Page 37 of Brotan

"Because he's convinced he's the reason you've become a target." Diesel's voice loses its teasing edge. "He thinks Victor and Royce are using you to send a message to the club. It's eating him alive."

For a heartbeat, I glimpse the weight Crow carries, the responsibility he assumes for every threat, every danger. The memory of his scorched hands, the night of the fire, flashes through my mind, the second-degree burns I'd treated while lecturing him about proper wound care. But sympathy quickly gives way to renewed irritation. My safety isn't his cross to bear.

"Any news on who might have set the fires?" I ask, trying to sound casual as I organize syringes by gauge.

Diesel's expression darkens. "Ash is following a lead on Victor's old crew. The accelerant from both fires matched, suggesting premeditation." He glances toward the window, scanning the parking lot with practiced vigilance. "Whoever it is, they're escalating. First the worksite, then your place."

A chill cascades down my spine despite the clinic's stuffy air. The fire at my bungalow had been deliberate, calculated, and set while I slept inside. If Crow hadn't shown up when he did...

I shake off the thought and grab my coat from the hook, the leather squeaking as I yank it free. "If anyone needs me, I'll be back in an hour."

Diesel straightens, tension tightening his frame. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to the warden about a reprieve."

His eyes widen, then crinkle with amusement. "Not sure who's gonna be more pissed—you or him. But I'm definitely staying behind."

The drive to the Ironborn clubhouse takes fifteen minutes, each mile fueling my determination as my tires crunch over dirt roads. The clubhouse sits on the edge of town in a sprawling ranch-style house that once belonged to a local cattle rancher before Victor ran him out of town. Now, motorcycles stand sentinel in the driveway beneath a large wooden Ironborn MC sign hanging over the front door.

The same front door I barge through without knocking, startling two orcs lounging on a leather sectional patched with duct tape. The television plays what looks suspiciously like a daytime soap opera. One, younger, with facial piercings, scrambles for the remote while the other attempts to look intimidating.

"Can we help you?" the older one asks, rising to his full height, his shadow stretching across worn floorboards.

"I'm looking for Crow." My voice leaves no room for argument. "Don't make me ask twice."

They exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them. "I wouldn't go in there," the younger one says, nervous fingers tapping his thigh. "He's asleep."

"Well." I cross my arms, channeling the authoritative stance I perfected during residency. "I guess it's time for someone to tell my security detail to rise and shine. Which room?"

The older one sighs, gesturing down a hallway where motorcycle parts and tools line the walls. "Last door on the right. Your funeral."

I stride down the corridor, pushing open the indicated door without hesitation. The hinges creak softly.

The room is dark, blackout curtains drawn against midday sun. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then I see him.

Crow lies sprawled across a king-sized bed, one muscled arm thrown above his head, the other resting on his bare chest. The covers tangle around his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his torso—olive-green skin mapped with scars and tattoos that disappear beneath the sheet. His face, usually guarded and tense, is softened in sleep, making him look almost vulnerable.

I hesitate. There's something deeply intimate about seeing him like this—unaware, unguarded. It almost feels cruel to wake him. Almost.

I approach the bed, reaching out to shake his arm. "Crow."

My fingers barely graze his shoulder when his hand shoots out, closing around my wrist with bruising force. In a blur of movement too fast to track, I'm suddenly on my back, pinned to the mattress by his weight. His eyes are open but unseeing, wild with something feral and dangerous.

"Crow," I gasp, heart hammering in my ribs. "It's me. Maya."

For a terrifying second, he doesn't recognize me. His breathing is harsh and ragged, muscles coiled for violence. My medical training kicks in immediately: pupils constricted to pinpoints, respiratory rate elevated, carotid pulse visibly hammering beneath his skin—classic autonomic nervous system response to perceived threat. Hypervigilance with dissociative features. Acute stress reaction.

Then awareness flickers in those amber eyes. The battle fog clears, replaced by something worse: raw horror.

He releases me like my skin is toxic, backing away to the edge of the bed. He sits with his back to me, shoulders hunched, head dropped into his hands.

My pulse gradually slows, but the adrenaline leaves me shaky. I sit up, rubbing the red marks blooming on my wrists. The rational part of me understands this wasn't personal, wasn't intentional—a classic PTSD episode, triggered by unexpected touch during sleep.

But another part of me, the part that's survived my own traumas, registers how easily he overpowered me, how quickly I became vulnerable. A shadow of fear lingers despite my professional understanding.

I reach out, hesitating before my fingertips touch his back. "Crow—"

He flinches away, turning with eyes that won't quite meet mine. "Why are you here?" The question scrapes from his throat, rough and strangled.

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