Page 29 of Brotan

"You have a heart, Crow." I pause, then quietly add, "Brotan. Hammer might have given you a new name, but he didn't give you a new soul. That part of you survived, even when you tried to bury it."

“Hammer gave me that name because death follows in my wake, Maya. I’m not who you want me to be. I never will be.”

His eyes close briefly, shoulders dropping a fraction. The fury bleeds from him, leaving something more vulnerable in its place. Something that terrifies him more than rage ever could.

Then he moves—so fast I barely register it happening. One moment we're standing a foot apart, the next his hands are framing my face, his mouth crashing down on mine with brutal intensity.

The kiss isn't gentle. It's desperate. Hungry. His lips claim mine like he's starving and I'm salvation. His tusks press against my cheeks, the slight pain only sharpening the pleasure coursing through me. My hands find his chest, fingers digging into leather and the solid muscle beneath, not pushing away but pulling closer.

Heat erupts everywhere our bodies connect, a wildfire consuming rational thought. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of coffee and something darker, more savage. I make a sound I've never heard myself make before—halfway between a whimper and a moan—and feel him shudder in response.

Just as I surrender completely to the sensation, he tears himself away. His breathing comes harsh and ragged, pupils blown wide with desire, but his expression hardens into something deliberate and cruel.

"That's the man I am," he growls, voice rough as gravel. "I take what I want and I don't give a fuck how much it hurts you, or anyone else."

The words land exactly how he intends, knocking the air from my lungs. From pleasure to pain in the space of a heartbeat. The calculated cruelty in his tone—designed to push me away, to make me hate him—hurts worse than if he'd struck me.

"Get on the bike," he says flatly. "We're done here."

I stand frozen, body still humming with the echo of his touch, mind struggling to process the whiplash shift.

"Now." The word holds no room for argument.

I move almost on autopilot, climbing onto the motorcycle behind him. My hands hesitate before wrapping around his waist, every point of contact a fresh reminder of what just happened.

The engine roars to life, and Crow takes off faster than before, the sudden acceleration forcing me to hold tighter or risk being thrown off. The wind stings my eyes, providing a convenient cover for the tears threatening to form.

But even as hurt radiates through me, cold logic follows close behind. This isn't about anger—it's about fear. The harder he cares, the harder he pushes away. He's the wounded animal in the corner, lashing out at the hand trying to help.

Just like I'd run from New York, from Jamie's memory, he's running from the chance to be something more than what his past made him.

So I'll follow his lead for now. I'll pull back. Wait. I'll give him space and time and allow him to come to me when he's ready, if he ever is. Because the battle raging inside him is one he doesn't know how to win—maybe doesn't believe he can win.

My cheek rests against his back as we ride, the vibration of his bike numbing my exhausted brain. His body radiates heat that burns through my jacket and into my bones, chasing away the chill of the wind. For someone trying so hard to push me away, he can't seem to stop his body from seeking contact with mine at every turn.

And despite the hurt still fresh from his words, despite all the reasons I should maintain professional distance, I can't deny the growing certainty that Crow—Brotan—is becoming important to me in ways I'm not ready to examine.

The trees blur as we speed back toward town, his body my only solid reference point in a world that's spinning too fast. Pine needles catch the afternoon sun like copper threads, their scent sharp and clean in the air rushing past us. My eyelids grow heavy, and I tighten my grip around his waist, giving in to exhaustion at last.

As consciousness fades, I understand one thing with perfect clarity: the man who kissed me wasn't the man who pushed me away. One was real. One was a mask.

And I already know which is which.

ChapterSeven

Crow

Six days without her. Each one more hollow than the last.

I've worn paths through the clubhouse like a caged beast, my brothers keeping their distance, watching without getting too close. The memory of Maya's lips haunts me worse than the screams from the camps. Her face when I deliberately cut her down at Gus's cabin—that brief flash of hurt before she rebuilt her walls—replays behind my eyelids every time I try to sleep.

My knuckles are a map of open wounds. The garage wall bears the evidence—blood-flecked concrete where I've driven my fists until bone met resistance. Pain used to clarify. Now it just reminds me I'm still capable of feeling.

Yesterday, I found myself halfway to Dawson County, motorcycle purring beneath me like a predator scenting blood. The underground fighting pit there doesn't ask questions, doesn't care if an orc kills a human, so long as the bets pay. The old addiction whispers promises of relief—a place where violence is the only language, where I don't have to question who or what I am.

But her voice followed me down the highway:"You're more than the damage you can deal."

Bullshit. She believes in redemption, in second chances. In fairytales, monsters turn into men.

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