Page 50 of Brotan

He stands, towering over me, boxing me in between him and the wall. "Relax, doctor. I'm not here to hurt you. Brotan hasn't been answering my texts, so I thought I'd send him a message he can't ignore."

"What message?"

"Tell him Quinn is only going to ask nicely once." His expression hardens. "He knows the deal. And what happens if he refuses."

I shake my head. None of what he’s saying makes any sense. "What does that mean?"

He gets up from my table and pauses at the examining room door, turning back with a smile that makes my stomach flip. "It means the next time I come to this clinic, I won't be the one needing stitches." His gaze slides over my instruments, my hands, my throat. "Pretty fingers you've got there, Doc. Shame if anything happened to them."

"Wait—" I start, but he's already walking down the hallway. I wait for the bells to signal he’s gone before I breathe again. What the hell just happened? And who the hell was he? My fingers shake as I pull my cell from my pocket. My pointer hovers over Crow’s name in my contacts as the smell of smoke hits my nose.

I rush into the hallway. Gray smoke billows from the waiting area, flames licking up from a trash can near the wall to a curtain and crawling across a nearby chair.

My phone is in my hand, but by the time I dial for help, my laptop with patient records and all my files will be destroyed. The smoke detector starts its shrill warning as I dash toward the office, pulling my sweater over my nose and mouth.

The front door crashes open, and Diesel’s voice finds me. "Doc!" he shouts, before a sudden violent hiss of static, I assume is a fire extinguisher. "Get out!"

"My laptop!" I grab it, unplugging the cord with fumbling fingers. "The patient records—"

The smoke thickens, dropping toward the floor. When I stick my head out from the office doorway, Diesel's extinguisher has made little impact on the spreading fire.

"It's not enough," he calls, coughing. "Out now!"

I clutch the laptop to my chest, crouching low as I make my way to the front. The smoke burns my eyes, sears my lungs. Through watering vision, I see flames reaching the reception desk and partly covering my escape route.

As soon as Diesel notices, he points the extinguisher at the base of the flames, but it's not able to compete. “Try the back,” he yells.

I drop my head, half to shield my face from the smoke and half out of defeat, knowing the back door is locked due to Crow’s security protocols and the only keys are engulfed in flames on the reception desk.

I raise my head to tell Diesel to get out while he can when a massive figure charges through the wall of flames—green skin glowing orange in the firelight, familiar eyes wild with panic.

"Maya!" Crow's roar cuts through the crackling flames.

He yanks his shirt over his head, pressing the fabric to my face before I can protest. Then I'm airborne, thrown over his shoulder, his arm locked around my thighs. I’m high enough that the flames only heat my shoes as he carries me through them.

We burst through the door into clean air. Crow carries me to Diesel's bike and sets me down. My lungs burn as I gulp air, still clutching the laptop.

"Are you hurt?" Crow's hands move over me, checking for injuries. "Maya, talk to me. Did you get burned anywhere?"

"I'm okay," I manage between coughs. "The smoke—"

He cups my face, searching my eyes. The fear in his expression is bare, unguarded. "Why didn’t you get out when the fire started?"

Through watery eyes and a hacking cough, I hold up my laptop, earning a string of impressive curses from Crow.

“You went back for your laptop?”

“Had to,” I cough. “Every record of every patient is saved on it.”

“Only you, Doc,” Crow says, pulling me close to his chest and holding on so tightly I’m sure he’ll force the smoke from my lungs by sheer force. “What the fuck am I ever going to do with you?”

Around us, neighbors arrive with garden hoses and buckets. Someone has called the volunteer fire department, but reports that they're still twenty minutes away.

When I’m finally released, I see angry red marks on Crow's arm where he brushed against flames.

"You're hurt," I say, reaching for Crow's arm, then glancing over to where Diesel is helping feed a hose through a busted window a foot from us with burnt hands. "Both of you—"

"Later," Crow cuts me off. "What happened? How did this start?” He directs the second question to Diesel.

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