Page 59 of Brotan

"Dr. Johnson," he says, his voice deep and gravelly. "We need to talk."

I take a step back, my pulse quickening. "Who are you?"

He glances down the hallway, then back at me. "Not here."

Before I can protest, he's inside, closing the door behind him with surprising gentleness for hands that size. I retreat further, calculating the distance to my phone, to anything I could use as a weapon.

"Hammer," he says, answering my earlier question. "President of the Ironborn MC."

The name clicks into place—the voice on the phone that recruited me, the man Crow answers to. Still, caution keeps me wary.

"Prove it," I demand, stronger than I feel in this designer dress that suddenly seems like the flimsiest of armor.

A hint of approval crosses his face. "Smart girl. What would convince you?"

"Where are your patches? Your cut?"

He gestures to his tailored suit—expensive but understated, designed for someone his size. "Not exactly inconspicuous as is," he says, voice like granite sliding against stone. "Wearing patches would make me a target in this neighborhood."

His directness—different from Crow's sparse sentences but carrying the same weight—convinces me more than any identification could. I relax slightly, curiosity replacing fear.

"Why are you here?"

Hammer moves to the living room, surveying the penthouse with barely concealed discomfort. "I'm here because I owe you the truth." He turns to face me. "Crow made you leave Shadow Ridge. I knew about it, and I didn't intervene. I agreed you should go."

The admission stings more than it should. "So you came all this way to tell me you both think I'm better off in New York? Message received."

"No." His expression darkens. "I came to tell you I was wrong. If I'd known the danger that would follow, I never would have brought you to Shadow Ridge in the first place. But sending you away didn't fix anything."

A cold weight settles in my stomach. "What danger? What's happening?"

"Quinn." The name means nothing to me, but Hammer's tone gives it weight. "Underground fight promoter from New York. Has his hooks in Crow from before the club. He's been forcing Crow's hand, using you as leverage."

"The clinic fire," I whisper, understanding dawning. "The man who came in for stitches—"

"Quinn's enforcer," Hammer confirms. "He threatened you directly. That's why Crow pushed you away. Why he told your parents to take you home."

"To protect me." The pieces slide into place with sickening clarity.

"Always the hero," Hammer mutters, shaking his head. "Always protecting everyone but himself." His voice drops, something almost paternal in his concern. "But it's gone too far now. Crow's agreed to fight tonight."

"So? He's fought before."

"Not like this." Hammer's voice drops. "He's going to throw the fight. Against another orc."

The significance must show on my face because Hammer nods grimly.

"He swore he'd never fight another orc. Not after the camps. But Quinn's got him backed into a corner. If he doesn't do this—"

"He thinks I'll be in danger," I finish.

"You're leverage. As long as Quinn knows he can get to you, he owns Crow."

I smooth my hands over my dress, processing this information. An image of Crow in that fight pit flashes through my mind—not the proud, powerful orc I know, but a man deliberately losing, sacrificing himself. For me.

Part of me, the wounded, rejected part, wants to say Crow made his choice. He pushed me away. He can deal with the consequences. But another part, the part that swore to do no harm, can't let him walk alone into destruction.

"Quinn wouldn't risk murder in a public venue," I say, grasping for logic.

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