Page 10

Chapter Ten

Maya

M y mother's ultimatum hangs over me like a storm cloud. The memory of her unexpected phone call replays in my mind as I organize supplies at the clinic.

"Your father pulled strings with Marcus Winthrop," she'd explained with that crisp efficiency she uses for everything from dinner plans to life-altering decisions. "They need a concierge doctor at his Long Island practice—wealthy clients, reasonable hours, triple what you'd make in that backwater clinic."

When I hesitated, her voice had hardened. "This is the last time we intervene, Maya. Marcus needs to fill the position quickly. The offer expires in two weeks."

Those two weeks are ticking by and my indecision has created an invisible barrier between Crow and me. He senses that something's wrong, but he doesn't know what. I've been distant, distracted, unable to focus on our budding relationship while this choice looms over me. What was once effortless now feels strained. We move around each other carefully, his confusion matching my reluctance to explain.

The supply cabinet needs organizing, so I sort gauze pads by size. Focusing on this routine task occupies my hands while my thoughts return to the inevitable question: what happens when those two weeks are up?

Those days with Crow had revealed possibilities I hadn't allowed myself to consider. We fit together seamlessly—his strengths complement my weaknesses, and my skills fill his gaps. In him, I'd glimpsed a partnership unlike any I'd experienced—the protective warrior and the healer, creating something greater than either of us alone.

But Mom's call collapsed that vision like a house of cards.

If she hadn't blocked her number, I never would have answered, never would have watched our connection dissolve like tissue paper in rain.

My phone buzzes with a text. Mom again: We need to talk about your decision. I delete it without responding, though a knot forms in my stomach. I'd hoped to have more time before facing them directly.

The weight of their expectations presses against my chest. Stay in Shadow Ridge, and I forfeit my parents' approval. Go back to New York, and I lose... what, exactly? A town that needs me? A makeshift clinic?

A green-skinned fighter who looks at me like I can heal every wrong done to him?

It's an impossible choice, but one I know time is running out on making.

I've just finished reorganizing the bandages when the clinic door swings open, setting off the small bell I installed after the trash can fire. I step out of the supply room, expecting Mrs. Patterson for her blood pressure check. Instead, Crow fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light.

"Diesel's running late," he says. "I'm covering till he gets his shit together."

My body responds instantly to his presence—a flutter beneath my ribs, warmth blooming across my skin as his scent surrounds me. Leather and cedar and something uniquely Crow that I've tried unsuccessfully to forget. I press my palm against the edge of the desk to anchor myself, wondering if his enhanced hearing can detect the sudden rhythm change in my chest.

"I thought you had meetings with Ash today." I keep my voice neutral, professional, forcing back a wave of emotion.

"Rescheduled." He scans the waiting room, empty at the moment, then turns his attention back to me. "You busy?"

"Just restocking supplies." I gesture toward the back. "Nothing urgent."

He nods, then steps closer, closing the distance with deliberate steps. My heart rate picks up, responding to his proximity like I'm hardwired to his presence.

"What's going on with you?" he asks, voice dropping to that low register that vibrates through my bones.

The directness catches me off guard. Crow isn't one for emotional discussions, preferring action to words every time.

"Why would anything be wrong?" I counter, not meeting his eyes.

His finger hooks under my chin, gently tilting my face up. "You've barely looked at me since the other morning."

The concern in his eyes makes my chest ache. I should tell him the truth—that my parents are offering one last chance at the career I spent a decade building. That I have to choose between the comfortable, predictable path they've carved out and this uncertain future in Shadow Ridge with an orc who runs hot and cold and is as unpredictable as he is strong.

That if I stay, I'm choosing this town, this life, and by extension, him—over everything I've worked toward.

"I've had a lot on my mind," I say instead. "It's nothing."

"Bullshit." His thumb brushes my cheek in a gesture so tender it almost breaks me. "You've been pulling away."

"Me?" I raise an eyebrow. "You're the one who's been 'busy' every night."

Something flickers in his eyes—guilt? uncertainty?—there and gone too fast to read. "Club business. Hammer's got us running security checks while some asshole's still setting fires."

"Until dawn?" I regret the words immediately. I have no right to question his whereabouts or make a claim on his time.

His hand drops from my face. "Didn't realize you were keeping track."

"I wasn't," I lie. "Just an observation."

The tension between us pulls taut, stretched to the breaking point. Before my mother’s call, I would have leaned into him, closed the distance with a kiss. Now I can't seem to bridge the gap her ultimatum created.

Crow steps closer, one large hand settling on my waist while the other cups my cheek. "Maya—"

The clinic door swings open, bell jingling cheerfully. I start to turn, a professional smile already forming, when I freeze in place.

My parents stand in the doorway, looking as out of place in Shadow Ridge as designer furniture in a hunting cabin. Mom in her tailored pantsuit, Dad in pressed slacks and a button-down—Brooks Brothers casual, they call it. Their expressions mirror each other—shock morphing to disapproval as they take in the scene before them: their daughter practically in the arms of an orc in a leather vest.

"Maya?" Mom's voice cuts through the silence. "Surprise!"

The worlds I've tried so desperately to keep separate collide with devastating force. I step away from Crow so quickly that I nearly trip over my own feet. "Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?"

"We thought we'd see this clinic of yours firsthand," Dad says, his eyes never leaving Crow. "Since you've been so... evasive about the details."

The undercurrent is clear: we needed to see what was so important you'd throw away your career for it.

"Welcome to Shadow Ridge Family Medicine," I say automatically, falling back on professional courtesy to mask my panic. "This is Crow. He's with the organization that's helping rebuild the town."

Crow extends his hand in a human gesture I know doesn't come naturally to him. "Nice to meet you, Doctor Johnson."

Dad stares at the offered hand a beat too long before taking it briefly. Mom doesn't even bother with the pretense, her gaze sliding past Crow like he's too far beneath her to even notice.

"Maya, darling," she says, stepping forward to air-kiss my cheek. "You look... rested." The pause speaks volumes as rested is her code for you've let yourself go .

"I am," I reply, straightening my spine. "Small town practice agrees with me."

"Hmm." She makes a non-committal sound, her gaze sweeping the clinic with the same clinical assessment she applies to underperforming residents. "This is... quaint."

Dad has already moved past greetings, examining the equipment with the practiced eye of a surgeon. He runs his finger along the otoscope, checking for dust. "This model must be fifteen years old," he comments. "The optics are barely adequate for proper diagnosis."

"It works perfectly fine," I say, defensive despite myself.

"I should check the perimeter," Crow says quietly. His expression is carefully blank—the mask he wears for strangers, for threats. The one he hasn't directed at me since that first day in the diner. "Diesel will be by soon if you need anything."

He leaves without waiting for a response, and something in me withers at his retreat. I want to call him back, to introduce him properly— this is Crow, he's important to me —but the words stick in my throat.

The door has barely closed behind him when Mom whirls on me, her practiced social smile vanishing. "Maya Elizabeth Johnson, what on earth are you thinking?"

"Excuse me?" I cross my arms, bracing for the storm.

"Don't play naive," Dad interjects, voice low but intense. "That was the orc you treated in the ER? The one you risked your career for."

The accuracy of his assessment leaves me momentarily speechless. Dad continues, connecting dots. "Is that why you came here? To follow him? Or did he follow you?"

"Neither," I snap, heat rising to my face. "Neither of us knew the other would be here. It was a coincidence."

"Coincidence." Mom's laugh is brittle. "You throw away a prestigious position to work in a—" she gestures at the modest clinic, "—a glorified first aid station, and by 'coincidence' that... individual... is here too?"

"His name is Crow," I say through gritted teeth. "And yes, coincidence. The Ironborn MC assigned him to help rebuild the town around the same time Hammer contacted me about the doctor position."

"Hammer?" Dad repeats, latching onto the unfamiliar name. "Crow, Diesel, Hammer? Who are these people, Maya?"

"Hammer is the president of the motorcycle club," I explain, immediately regretting the admission when their expressions sharpen with disapproval.

"A motorcycle gang recruited you?" Dad's voice climbs an octave. "And you didn't think that was suspicious?"

"Club, not gang," I correct automatically. "And I needed a fresh start. They needed a doctor. It was mutually beneficial."

"Mutually—" Mom sputters, pressing her fingertips to her temples. "Maya, please tell me you're not romantically involved with that... creature."

The harsh words hit just like she intends them to. "That 'creature' has a name," I say, anger burning through my professional veneer. "And my relationship with Crow is professional."

The lie tastes bitter, a betrayal of what we've shared. But admitting to my parents that I've fallen for an orc fighter is unthinkable. They'd have me committed.

"Professional," Dad repeats skeptically. "Is that what you call whatever we just walked in on?"

"We were discussing security measures," I say, the half-truth coming easily. "The town has had a few arson attempts since I arrived."

"Arson?" Mom's hand flies back to her throat. "Maya, this is exactly why we've been so concerned. This town isn't safe."

"It's safer than New York," I argue. "The incidents were isolated. The added protection is just precautionary."

"And you expect us to believe your relationship with the orc is purely professional? Security-related?" Dad's disbelief shows in the deep furrow of his brows.

"I don't expect you to believe anything," I say, my patience fraying. "I wasn't expecting visitors, and frankly, I have a full day of patients scheduled."

Mom appears wounded by my tone. "We thought you'd be pleased to see us. After our call earlier this week, and not hearing back, we were worried."

"You could have told me you were coming," I point out.

"Would you have told us not to come?" Dad challenges.

The truth—yes, absolutely—hovers on my tongue, but I swallow it. "Let's not do this now," I say, forcing a smile. "Why don't you go to my bungalow next door, rest from your drive, there's wine in the refrigerator, though not a name that you'll recognize, and we can catch up over dinner?"

"Is that your way of asking us to leave?" Mom's smile is sharp, even though I know she's trying to fight it.

"It's my way of saying I'm working," I counter. "The spare key is under the flowerpot on the porch. Make yourselves at home. I'll be there by six."

They exchange a loaded glance before Dad finally nods his acceptance.

"We'll see you at dinner, then," he says. "Perhaps you can explain to us then what's so special about this place that's worth sacrificing everything you've worked for."

His gaze flicks meaningfully toward the door, where Crow disappeared earlier. The implication is clear: tell us this isn't about that orc.

Alone again, I sink into the chair behind the reception desk, my legs suddenly wobbly. What am I going to tell them at dinner? How can I explain that Shadow Ridge matters to me—that these people need me in a way New York Memorial's patients never did?

The doorbell jingles, and I straighten, expecting Diesel. Instead, a middle-aged man enters, tall, lean, with the weathered look of someone who works outdoors. A nasty gash runs along his forearm, blood seeping through a makeshift bandage. He scans the entire clinic before his gaze settles on me, the same way Crow always does. Always looking for an escape route. Always preparing for the worst.

"Can I help you?" I ask, professional mask sliding into place.

"Cut myself working," he says, holding up the arm. "Buddy said you might be able to patch it up."

"Of course." I gesture toward the exam room, thankful for the distraction. "Let's take a look."

As we pass the window, I glance outside, looking for Diesel crossing the parking lot. He's nowhere in sight. If there was an accident at the worksite, he might have been called to lend a hand.

The man settles on the exam table while I wash my hands and gather supplies. The cut is deep but clean, a straight slice consistent with a sharp blade. Too straight, in fact, to be the accidental work injury he claimed. Self-inflicted, possibly—I've seen enough of those in the ER to recognize the hallmarks.

"This will need stitches," I tell him, cleaning the wound methodically. "How did you say it happened?"

"Didn't," he replies with a thin smile. "Rebar sticking out of the cement. Always catches you when you're not looking."

I nod, though the explanation doesn't match the injury. "You're not from Shadow Ridge, are you? I haven't seen you around."

"Just hired on today," he says, watching me prep the sutures with unsettling intensity. "I hear it's a good place for a fresh start. Maybe I'll stick around."

"That's right." I inject lidocaine around the edges of the wound, noting his lack of reaction to the needle.

"You new here yourself?" he asks as I begin the first stitch.

"A couple of weeks now."

"Like it?"

"It's growing on me." I keep my answers vague, unease prickling at the back of my neck.

"Must be hard to adjust," he continues. "Coming from the city and all. Bet you miss the amenities."

I glance up sharply. "I didn't mention where I was from."

Alarm bells ring in my head, but I remain outwardly calm. Between Crow's behavior, my parents' arrival, and this strange man, my nerves are stretched thin.

He shrugs his uninjured shoulder. "Small town. People talk."

"I suppose they do." I return to my stitching, fingers steady despite my growing discomfort. "Almost done here. You'll need a tetanus shot before you go."

"You know many folks in town yet?" His tone remains casual, but the question isn't.

"Some," I answer, preparing the injection.

"What about the motorcycle club? The Ironborn. You know any of the members?"

My hand stills momentarily before I force it to continue. The more he talks, the less casual this conversation feels.

"There are a few orcs in town," I say carefully. "I haven't had much opportunity to get to know them."

He laughs, sharp and humorless. "That's interesting, considering they never leave your side. Especially that feral one. Brotan, they call him."

Crow’s name sticks out more than the accusation. He’d told me it was his orc name, used before Hammer found him and invited him into the club. But how does this guy know that? Anyone working on the crew would simply know him as Crow.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," I lie, maintaining a neutral expression despite the alarm bells clanging in my head. My fingers twitch near the instrument tray. The scalpel lies six inches from my hand—I could have it at his throat in under two seconds if necessary.

"Now that's just insulting," he says, smirking. "We both know better, Maya."

My mouth goes dry. "What do you want?"

He stands, towering over me, boxing me in between him and the wall. "Relax, doctor. I'm not here to hurt you. Brotan hasn't been answering my texts, so I thought I'd send him a message he can't ignore."

"What message?"

"Tell him Quinn is only going to ask nicely once." His expression hardens. "He knows the deal. And what happens if he refuses."

I shake my head. None of what he’s saying makes any sense. "What does that mean?"

He gets up from my table and pauses at the examining room door, turning back with a smile that makes my stomach flip. "It means the next time I come to this clinic, I won't be the one needing stitches." His gaze slides over my instruments, my hands, my throat. "Pretty fingers you've got there, Doc. Shame if anything happened to them."

"Wait—" I start, but he's already walking down the hallway. I wait for the bells to signal he’s gone before I breathe again. What the hell just happened? And who the hell was he? My fingers shake as I pull my cell from my pocket. My pointer hovers over Crow’s name in my contacts as the smell of smoke hits my nose.

I rush into the hallway. Gray smoke billows from the waiting area, flames licking up from a trash can near the wall to a curtain and crawling across a nearby chair.

My phone is in my hand, but by the time I dial for help, my laptop with patient records and all my files will be destroyed. The smoke detector starts its shrill warning as I dash toward the office, pulling my sweater over my nose and mouth.

The front door crashes open, and Diesel’s voice finds me. "Doc!" he shouts, before a sudden violent hiss of static, I assume is a fire extinguisher. "Get out!"

"My laptop!" I grab it, unplugging the cord with fumbling fingers. "The patient records—"

The smoke thickens, dropping toward the floor. When I stick my head out from the office doorway, Diesel's extinguisher has made little impact on the spreading fire.

"It's not enough," he calls, coughing. "Out now!"

I clutch the laptop to my chest, crouching low as I make my way to the front. The smoke burns my eyes, sears my lungs. Through watering vision, I see flames reaching the reception desk and partly covering my escape route.

As soon as Diesel notices, he points the extinguisher at the base of the flames, but it's not able to compete. “Try the back,” he yells.

I drop my head, half to shield my face from the smoke and half out of defeat, knowing the back door is locked due to Crow’s security protocols and the only keys are engulfed in flames on the reception desk.

I raise my head to tell Diesel to get out while he can when a massive figure charges through the wall of flames—green skin glowing orange in the firelight, familiar eyes wild with panic.

"Maya!" Crow's roar cuts through the crackling flames.

He yanks his shirt over his head, pressing the fabric to my face before I can protest. Then I'm airborne, thrown over his shoulder, his arm locked around my thighs. I’m high enough that the flames only heat my shoes as he carries me through them.

We burst through the door into clean air. Crow carries me to Diesel's bike and sets me down. My lungs burn as I gulp air, still clutching the laptop.

"Are you hurt?" Crow's hands move over me, checking for injuries. "Maya, talk to me. Did you get burned anywhere?"

"I'm okay," I manage between coughs. "The smoke—"

He cups my face, searching my eyes. The fear in his expression is bare, unguarded. "Why didn’t you get out when the fire started?"

Through watery eyes and a hacking cough, I hold up my laptop, earning a string of impressive curses from Crow.

“You went back for your laptop?”

“Had to,” I cough. “Every record of every patient is saved on it.”

“Only you, Doc,” Crow says, pulling me close to his chest and holding on so tightly I’m sure he’ll force the smoke from my lungs by sheer force. “What the fuck am I ever going to do with you?”

Around us, neighbors arrive with garden hoses and buckets. Someone has called the volunteer fire department, but reports that they're still twenty minutes away.

When I’m finally released, I see angry red marks on Crow's arm where he brushed against flames.

"You're hurt," I say, reaching for Crow's arm, then glancing over to where Diesel is helping feed a hose through a busted window a foot from us with burnt hands. "Both of you—"

"Later," Crow cuts me off. "What happened? How did this start?” He directs the second question to Diesel.

Diesel shrugs. “I don’t know, brother. A patient walked out, and by the time his truck left the lot, I saw flames in the window.

“A patient,” Crow all but growls. His attention turns back to me with an intensity that makes me shiver.

Reality crashes back. "A man. Said he worked on your crew. Came in for stitches, but it was just a pretext. He had a message for you."

Crow's expression hardens. "What message?"

"Something about Quinn only asks nicely once." I watch his face carefully, seeing recognition flare in his eyes, followed by something darker—a dangerous, feral look I've never witnessed before. "He said you'd know, and he called you Brotan."

Diesel sucks in a sharp breath. "Quinn? Jesus Christ."

"What did he mean?" I ask, fighting to speak through my smoke-irritated throat. "He said he’s seen you and Diesel watching over me, and wanted to know how well I knew either of you. Who is he, Crow?"

Crow ignores my questions, his voice urgent. "What did he look like, Maya?"

I try to speak over the smoke caught in my throat. "Tall, thin, middle-aged. Rough skin."

“I saw him leave,” Diesel throws in. “It wasn’t Quinn.”

"Ryker," Crow’s jaw tightens. "Did he threaten you? Directly?"

I nod, watching the fury build in his eyes. "He said next time he wouldn't be the one needing stitches."

Something raw and dangerous flashes across Crow's face—a glimpse of the fighter he used to be, the one who survived the camps and the underground rings. For the first time, I feel a flicker of fear, not of him but of the violence he's capable of unleashing.

Diesel turns to Crow. "We need to loop Hammer in on this, brother. If Quinn's involved..."

"No," Crow cuts him off. "Tell him about the fire. Buy me some time to figure out what the hell is going on here. If it’s Quinn, he already knows about Maya, and he won’t appreciate the club getting involved."

Knows about me? I’m forming the question in my throat when my parents push through the crowd, faces tight with concern.

"Maya!" Mom rushes forward, pulling me from Crow's grip. "My God, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," I insist, though my voice is rough.

Dad positions himself between me and Crow. "What happened here?"

"Fire," Crow says flatly. “But it’s under control now."

"Control?" Dad's head swivels toward me. "My daughter’s clothes are singed."

"I’m fine, Dad," I say, downplaying the danger. "Crow and Diesel made sure of it."

"Maya—" Mom gestures at the clinic, where flames are turning to smoke thanks to the neighbors. "You could have been killed!"

"It was small," I counter. "I'm fine."

Dad checks my pupils, my pulse, and listens to my breathing. "You need oxygen. And rest." His voice carries the authoritative weight of decades in medicine.

Then his attention shifts to Crow, eyes narrowing as professional detachment gives way to paternal fury. "This is what happens when my daughter associates with your kind. Look at her!" He gestures at my soot-streaked face, the angry red marks on my wrists. "She was nearly killed."

Crow's jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his green skin. His eyes never leave mine, even as he responds to my father. "I know."

"You know?" Dad steps between us, blocking Crow from my view. "Is that all you have to say? My daughter throws away her career to come to this... backwater, and nearly dies in a fire that clearly targeted her. Because of what? Her connection to you?"

I try to intervene. "Dad, that's not—"

"She could have been chief of surgery at Memorial," Dad continues, his voice rising with each word. "Instead, she's patching up farmers and bikers in a clinic that someone just tried to burn to the ground. Tell me how that's acceptable."

Something shifts in Crow's expression—a calculation, a decision forming behind those amber eyes that suddenly won't meet mine. His shoulders square as if bracing for impact, hands curling into fists at his sides.

"You're right," he says finally, the words sounding foreign coming from his mouth. Each syllable seems physically painful for him to form.

"Crow—" I start, but he cuts me off with a look that freezes my blood.

"We're taking her home," Dad says, his arm wrapped protectively around my shoulders. "Now."

To my shock, Crow nods, his jaw clenched tight. For a moment, I see conflict rage behind his eyes—something desperate and raw battling against whatever decision he's made. Then it's gone, replaced by a cold mask I haven't seen since that first day in the diner.

"You should," he agrees, voice hollow. "Take her back to New York." His voice is cold, detached, but his knuckles are white where he grips the truck door. "Shadow Ridge isn't a place for someone like her."

"What?" I push forward, but Dad's arm blocks me. "Crow, what are you—"

"You can leave as soon as you're ready," Crow continues, addressing my father as if I'm not even there. "The club will take care of shipping her belongings and car. "

I look to Diesel, hoping for some explanation, at least some reassurance. But he can only shrug and furrow a brow as he watches Crow.

"I think that's the first sensible thing I've heard since we arrived," Dad says, a hint of grudging respect in his voice.

“You’re better off where you belong, Maya,” Crow says, then gives one sharp nod before he turns his back on me, walking toward the clinic and the firefighting efforts without another word.

I stare after him, confusion crystallizing into rage. "Wait!" I call, breaking free from my father's grip and jogging to catch up. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to decide what's best for me."

Crow pauses but doesn't turn. His shoulders are rigid with tension. "Go home, Maya."

"This is my home!" The declaration surprises even me with its force. "You don't get to push me away because you're scared."

He turns then, eyes blazing. "I'm not scared. I'm being realistic. This town will only bring you pain."

"You mean you will," I counter, stepping closer. "What does Quinn want from you, Crow? Or should I call you Brotan?"

His eyes widen fractionally, then narrow. "That name doesn't exist anymore."

"Seems like Quinn didn't get the memo." I take another step closer, despite my father's protests behind me. "You won't protect me by pushing me away. We're stronger together."

For a moment, something flickers in his expression—longing, maybe. But then the shutters come down, his face hardening into marble. "There is no 'together,' Doc. There never was."

His words pierce through me, sharp as surgical steel, but I refuse to crumble. Instead, I draw myself up taller, meeting his gaze directly. "Fine. Run away. That's what you're good at."

Something flickers across his expression—regret? pain?—before his features harden into granite once more. He turns without another word, rejoining the firefighting efforts with mechanical precision.

Dad's arm settles around my shoulders. "Let's get you home."

I allow them to lead me away, too stunned to resist. Crow's dismissal replays in my mind, each word cutting deeper than the smoke that still burns my lungs. "You’re better off where you belong, Maya," As if everything between us had been a momentary distraction, a mistake he was now correcting.

Through the haze of shock and smoke inhalation, a cold clarity washes over me. I'd imagined something between us that clearly wasn't there. I'd seen a protector, a partner, someone who understood my need to heal this broken town. Instead, he'd just been waiting for an excuse to send me away.

The realization aches worse than my burning lungs or the blisters forming on my arms. I'd survived Jamie's death by focusing on others, on healing this town. But who heals the healer when she's been broken?

As we reach my parents' rental car, I look back once more at the smoking remains of my clinic - and my foolish hopes. Maybe leaving is exactly what I need. Maybe Dad is right, and I never belonged here at all.