Page 3 of Brotan

"Where are you taking him?" Dr. Ramsey calls after her, the edge of panic in his voice sweeter than any victory tonight.

"To be treated," she replies without slowing or glancing back.

As we round the corner, her plan becomes clear. An ambulance sits empty, two EMTs lounging against its open doors, eyes locked on cell phone screens. One look at the storm in Maya's eyes, and they back away from their vehicle like she's pulled a gun instead of just a glare.

"Fine," she says, venom dripping from each syllable. "They don't want you inside, so we'll do this outside."

"I'm fine," I protest, already knowing it's useless. "Just let me–"

"Shut up and let me save your life," she cuts me off, and something dangerous stirs in me. Her commanding voice awakens instincts that have nothing to do with fighting and everything to do with claiming.

Before I can rebuild my walls, she hooks her arm under my shoulder, using leverage and pure stubborn will to haul me up. For someone half my size, she's surprisingly strong—or too determined to accept her limitations.

"You'll be dead before you make it wherever you're going. Just let me stop the damn bleeding."

She's right, though my pride hates to admit it. I've lost too much blood to make it back on my own. Maya climbs into the ambulance first, then reaches back with both hands. Her fingers wrap around my forearms, steady and certain as she helps guide my broken body up and in.

Her touch burns through my skin, bringing a different kind of pain. The kind that warns of danger ahead.

Inside the ambulance, fluorescent lights reveal the full extent of the damage. Maya moves with surgical precision, gathering supplies and prepping the small space.

"Take off your jacket," she orders without looking up, already threading a curved needle.

I comply, biting back a groan as dried blood pulls free with the leather. My leather cut bears the witness marks of tonight's work—torn in places, soaked through in others. The shirt beneath is a lost cause, more blood than fabric at this point.

She turns back, and I catch the momentary widening of her eyes as she takes in the full canvas of damage. Her gaze moves clinically at first, cataloging wounds. But then something shifts—a subtle change in her breathing, a lingering glance that goes beyond medical assessment.

"You're lucky," she says, cutting away my shredded shirt with practiced snips. The backs of her fingers brush against my skin, and I feel her slight recoil at my heat. Orc body temperature is always a surprise to humans who touch us. "Internal bleeding would've killed you before morning, but these look like they somehow missed anything vital."

Her eyes trace the tattoos mapping my torso, black ink telling stories I'd rather forget. Her pupils dilate slightly when she notices the muscle definition that knife wounds and broken ribs can't erase.

"I've had worse," I rumble, my voice like gravel even to my ears.

She makes a sound—half laugh, half scoff. "You say that like you're proud of it."

I'm surprised into a chuckle, which quickly turns into a curse as my ribs protest. "I am."

"Hold still," she murmurs, leaning close to examine the deepest wound—a four-inch gash across my thigh where some bastard got lucky with a switchblade. The wound gapes open, revealing muscle beneath. "This needs stitches. Several in fact."

She douses the area with antiseptic that burns like hellfire, but I don't flinch.

"I'm going to numb it first," she says, filling a syringe with clear liquid. This time, she warns me before plunging the needle into the meat of my thigh, angling it under the wound edges.

While waiting for the anesthetic to take effect, she cleans the other cuts—one across my ribs, another slicing my bicep, assorted smaller damage to my forearms and face.

"Most of these I can close with butterflies," she says, applying adhesive strips to pull together the edges of a cut above my eye. Her face is inches from mine, close enough that I can count the freckles dotting her nose and smell the coffee on her breath underneath her vanilla perfume and soap.

She moves back to my leg once the numbing takes hold, threading a curved needle with practiced ease. "Bar fight?" she asks, making the first stitch.

"Something like that."

She shakes her head, not looking up as her hands work, pulling flesh back together with tiny, perfect sutures. "Grown men acting like children. Doesn't matter what species. Y chromosomes and alcohol always lead to the same stupid outcome."

"Says the woman patching up the winner," I reply, watching her hands work. They're small but steady, no hesitation as she pierces my skin.

Her eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I see amusement there. "Is the other guy in worse shape?"

"Guys. Plural," I correct her, unable to keep the pride from my voice. "Five of them. All humans twice your size. And yeah, guaranteed they're worse off."

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