Page 9 of Brotan

"Everything alright, Doc?" she calls, clearly fishing.

"Fine," I reply with forced lightness. "Just clearing up a misunderstanding."

"Uh-huh." Her expression says she doesn't believe me for a second. "Those boys can be intimidating at first, but they're good people. Even Crow, though he'd probably growl if he heard me say it."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The last thing I need is to get caught in town gossip on my first day.

"Town meeting's still at seven," Helen reminds me. "You'll want to be there. Meet everyone properly."

"I will," I promise, sliding into my car.

As I drive back to the clinic, my mind races with questions. What are the chances of crossing paths with Crow again, in a town this small? More importantly, what does it mean for my fresh start if I'm already entangled in secrets and half-truths before I've even seen my first patient?

And why does the memory of his amber eyes—first shocked, then shuttered—keep replaying in my mind?

For now, I push these thoughts aside. I have a clinic to clean, supplies to organize, and a town to meet. The mystery of Crow and my recruitment to Shadow Ridge will have to wait.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, a plan already forming. Orcs might be patient predators, but doctors are relentless in their pursuit of answers. And patience, unfortunately, has never been one of my strong suits.

ChapterThree

Crow

The clubhouse reeks of stale beer and leather when I push through the door. Two prospects are shooting pool in the corner, both looking up, then quickly away when they catch my expression. Diesel's sprawled across our threadbare couch, boots on the table, scrolling through his phone. His head jerks up at the smell of grease wafting from the paper bag in my hand.

"Fuck, finally," he says, making a grab for the food. "Thought you'd crashed the damn bike or something."

I toss him the bag harder than necessary, making him fumble. My head's still swimming with the shit that went down at the diner. Maya's eyes locked on mine, recognition turning to hurt when I pretended she was nobody. Then the confrontation behind the diner, her calling me out, me owning up to being an asshole.

And now she's here. In our territory. The doctor who stitched me up when every other human wanted me to bleed out on their doorstep. The one who looked at me and saw something other than a green-skinned monster.

"Hey, dickhead," Diesel snaps his fingers near my face. "The fuck's wrong with you? You look like someone just kicked your balls into your throat."

"Need to make a call," I growl, stalking toward our war room in the back. I slam the door behind me, cutting off Diesel's "What crawled up your ass and died?"

Hammer has some explaining to do. Now.

I stab at his number on my phone, pacing the cramped space between the gun locker and the war table. Three rings, then:

"This better be bloody important," Hammer barks, the sounds of the New York chapter house loud in the background.

"You hired that fucking doctor from New York," I snarl, not bothering with pleasantries. "The one who patched me up after Quinn's shitstorm."

A pause, then a rough laugh. "Dr. Johnson? Yeah. Shadow Ridge needs someone with balls enough to treat our kind instead of letting us rot. She proved she's got bigger ones than most of the men in that ER."

"You should have fucking told me." I grip the phone so hard the case creaks, fighting the urge to put my fist through the wall.

"Would you have said yes?"

"Fuck no."

"Exactly why you weren't consulted." Something slams in the background. Hammer's always breaking shit when he talks. "She's good, Crow. Too good for that backwater shithole. Plus, she needed somewhere to lay low."

"What the hell happened in New York?" I demand, anger temporarily sidelined by curiosity.

"Lost a patient. Some higher-up suit tried to cover his ass, make her the scapegoat. She chose the patient's care over kissing management's ass—same way she chose patching you up over hospital bullshit."

My jaw clenches, remembering how she'd faced down that entire ER for me. The way she'd placed herself between me and a mob of humans who wanted me dead, her small frame somehow a more effective shield than my own muscle and bone. She'd looked at my wounds, not my tusks—at my pain, not my skin color. The memory burns hotter than it should.

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