Page 47 of Brotan

The directness catches me off guard. Crow isn't one for emotional discussions, preferring action to words every time.

"Why would anything be wrong?" I counter, not meeting his eyes.

His finger hooks under my chin, gently tilting my face up. "You've barely looked at me since the other morning."

The concern in his eyes makes my chest ache. I should tell him the truth—that my parents are offering one last chance at the career I spent a decade building. That I have to choose between the comfortable, predictable path they've carved out and this uncertain future in Shadow Ridge with an orc who runs hot and cold and is as unpredictable as he is strong.

That if I stay, I'm choosing this town, this life, and by extension, him—over everything I've worked toward.

"I've had a lot on my mind," I say instead. "It's nothing."

"Bullshit." His thumb brushes my cheek in a gesture so tender it almost breaks me. "You've been pulling away."

"Me?" I raise an eyebrow. "You're the one who's been 'busy' every night."

Something flickers in his eyes—guilt? uncertainty?—there and gone too fast to read. "Club business. Hammer's got us running security checks while some asshole's still setting fires."

"Until dawn?" I regret the words immediately. I have no right to question his whereabouts or make a claim on his time.

His hand drops from my face. "Didn't realize you were keeping track."

"I wasn't," I lie. "Just an observation."

The tension between us pulls taut, stretched to the breaking point. Before my mother’s call, I would have leaned into him, closed the distance with a kiss. Now I can't seem to bridge the gap her ultimatum created.

Crow steps closer, one large hand settling on my waist while the other cups my cheek. "Maya—"

The clinic door swings open, bell jingling cheerfully. I start to turn, a professional smile already forming, when I freeze in place.

My parents stand in the doorway, looking as out of place in Shadow Ridge as designer furniture in a hunting cabin. Mom in her tailored pantsuit, Dad in pressed slacks and a button-down—Brooks Brothers casual, they call it. Their expressions mirror each other—shock morphing to disapproval as they take in the scene before them: their daughter practically in the arms of an orc in a leather vest.

"Maya?" Mom's voice cuts through the silence. "Surprise!"

The worlds I've tried so desperately to keep separate collide with devastating force. I step away from Crow so quickly that I nearly trip over my own feet. "Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?"

"We thought we'd see this clinic of yours firsthand," Dad says, his eyes never leaving Crow. "Since you've been so... evasive about the details."

The undercurrent is clear:we needed to see what was so important you'd throw away your career for it.

"Welcome to Shadow Ridge Family Medicine," I say automatically, falling back on professional courtesy to mask my panic. "This is Crow. He's with the organization that's helping rebuild the town."

Crow extends his hand in a human gesture I know doesn't come naturally to him. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Johnson."

Dad stares at the offered hand a beat too long before taking it briefly. Mom doesn't even bother with the pretense, her gaze sliding past Crow like he's too far beneath her to even notice.

"Maya, darling," she says, stepping forward to air-kiss my cheek. "You look... rested." The pause speaks volumes as rested is her code foryou've let yourself go.

"I am," I reply, straightening my spine. "Small town practice agrees with me."

"Hmm." She makes a non-committal sound, her gaze sweeping the clinic with the same clinical assessment she applies to underperforming residents. "This is... quaint."

Dad has already moved past greetings, examining the equipment with the practiced eye of a surgeon. He runs his finger along the otoscope, checking for dust. "This model must be fifteen years old," he comments. "The optics are barely adequate for proper diagnosis."

"It works perfectly fine," I say, defensive despite myself.

"I should check the perimeter," Crow says quietly. His expression is carefully blank—the mask he wears for strangers, for threats. The one he hasn't directed at me since that first day in the diner. "Diesel will be by soon if you need anything."

He leaves without waiting for a response, and something in me withers at his retreat. I want to call him back, to introduce him properly—this is Crow, he's important to me—but the words stick in my throat.

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