudden energy shift. I glance back at him, an unexpected tightness gripping my chest.

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