Page 49 of Brotan

The doorbell jingles, and I straighten, expecting Diesel. Instead, a middle-aged man enters, tall, lean, with the weathered look of someone who works outdoors. A nasty gash runs along his forearm, blood seeping through a makeshift bandage. He scans the entire clinic before his gaze settles on me, the same way Crow always does. Always looking for an escape route. Always preparing for the worst.

"Can I help you?" I ask, professional mask sliding into place.

"Cut myself working," he says, holding up the arm. "Buddy said you might be able to patch it up."

"Of course." I gesture toward the exam room, thankful for the distraction. "Let's take a look."

As we pass the window, I glance outside, looking for Diesel crossing the parking lot. He's nowhere in sight. If there was an accident at the worksite, he might have been called to lend a hand.

The man settles on the exam table while I wash my hands and gather supplies. The cut is deep but clean, a straight slice consistent with a sharp blade. Too straight, in fact, to be the accidental work injury he claimed. Self-inflicted, possibly—I've seen enough of those in the ER to recognize the hallmarks.

"This will need stitches," I tell him, cleaning the wound methodically. "How did you say it happened?"

"Didn't," he replies with a thin smile. "Rebar sticking out of the cement. Always catches you when you're not looking."

I nod, though the explanation doesn't match the injury. "You're not from Shadow Ridge, are you? I haven't seen you around."

"Just hired on today," he says, watching me prep the sutures with unsettling intensity. "I hear it's a good place for a fresh start. Maybe I'll stick around."

"That's right." I inject lidocaine around the edges of the wound, noting his lack of reaction to the needle.

"You new here yourself?" he asks as I begin the first stitch.

"A couple of weeks now."

"Like it?"

"It's growing on me." I keep my answers vague, unease prickling at the back of my neck.

"Must be hard to adjust," he continues. "Coming from the city and all. Bet you miss the amenities."

I glance up sharply. "I didn't mention where I was from."

Alarm bells ring in my head, but I remain outwardly calm. Between Crow's behavior, my parents' arrival, and this strange man, my nerves are stretched thin.

He shrugs his uninjured shoulder. "Small town. People talk."

"I suppose they do." I return to my stitching, fingers steady despite my growing discomfort. "Almost done here. You'll need a tetanus shot before you go."

"You know many folks in town yet?" His tone remains casual, but the question isn't.

"Some," I answer, preparing the injection.

"What about the motorcycle club? The Ironborn. You know any of the members?"

My hand stills momentarily before I force it to continue. The more he talks, the less casual this conversation feels.

"There are a few orcs in town," I say carefully. "I haven't had much opportunity to get to know them."

He laughs, sharp and humorless. "That's interesting, considering they never leave your side. Especially that feral one. Brotan, they call him."

Crow’s name sticks out more than the accusation. He’d told me it was his orc name, used before Hammer found him and invited him into the club. But how does this guy know that? Anyone working on the crew would simply know him as Crow.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," I lie, maintaining a neutral expression despite the alarm bells clanging in my head. My fingers twitch near the instrument tray. The scalpel lies six inches from my hand—I could have it at his throat in under two seconds if necessary.

"Now that's just insulting," he says, smirking. "We both know better, Maya."

My mouth goes dry. "What do you want?"

---