Page 31 of Brotan

Victor's been too quiet since his arrest and indictment. Quiet men are dangerous men. Men with nothing left to lose are walking time bombs.

The Hargrove estate looms on the highest hill overlooking Shadow Ridge—a monument to wealth extracted from the town's slow death. Victorian architecture with its wraparound porches and six bedrooms for a man who lives alone. The kind of house that whispers old Southern money, though everyone knows Victor's grandfather was just a moonshiner who got lucky in real estate.

I park directly in front of the main entrance, ignoring the circular drive where Maya's Honda sits. My boots hammer the marble steps as I take them three at a time, the beast inside me straining against a fraying leash.

The maid who answers looks terrified, eyes widening at the sight of a six-and-a-half-foot orc in a leather cut standing on the pristine porch.

"I'm here for Dr. Johnson," I say, voice dangerously soft as I push past her.

Her gaze darts over my shoulder, searching for backup that isn't there. "Dr. Johnson is with Mr. Hargrove. I can tell her you're waiting when she's finished—"

"I'll tell her myself." I force my way into the foyer, swallowing a growl.

The house reeks of wealth, crystal chandeliers, antique furniture, oil paintings of people who stole their legacy instead of building it. I scan for exits, entrances, threats, military habits hammered into me by necessity.

"Sir, you can't just—" The maid hurries after me, voice rising toward panic.

"Which room?" My voice drops lower, a barely contained threat.

"I can't—"

"Which. Room." I turn, letting enough of the beast show in my eyes to make her shrink back. It's cheap intimidation I rarely use on civilians, but Maya's safety overrides my usual restraints.

She points with trembling fingers toward the grand staircase. "Second floor. Master suite at the end of the hall." Then adds, almost desperately, "His assistant is with them."

Small comfort, but better than nothing.

I take the stairs two at a time, tracking the scent of antiseptic and vanilla that follows Maya everywhere. The door to the master suite stands partially open. I push it wider without knocking.

Victor Hargrove lies in a massive four-poster bed, looking significantly less intimidating in silk pajamas, his face flushed with fever. Maya stands beside him in her professional mode—stethoscope around her neck, medical bag open on the nightstand, expression unreadable. A slim woman in an expensive suit hovers nearby, typing notes into a tablet.

Maya looks up as I enter, shock flashing across her features before professional composure locks back into place. Victor's reaction is slower, his fever dulling his normally sharp gaze.

"You can't be in here," the assistant demands, stepping forward.

I ignore her, eyes fixed on Maya. "We need to talk."

"I'm with a patient," she says evenly, though I catch the steel beneath her words. "Please wait outside."

"Now," I insist, tone making it clear this isn't a request.

Her eyes narrow a fraction. "Crow." Just my name, but loaded with warning. "Please wait outside. I'll be done shortly."

We lock gazes. The tension in her shoulders tells me she's annoyed—but not afraid. There's no panic in her scent, no distress signals in her posture. She's in control of the situation.

Against my better judgment, I nod once. "I'll be right outside."

The assistant begins sputtering about security. Victor, surprisingly, raises a hand to silence her.

"Let the doctor finish her examination," he says, voice raspy with illness. "Her...friend... can wait."

The way he says "friend" makes my jaw clench tight enough to risk breaking teeth, but I step back into the hallway without further comment. The door remains partially open—close enough to hear voices, far enough that I can't make out most words. I pace the corridor like a predator, every sense on high alert.

The maid reappears, wringing her hands. "Sir, I really must insist—"

"I'm not leaving without her," I state flatly, continuing my patrol of the hallway.

"Then perhaps you could wait downstairs? In the parlor?" Her anxiety pulses in the air, glances toward the master suite, suggesting Victor doesn't appreciate uninvited guests in his private domain.

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