Page 60 of Brotan

Hammer's expression tells me I'm wrong before he speaks. "If Quinn's after what I suspect he is, Crow throwing the fight won't be enough. He wants to make an example. He wants him broken. Or worse."

My chest constricts as the reality of what Hammer's saying hits me. "What can I do?"

"Come with me. To the fight." The request comes abruptly. "I've got brothers positioned throughout the venue, but they can't move too early without putting Crow at risk."

"But I can?"

"You're the only thing that matters enough to him to possibly stop this before he enters that ring." Hammer steps closer, intensity radiating from him. "If we can reach him in time, maybe we can get him to call the whole thing off."

I study his face, looking for deception, for manipulation, for anything that would explain why he'd come to me for help. I see only fear, the same fear I feel clawing at my throat.

"You're asking me to walk into danger," I say, needing him to acknowledge it. "After you both tried so hard to get me away from it."

"I have no right to ask this of you." He meets my gaze directly. "I'm knowingly putting you at risk. If I knew of another option, I'd take it."

The decision should require more deliberation. More weighing of consequences. But something in me shifts, crystallizes into certainty. I think of Jamie Matthews, how I failed to save her. I can't fail someone else I care about. Not again.

I think of Crow's hands, gentle despite their strength. Of his voice in the darkness of his room. Of every moment he's protected others while expecting nothing in return.

"Let me change," I start, gesturing to my dress.

"No time," Hammer cuts me off. "We're already cutting it close." He glances at his watch. "Fight's across town. Brooklyn warehouse district. We need to move now."

I grab my phone and send a quick text to my mother:I'm sorry. Something came up. Don't wait for me.

"There's a service elevator," I tell Hammer, slipping my phone into my clutch. "The one the staff uses. We can avoid the lobby."

He nods, following as I lead the way through the kitchen to the back hallway. As we descend in the narrow service elevator, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in its burnished doors—a woman in a glittering gown, heading toward danger instead of away from it.

For the first time since leaving Shadow Ridge, I recognize myself.

Outside, the night air hits my bare arms, raising goosebumps. Hammer leads me to a sleek motorcycle parked illegally at the curb—larger than Crow's but similar in style.

"You're kidding," I say, looking down at my dress.

"Fastest way through Manhattan traffic." He hands me a helmet. "Ever ridden before?"

"With Crow." The memory brings a fresh ache. "But not in evening wear."

"Hike it up," he says, practical rather than crude. "And hold on tight."

I do as instructed, gathering the sequined fabric high enough to straddle the bike, dignity be damned. This isn't the first time I've thrown caution aside for Crow, and it likely won't be the last.

As Hammer starts the engine, I wrap my arms around his waist, struck by the differences from riding with Crow. Where Crow is all heat and coiled tension, Hammer is solid stone—immovable, reliable. The engine beneath us roars to life, deeper than Crow's Harley.

We tear into the night, weaving through traffic, the city lights blurring around us. My heart pounds in time with the engine's roar as fear and hope battle for dominance. I don't know what we'll find when we reach Brooklyn. I don't know if Crow will listen, or if we'll be too late.

I only know that running away never solved anything. And it's time we both stopped running.

The warehouse district looms against the night sky, its industrial silhouettes stark against the cloud-reflected city lights. Abandoned buildings stand sentinel alongside renovated spaces where Brooklyn's wealthy play at danger. Hammer pulls to the curb beside a nondescript building, its windows blacked out, bass thumping from within.

"This is it?" I ask, dismounting with as much grace as I can manage, fighting with the yards of sequined fabric tangled around my legs.

Hammer doesn't answer, just guides me toward a side alley where shadows shift and separate. As we approach, I realize the shadows are orcs—at least ten of them standing silently in the darkness. The light from a distant streetlamp catches on green skin, on tusks, on eyes that follow our approach with predatory focus.

I don't recognize any of them, yet they all seem vaguely familiar—the same watchful stance as Diesel, the same controlled power as Crow.

"Brothers," Hammer addresses them. "This is Dr. Johnson."

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