Page 56 of Brotan

"I don't fight orcs." The words come automatically, memories flashing behind my eyes—the camps, the guards forcing us into the pit, children with tusks too big for their faces fighting to the death while humans laughed. The line I swore I'd never cross again. "Quinn knows that."

"Yeah, he mentioned you might be... difficult about that part." Ryker's hand moves to his pocket, casual, like he's reaching for cigarettes instead of leverage. "That's why he bought a little extra insurance."

My stomach drops before he even pulls out the phone. Some part of me knows what's coming, what he's about to show me. The only thing that could possibly make me consider crossing that line.

He swipes through a few images before stopping on one, turning the screen toward me with deliberate slowness. The photo freezes my blood. Maya, standing in her bedroom at the bungalow, packing clothes into a suitcase. The angle is from outside her window.

"Nice place she's got," Ryker says casually. "Thin walls, though. Could hear her crying all the way from the bushes."

The beast roars to life, clawing at my insides, demanding freedom. My vision edges with red, the world narrowing to just Ryker's throat and how easily I could tear it out. The taste of copper floods my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting for control.

"When was this?" I manage through clenched teeth.

"Couple hours ago." Ryker swipes to another photo—Maya sitting on her bed, face in her hands. She looks broken. Because of me. He pockets the phone, smirking. "Don't worry—she's on her way back to New York. Safe and sound. For now."

My fists clench at my sides, every muscle coiled to attack. Ryker notices, his hand drifting toward his waistband where I know he's carrying.

"Careful, Brotan," he warns. "Quinn doesn't need you in one piece. He just needs you in the ring."

I force the beast back, swallowing rage that burns like acid. Maya's face hovers in my mind, not the broken one from Ryker's photo, but smiling, looking at me like I'm worth something. "If I do this... Quinn leaves her alone? For good?"

"Scout's honor." Ryker raises three fingers in a mocking salute. "Quinn's a businessman. Once he's got what he wants, he moves on."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night. Quinn's been waiting for this." Ryker's expression turns thoughtful. "Your girlfriend should be in New York by then. Maybe she'd like to come watch? Front row seats to see her monster get put down?"

The next instant happens on pure instinct, a red haze descending over my vision. My hand closes around his throat, lifting him off his feet. His eyes bulge as I squeeze just enough to cut off air but not crush his windpipe.

"You go near her, you so much as say her name again, and Quinn won't find enough pieces to identify your body." I bring him close enough to feel my breath on his face. "We clear?"

He manages a nod, face purpling. I drop him and he collapses, gasping and coughing.

"Jesus... fucking... Christ," he wheezes. "Psycho... bastard."

"What time? Where?" I demand, towering over him.

He scrambles back, still clutching his throat. "Warehouse district. Brooklyn. 11 PM." He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a folded paper. "Address. Flight info. Everything you need."

I snatch the paper and scan the details. Commercial flight leaving Atlanta in four hours. Just enough time to make it if I leave now.

"One more thing," Ryker says, finding his feet. "Come alone. No club. No backup. Quinn's got eyes everywhere—one hint of your brothers, and all bets are off."

I nod once, already turning away. "I'll be there."

"Oh, and Brotan?" Ryker calls after me. "Make it look good when you go down. Quinn's got a lot riding on this fight."

I don't answer, don't trust myself to speak without returning to finish what I started with his throat. I just kick my bike to life and tear out of the lot, gravel spraying in my wake. The paper crumples in my fist as I push the machine harder, faster, the wind doing nothing to cool the fire in my blood.

The ride back to the clubhouse passes in a blur of asphalt and rage, my mind already in Brooklyn, already calculating what I'll need to do. How I'll need to lose convincingly without making it obvious. How I'll face another orc in combat for the first time since the camps.

Memories I've spent years burying rise like corpses in a flood—the stench of the pits, the roar of the spectators, the sickening crunch of bone, the color of orc blood darker than human. The guards laughing as they threw us in together, taking bets on which children would survive.

The clubhouse lot is empty except for Diesel's bike and a prospect's car. Good. Fewer witnesses. I park and head straight for my room, grabbing the duffel from under my bed and shoving in the bare essentials—change of clothes, toiletry kit, the few personal items that matter.

My hands pause on the small wooden box buried beneath my shirts. Inside, the bullet from my first underground fight, the one that nearly ended me before I became Crow. A reminder of everything Brotan was, everything I've tried to outrun. I add it to the duffel, a talisman for what lies ahead.

I'm zipping it closed when Diesel appears in the doorway, arms crossed.

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