Page 23 of Brotan

"He'll be fine," Maya says, reading something in my expression I'd rather she hadn't seen. "I'll come back for him after."

We leave together, the emergency creating a functional truce that bypasses the raw edges of our earlier confrontation. The takeout containers remain on the counter, our intended meal forgotten in the urgency of the moment. Outside, my bike waits at the curb behind her Honda.

"Stay behind me," I command, voice hardening as I reclaim familiar territory. "I know the fastest route."

She nods, all challenge gone in the face of crisis. "Don't wait. I'll be right behind you."

I straddle my bike, kick it to life with more force than necessary. The engine's roar drowns the quieter voice inside me, the one that still feels the press of fur against my palm, the weight of a trusting head on my leg.

As I tear out of the parking lot, Maya's headlights steady in my mirror, I force my thoughts toward the fire, toward action, toward the clarity that comes with having a clear enemy to fight. This is what I was made for—charging into danger, not sitting in dog pens having moments of emotional revelation.

Yet as the cold night air blasts against my face, I can't fully banish the memory of the dog choosing to trust me. Of Maya seeing something in me worth challenging, worth pushing past the walls I've spent a lifetime building.

Ahead, orange flames lick the night sky, casting an unnatural glow against the clouds. I can smell the accelerant already—that chemical tang beneath the smoke that signals this was no accident. Someone set this fire deliberately. Victor's people are getting bolder, testing our resolve to rebuild what he tried to destroy.

At least firefighting gives me something to focus on besides the unsettling realization of what just happened in that clinic. For a few moments back there, I wasn't the monster, the weapon, the beast. I was something else. Something I'm not sure I have a right to be.

And that terrifies me more than any burning building ever could.

ChapterSix

Maya

Twenty-six hours without sleep. The numbers blur on my watch as I blink away the grit of exhaustion. Every muscle in my body aches, my bones hollowed out by fatigue that reminds me of the worst thirty-six-hour shifts during residency. I slouch into the diner's vinyl booth, my thighs sticking to the seat as I cling to consciousness by pure stubbornness.

The fire consumed most of the night. Flames roared through the ancient wood beams like kindling, thick smoke billowing into the darkness and turning the stars to smudges. By some miracle, everyone made it out alive—burns of varying degrees, smoke inhalation, one broken wrist from a panicked drop off the scaffolding.

I treated them in the street, using the hood of someone's pickup as my examination table while firefighters from three counties battled the blaze. The ambulances wailed in an hour later from the next town over, their sirens echoing through the empty streets until sometime after midnight.

Through it all, Crow worked alongside me. The orc who'd fought so hard to hide his gentleness with that burned dog just hours earlier carried the injured without complaint, fetched supplies from my car, and held pressure on wounds when I needed an extra pair of hands. His massive form moved with single-minded purpose through the chaos, backlit by the orange glow of destruction.

"Looks intentional." Diesel's voice carries from the next booth over, where he sits huddled with two locals who helped at the fire. "Accelerant pattern around the back entrance. Classic arson job."

"That building had issues," one of the locals interjects. "Could have been a spark off damn near anything that spread."

Diesel shakes his head. "I checked that place over before we started taking it down. There was nothing left to spark."

"Victor's crew," the second man I recognize as a construction worker mutters.

"Doesn't take a goddamn forensic expert," Diesel replies, voice rough with anger. "We start rebuilding the town, and suddenly buildings catch fire? Royce is sending a message from whatever shithole he's hiding in. Either that or Victor's got contacts outside our reach."

Their conversation drops to harsh murmurs. The implications sink into my exhaustion-dulled brain. If someone's targeting the rebuilding efforts, it means the town—these people I'm responsible for medically—are all at risk. This isn't just property damage; it's a threat to everyone here.

My phone vibrates against the table. Mom's name flashes on the screen because, of course, she would call now, when I'm too exhausted to maintain my defenses. I think about letting it go to voicemail, but she'll keep calling until I answer.

"Hi, Mom."

"Maya? You sound awful. Are you sick?"

I dig my fingertips into my temples. "Just tired. Long night."

"Oh? Some excitement at your little... clinic?" The pause before "clinic" speaks volumes—the implication that whatever happens in Shadow Ridge barely qualifies as medical practice.

"There was a fire in town." I close my eyes. "Multiple injuries. Nothing life-threatening."

"A fire? In that quaint little place? How dramatic." She pauses, expectant silence stretching between us. "Well, I'm sure it felt very important to you, darling. Almost like a real emergency."

Her condescension scrapes across nerves already rubbed raw by sleeplessness. But I'm too damn tired to mount a defense.

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