Page 7 of Brotan

"Crow?" The name escapes my lips before I can stop it.

He stares at me for a long, loaded moment. Then his expression shifts, walls slamming shut behind his eyes, his face hardening into careful indifference.

"That's what the patch on my chest says. Do I know you?" His voice is exactly as I remember it—like tires on gravel, rough and unyielding.

The question cuts through me. "New York," I say. "Six months ago. I treated you after—"

"Think you've got me confused with someone else." He cuts me off, a dismissive flick of his gaze over me before turning to Helen. "Kinda hard for humans to tell one orc from another, I guess." He shrugs, the gesture deliberately casual.

The lie is so blatant it leaves me speechless. I know he recognizes me. Saw it in that first unguarded reaction. But now his face is a mask, deliberately constructed to shut me out.

"Right," I say finally, my voice tighter than I intend. "My mistake."

Helen's gaze flicks between us, suspicion clear in her narrowed eyes, but she doesn't comment.

I turn back to my coffee, but it's gone cold, like everything else in the room. The space feels suddenly too small, the air too thick. I need to get out of here, away from his presence and the confusion it brings.

"I should get back to the clinic," I say to Helen, sliding off the stool. "I need to finish unpacking."

"But you haven't eaten," she protests.

I throw a five on the counter. "I'll grab something later."

As I leave my stool, I have to pass directly by him. He doesn't step aside, forcing me to navigate around the solid wall of his body. As I squeeze past, I catch a whiff of leather and motor oil and something distinctly male. The scent triggers an unwanted cascade of memories—the clinical smell of the ambulance mingling with his blood, the unexpected gentleness in his eyes when he thanked me.

I make it to the door before I realize he hasn't moved, hasn't turned to watch me leave. Just stands there, deliberately ignoring my existence while waiting for his to-go order.

It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't matter at all. He's nothing to me—just an unexpected ghost from a life I'm trying to leave behind.

So why does his denial feel like a knife between my ribs?

Outside, I gulp air like I've been underwater. The odds of his being here—of all places—are astronomical. Or worse, it's deliberate.

Hammer. The phone call. The job offer out of nowhere.

This wasn't random chance. This was engineered.

I wait beside my car, pulse hammering in my throat. If Crow thinks he can dismiss me that easily, he's about to learn otherwise. Six years of medical school and four years of residency didn't leave much room for timidity.

Five minutes pass before the diner door swings open. Crow emerges with a paper bag clutched in one massive hand, scanning the street before heading toward a motorcycle parked at the curb—all matte black chrome and leather, intimidating as its rider.

"We need to talk," I call out, stepping away from my car.

He freezes for a split second, then continues as if he hasn't heard me. I follow, closing the distance.

"Seriously? You're still pretending you don't know me?"

He turns, amber eyes narrowing. "Look, lady—"

"Cut the crap, Crow." I step closer, refusing to be intimidated by his size. "I don't easily forget people I've had my fingers inside of."

His eyes widen fractionally at my deliberate phrasing. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

"Not here," he growls, glancing toward the diner windows where Helen's face is clearly visible, watching with undisguised interest.

Without waiting for my response, he strides around the side of the building to the alley that runs alongside it. I follow, anger propelling me forward despite the warning bells in my head about following strange men—orcs—into secluded spaces.

Once we're out of view from the street, he turns on me. "What do you want?"

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