Page 33 of Brotan

I have no response. She's right, and we both know it. Hammer would have given exactly those instructions—because that's what Shadow Ridge needs. A doctor without allegiances, who treats the person, not their past.

"You made a mistake. You're allowed to admit it." Her voice softens a fraction, which somehow cuts deeper. "What happened at Gus's doesn't mean you get to overcompensate by hovering like this."

"This isn't about Gus's cabin," I state, the lie burning my tongue. "This is about your safety."

"My safety is my concern, not yours."

"Is that what this is?" I step closer, the space between us humming with something darker than anger. "Going to Victor's alone? Some twisted payback for what happened at Gus's?"

Her eyes widen, genuine shock replacing anger before her expression hardens. "You think I'd risk my life to punish you? That my entire existence revolves around your rejection?" She laughs, short and bitter. "Your ego is even bigger than you are."

"My safety is my concern. Not yours." She turns away, heading toward her car. "Go home, Crow. I can take care of myself."

I watch her go, the beast inside me pacing restlessly, angry and confused. The need to follow her wars with the knowledge that it would only spark another confrontation.

Instead, I return to my bike, swinging a leg over with enough force to make the suspension groan. The engine roars to life beneath me, a mechanical extension of my frustration. I need to burn this feeling out—this unwelcome mixture of concern and attraction and something deeper I refuse to own.

The abandoned warehouse at the edge of town serves as the Ironborn's makeshift gym, heavy bags hanging from exposed beams, salvaged weights, a sparring area marked with duct tape on concrete. My sanctuary when the beast demands release.

Three hours later, my knuckles are raw despite the wraps, and the workout has done nothing to quiet the storm inside me. Instead, it's made it worse—each punch against leather giving my mind space to replay Maya's words. To remember the hurt in her eyes when I deliberately pushed her away.

To acknowledge the truth, that I haven't stepped into a fighting ring since the night she treated me. Something fundamental changed that night when her hands worked on me with care instead of fear. For the first time in my life, someone saw the man beneath the monster, and I'm terrified of losing that, even as I push her away.

After a quick shower in the crude stall we've rigged up, I head out with vague plans to return to the clubhouse. Instead, I find myself circling town, past the darkened clinic, inevitably toward Maya's bungalow. Just to check, I tell myself. Just to make sure she made it home safely.

The scent hits me two blocks away—sharp and chemical. Gasoline. And beneath it, smoke.

My bike roars as I take the corner. Her house comes into view against the night sky, and beside it, flames. Not the house itself, but something dangerously close to the wooden siding.

I abandon my bike in the street and sprint toward the blaze. A trash can positioned beside her porch burns with unnatural intensity—accelerant-fed flames already licking at the edge of the porch railing, climbing toward the main structure. Orange fire casts demonic shadows across the yard. The heat hits me like a furnace blast as I approach.

Through the front window, I catch a glimpse of Maya's living room—dark. Is she asleep inside, unaware of the danger? The thought sends a spike of terror through me sharper than any I've felt since the camps.

Without hesitation, I grab the metal can, searing heat immediate against my palms. Something protective takes over, overriding self-preservation. My hands blister on contact, but all I register is the imperative to get the danger away from her. Pain is secondary to the need to protect her—a need that's become as natural as breathing despite all my efforts to maintain distance.

The front door flies open, and Maya races out, already turning on the outdoor spigot. She grabs the hose, aiming the spray at the trash can I've dragged clear. Her nightclothes—a thin t-shirt and cotton shorts—offer no protection from the heat or potential explosion.

"Get back!" I shout, but she ignores me, moving closer to direct water at the heart of the flames.

For endless seconds, there's nothing but the roar of fire, the hiss of water hitting hot metal, and our heavy breathing. Steam rises as the flames diminish, ghostly tendrils illuminated by the remaining embers. The acrid stench of burning plastic and gasoline fills the air, searing my lungs.

When the fire is finally out, we stand in her yard, surrounded by the smell of smoke and wet ash. Maya lowers the hose, turning to stare at me. Her face red from the heat, hair wild from sleep, eyes wide with residual fear and questions I can't answer.

"Were you checking up on me?" The accusation lacks the heat from our earlier confrontation, replaced by something closer to disbelief.

"No," I lie. "I was driving by."

Her eyes narrow. "At eleven thirty? On my street?"

"Good thing I was." My gaze moves to the charred siding of her porch, where the fire had just begun to take hold. Another five minutes and the whole structure might have been engulfed. If she had been asleep...

She steps closer, reaching for my arms. Before I can pull away, she takes my wrists and turns my hands palms-up. Her touch is gentle but firm, professional instinct overriding any hesitation about our earlier conflict. The warmth of her fingers against my skin sends an unwelcome jolt through my system, even as pain radiates from the burns.

"Jesus, Crow," she breathes, examining the angry red burns already blistering across my palms. "Your hands..."

I try to pull back. "It's fine."

Her grip tightens just enough to stop me. "Can you not fight me on this?" Frustration and concern battle in her voice. "Just once?"

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