Page 51 of Brotan

Diesel shrugs. “I don’t know, brother. A patient walked out, and by the time his truck left the lot, I saw flames in the window.

“A patient,” Crow all but growls. His attention turns back to me with an intensity that makes me shiver.

Reality crashes back. "A man. Said he worked on your crew. Came in for stitches, but it was just a pretext. He had a message for you."

Crow's expression hardens. "What message?"

"Something about Quinn only asks nicely once." I watch his face carefully, seeing recognition flare in his eyes, followed by something darker—a dangerous, feral look I've never witnessed before. "He said you'd know, and he called you Brotan."

Diesel sucks in a sharp breath. "Quinn? Jesus Christ."

"What did he mean?" I ask, fighting to speak through my smoke-irritated throat. "He said he’s seen you and Diesel watching over me, and wanted to know how well I knew either of you. Who is he, Crow?"

Crow ignores my questions, his voice urgent. "What did he look like, Maya?"

I try to speak over the smoke caught in my throat. "Tall, thin, middle-aged. Rough skin."

“I saw him leave,” Diesel throws in. “It wasn’t Quinn.”

"Ryker," Crow’s jaw tightens. "Did he threaten you? Directly?"

I nod, watching the fury build in his eyes. "He said next time he wouldn't be the one needing stitches."

Something raw and dangerous flashes across Crow's face—a glimpse of the fighter he used to be, the one who survived the camps and the underground rings. For the first time, I feel a flicker of fear, not of him but of the violence he's capable of unleashing.

Diesel turns to Crow. "We need to loop Hammer in on this, brother. If Quinn's involved..."

"No," Crow cuts him off. "Tell him about the fire. Buy me some time to figure out what the hell is going on here. If it’s Quinn, he already knows about Maya, and he won’t appreciate the club getting involved."

Knows about me? I’m forming the question in my throat when my parents push through the crowd, faces tight with concern.

"Maya!" Mom rushes forward, pulling me from Crow's grip. "My God, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I insist, though my voice is rough.

Dad positions himself between me and Crow. "What happened here?"

"Fire," Crow says flatly. “But it’s under control now."

"Control?" Dad's head swivels toward me. "My daughter’s clothes are singed."

"I’m fine, Dad," I say, downplaying the danger. "Crow and Diesel made sure of it."

"Maya—" Mom gestures at the clinic, where flames are turning to smoke thanks to the neighbors. "You could have been killed!"

"It was small," I counter. "I'm fine."

Dad checks my pupils, my pulse, and listens to my breathing. "You need oxygen. And rest." His voice carries the authoritative weight of decades in medicine.

Then his attention shifts to Crow, eyes narrowing as professional detachment gives way to paternal fury. "This is what happens when my daughter associates with your kind. Look at her!" He gestures at my soot-streaked face, the angry red marks on my wrists. "She was nearly killed."

Crow's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his green skin. His eyes never leave mine, even as he responds to my father. "I know."

"You know?" Dad steps between us, blocking Crow from my view. "Is that all you have to say? My daughter throws away her career to come to this... backwater, and nearly dies in a fire that clearly targeted her. Because of what? Her connection to you?"

I try to intervene. "Dad, that's not—"

"She could have been chief of surgery at Memorial," Dad continues, his voice rising with each word. "Instead, she's patching up farmers and bikers in a clinic that someone just tried to burn to the ground. Tell me how that's acceptable."

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