Page 10 of Brotan

"That's it? One dead patient and she throws away her career?"

"Sometimes one corpse is all it takes to break you," Hammer says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register. "Like one doctor treating you like something other than an animal was enough to change your bloodthirsty ass."

"Nothing changed," I spit, the lie burning my tongue.

"Bullshit. You haven't stepped foot in Quinn's fight pit since that night. Something the entire fucking club couldn't beat into your thick skull for years."

The truth of it slams into me harder than any right hook. I had quit—not immediately, but the hunger for those underground fights had died after Maya stitched me up, after those hands worked on me with care instead of disgust. Something broke in me that night—the desire to bleed and make others bleed suddenly seemed hollow when compared to the simple dignity of being treated like I mattered.

"So that's your game?" I demand. "Hired her to babysit me? Keep me from busting heads?"

"I hired her because that town needs someone who won't let our brothers bleed out in the street," Hammer growls, steel in every syllable. "The fact that she somehow got through your thick fucking skull when none of us could is just a bonus."

"Reassign me," I say flatly. "Send me back to New York. Hell, I'll get back in Quinn's ring if the club needs cash—"

"Not happening," Hammer cuts me off. "We're spread too thin with Vargan's case and Victor's trial coming up. You've built trust in Shadow Ridge. Another member would take months to get where you are."

"So I'm stuck with her," I say, words like gravel in my throat.

"She makes you squirm like a bitch," Hammer observes, satisfaction dripping from every word. "Good. Maybe you'll finally figure out you're more than just the club's attack dog."

I end the call and slam the phone down so hard the screen cracks, matching the fracture lines spreading through my carefully constructed walls by the one human who'd looked at me like I was worth saving.

As I move to pocket the damaged phone, it buzzes with a text. It’s an unknown number, but the message makes my stomach knot into a cold, hard ball.

Heard you're playing house in Georgia now. Miss the old days? -R

Ryker.

My mouth goes dry, copper flooding my tongue like I've taken a hit. Memories flash rapid-fire through my mind—the underground fight pit in Queens with its stench of sweat and desperation, the thunderous roar of the crowd pressing against my skin, the salt-metal taste of my own blood on my tusks. The aftermath of my final fight, when I'd put three men in the hospital and cost Quinn a fortune in canceled bets. Ryker's voice slithers through my memory, hot breath against my ear as I collected my winnings:"Quinn doesn't forget, and he doesn't forgive. Remember that, greenskin."

Now he's reaching out after six months of silence. The timing isn't coincidental—not with Maya suddenly in Shadow Ridge.

My fingers hover over the screen, momentarily paralyzed. A cold sweat breaks out along my spine despite the room's chill, my shirt suddenly adhering to my back. If Ryker's tracking me, if he knows where I am, it means Quinn hasn't forgotten. Worse, he knows where I am.

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the reply button. Part of me wants to respond, to find out what he wants, to get ahead of the threat. Another part knows better—engaging with Ryker means opening a door better left closed.Not worth it. Not anymore.

I delete the message with a hard swipe, but the unease lingers like smoke after a fire. That part of my life might be behind me in action, but its shadow still reaches long across everything I touch.

That's the real reason I can't have her here. Not just because she makes me feel things I don't want to feel, but because my past has teeth, and I won't be responsible for her getting bitten.

I stride back into the main room, rage and fear still simmering beneath my skin. Diesel's sprawled in his chair, burger half-demolished, watching me with that infuriating grin that makes me want to put his head through the wall.

"So?" he asks, talking through a mouthful of fries. "You done having your little tantrum, princess?"

"Shut it." I drop into the chair across from him, snatching back what's left of my food. The burger's gone cold, but I tear into it anyway, the greasy comfort familiar against my tongue.

Diesel chuckles, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand. "This about that woman who just rolled into town? The doctor?" His perception has always been too sharp for his own good. "Helen texted me. Said you damn near swallowed your tongue when some hot doctor walked in."

My teeth grind together, a muscle jumping along my jaw. "Helen needs to mind her goddamn business."

"Said you knew her. Then acted like you didn't. Then had some heated talk outside." He leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Sounds like quite the reunion."

Before I can tell him exactly where to shove his observations, the clubhouse door bangs open. Ash walks in, his scarred face surveying the room with that tactical assessment that comes from surviving too many ambushes. When he spots us, his shoulders ease slightly.

"When'd you get back?" I ask, grateful for the interruption.

"Bout an hour ago." Ash heads straight for our stash, pulling out a beer and cracking it open with his teeth. "Hammer's got me babysitting Victor's case. Interviews all week with witnesses."

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