Page 11 of Brotan (Ironborn MC #2)

Chapter Eleven

Crow

T he heavy bag splits on the twentieth punch, spewing sand and foam across the concrete. Blood from my knuckles smears the canvas, but I keep hitting. The pain feels right. Deserved.

Maya's face flashes before me with each impact—the shock in her eyes when I told her parents to take her away. The fucking betrayal etched into every line of her expression.

My fist connects again. The chain holding the bag groans. Another hit. Another. Each impact is a punishment for hurting her. For pushing away the one good thing I never deserved. Until my lungs burn and my arms shake.

"Jesus Christ, the thing's already dead." Diesel's voice cuts through the red haze.

I turn, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. Diesel leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking at me like I've lost my goddamn mind.

"What the fuck do you want?" My voice sounds like it's been dragged through gravel.

"Answers." Diesel pushes off the wall with a controlled shove, his boots scraping across concrete as he approaches. "What the hell was that shit at the clinic? You handed her over like she was some stray dog that meant nothing."

"She means everything." The words tear from my throat before I can stop them. "That's why she needed to go."

Diesel snorts, not buying it. "Bullshit. You don't get to make that call, asshole."

"I do when her fucking life depends on it." I snatch a towel from the bench, wiping away blood that's already drying on my knuckles. "That son of a bitch at the clinic—the one who torched the place. Name's Ryker. Quinn's enforcer."

"So that’s what this is about?"

"Yeah." I throw the bloody towel aside, watching it land in a crumpled heap like my future with Maya. "Been blowing up my phone for days. Wants me back in the pit."

"So this shitstorm is about your past." Understanding dawns in his eyes. "He burned the clinic to get your attention."

I nod. "Been waiting for it to bite me in the ass." I drop onto a bench, suddenly exhausted. "They won't stop. Not until they get what they want."

"Which is?"

"Me. Back in the ring, filling their pockets with money."

Diesel rakes his fingers through his hair, tusks glinting under the harsh gym lights. "Shit, Crow. You have to fight this."

"This isn't a war I can win." I stare at my bloody hands. "Not without Maya catching strays."

"Hammer know about this Ryker guy yet?"

"No."

"Well he fucking should." Diesel crosses to the door, his massive frame blocking the exit. "War room. Now."

I want to argue, but there's no point. Diesel will drag me by the balls if he has to. I follow him down the hall to our secure room, where a laptop connects us to the rest of the Ironborn network.

The screen flickers to life minutes later, revealing Hammer's face, looking like we woke him from a three-day bender. His expression shifts from pissed to deadly serious as Diesel explains how my past has blown back on Shadow Ridge. On Maya.

"You should've told me," Hammer says when Diesel finishes. His gaze locks on mine through the screen. "The second you connected the two, you should have been twirping in my fucking ear, Crow."

"Quinn wants me back in the pit. He owns every underground fight from Manhattan to Albany. There is no stopping this without casualties."

Hammer goes quiet, his silence more unnerving than any threat. "Sending Maya back might've actually been smart. I'll have brothers on her and the family as soon as they hit New York."

I nod. "Quinn's crew runs deep. If he tries anything–"

"Your brothers will handle it," Hammer cuts me off, voice hard. "With her secure, I need a day to dig into this Quinn situation. See what kind of leverage Ash can find. You'll give me that, Crow."

I nod, telling him what he wants to hear.

Hammer's eyes narrow. The look cuts through the digital connection like he's right in the room. "I mean it, Crow. One day. Ironborn stand together. You're one of us. No one fights alone." He glances at Diesel, "You catch wind he’s up to something stupid, you knock him the fuck out and call me. Got it?"

Diesel agrees and shuts the laptop.

After the call ends, he looks at me.

"You're gonna fight anyway, aren't you?" he asks.

"Quinn wants blood," I tell him, standing. "Mine. Not yours. Not the town's. Not Maya's."

"And that's your call to make?"

"Damn right it is." I grab my leather jacket and head for the door. Diesel's waiting in the hallway, arms crossed.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he demands.

"Taking a ride." I try to move past him, but he blocks my path.

"Bullshit. You making a run for it? Going straight to Quinn?"

"Jesus Christ, D. Back off." I meet his eyes, keeping my voice steady. "I need to clear my head. And there's someone I need to see."

"Who?"

"Old friend. Owe him an apology."

Diesel's eyes narrow. "Gus?"

I don't answer, which is answer enough.

"That old bastard won't be able to talk you out of this either," he warns. "You ride out of town, and I'm calling Hammer. Club vote says you stay, you stay."

"I heard Hammer. One day." I put a hand on his shoulder. "Just need some air. Been breathing nothing but smoke and your sorry ass since that clinic went up."

Diesel studies my face, his eyes tracking every micro-expression, every lie I'm not saying. Finally, he steps aside. "One hour. You're not back, I'm coming to find you."

I nod and head toward the door. One hour should be enough for what I need to do.

* * *

The bike roars beneath me as I tear down the empty road toward Gus's place. Without Maya's weight against my back, the machine feels unbalanced, wrong. Empty. I'd gotten used to her arms around my waist, her cheek pressed between my shoulder blades, the whisper of her breath against my neck. The perfect fit of her body against mine.

It's funny how fast you can get used to something good. How the absence of it carves a hole in you that nothing else can fill.

It didn't take long to almost believe I could be more than what the camps made me. More than a weapon. More than a fighter. Almost.

Quinn's reappearance is the universe's way of reminding me what I am. What I'll always be. The surprise was Maya—the way she saw through my walls, the way she touched my scars without flinching, the way she made me want things I had no right to claim.

And look what it got her. A burned clinic. A threat against her life. A monster who'd rather push her away than risk seeing her hurt.

Gus's cabin appears around the bend, nestled among pines. I park the bike and take a moment to gather my thoughts.

The door opens before I reach the porch. Gus stands in the threshold, shotgun braced against his shoulder. Standard greeting.

"You look like shit," he calls out, lowering the weapon.

"Feel worse," I admit, climbing the steps.

His eyes scan past me, searching the treeline. "Where's the doc? You two back to squabbling?"

"New York." I move past him into the cabin.

Gus follows, leaning his shotgun against the wall. "Thought she'd last longer. Girl had the stuff for it."

"I sent her back." The words scrape my throat raw.

Understanding dawns in his weathered face as he studies me—the slump of my shoulders, the hollow look I can't hide. "You didn't just send her back. You pushed her away." He studies me with eyes that see too much. "Self-loathing's a hell of a drug, son."

I drop into a chair at his small table, suddenly exhausted. "I’ve got some shit to take care of. Won't be around for a while."

"Why's that sound like goodbye?" Gus asks, settling across from me.

"Because it probably is." I reach into my pocket, pull out the three bullets I took that day I found him with the gun. They clink against the wood as I lay them on the table. "Can't leave without returning these."

Gus stares at the ammunition, recognition flickering in his eyes. "I didn't expect you'd ever give those back."

"I took your choice away that day." I push the bullets toward him, my fingers lingering on the cold metal. "It was wrong."

Gus stays silent for a long moment, calloused finger tracing the edge of one bullet. His gaze stays fixed on me, cutting through bullshit like always. "This ain't just about a woman."

"No." I look past him to the window, unable to stand seeing the truth etched into his face. "But it is because of one."

"You're going to do something stupid, aren't you? Something there's no coming back from."

"Sometimes there's only bad choices and worse ones," I say, the words feeling like stones in my throat.

"You think dying for her is noble?" Gus challenges, his voice hardening. "Think she'll thank you for it?"

"Not looking for thanks," I mutter. "Just need her safe."

Gus shakes his head slowly. "You're making the same mistake I almost made. Thinking the world's better off without you in it. The difference is, you stopped me. Shame there's no one to return that favor."

We both know this is the end of the conversation. I've said what I came to say. Gus doesn't stand when I do. He doesn't make a move to say goodbye either. I've failed him, too. Added his name to the list of people I'm letting down.

Outside, the sun has dipped lower, casting long shadows across the clearing. I stand beside my bike, staring into the trees, the decision I need to make warring in my head. There's only one way to make sure my fucked up life doesn't backfire on the human's stupid enough to let me in.

I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen for a moment before typing a message to Ryker: " Barkley's Tavern. Off Route 16. Twenty minutes. "

I pocket the phone and kick the bike to life. Gus raises a hand in farewell—or maybe warning. I nod once and tear away from the cabin, leaving another piece of whatever humanity I'd managed to build in Shadow Ridge behind me.

Barkley's sits at a crossroads outside town like some forgotten gravestone—a dive bar closed for years, windows boarded, parking lot cracked and overgrown. Perfect for a meeting neither of us wants witnessed.

I arrive first, parking the bike behind the building where it can't be seen from the road. The place reeks of rot and stale beer. Feels fitting.

Ryker's truck appears right on time, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk before going dark. A beat-up Ford with New York plates. He parks beside the collapsed porch, unfolding his lanky frame from the driver's seat with lazy confidence.

"Didn't think you'd heel so quick," he calls, approaching with a smirk. "Figured I'd need to burn down another building or two."

The beast inside me snarls, clawing at my ribcage. My fingers twitch with the desire to crush his windpipe, to watch the life drain from his eyes. But I cage it. For Maya. For the club. For whatever slim chance I have of walking away from this.

"What does Quinn want?" I ask, staying out of striking distance. Old habits.

Ryker's smile widens. "Now that's more like it. Direct. To the point." He leans against a rotting porch column. "He wants what he's always wanted—his champion back in the pit."

"I'm done with that life," I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. The truth is, the fights are never done with you. The blood stays under your fingernails no matter how hard you scrub.

"I said he wants a champion in the pit," Ryker says, inspecting his fingernails. "I didn’t say that was you."

The words hit like a sucker punch. "What?"

"Quinn's got a new investment. Orc. Goes by Granite." Ryker's grin widens. "Tough son of a bitch. Fast. Young. Just needs one big win to launch him to the top."

Understanding dawns, sour as bile in my throat. "He wants me to throw the fight."

"Not just throw it. Get destroyed by it." Ryker pushes off the column, taking a step closer. "Quinn's got everything riding on this kid. He needs his debut to be spectacular."

"I don't fight orcs." The words come automatically, memories flashing behind my eyes—the camps, the guards forcing us into the pit, children with tusks too big for their faces fighting to the death while humans laughed. The line I swore I'd never cross again. "Quinn knows that."

"Yeah, he mentioned you might be... difficult about that part." Ryker's hand moves to his pocket, casual, like he's reaching for cigarettes instead of leverage. "That's why he bought a little extra insurance."

My stomach drops before he even pulls out the phone. Some part of me knows what's coming, what he's about to show me. The only thing that could possibly make me consider crossing that line.

He swipes through a few images before stopping on one, turning the screen toward me with deliberate slowness. The photo freezes my blood. Maya, standing in her bedroom at the bungalow, packing clothes into a suitcase. The angle is from outside her window.

"Nice place she's got," Ryker says casually. "Thin walls, though. Could hear her crying all the way from the bushes."

The beast roars to life, clawing at my insides, demanding freedom. My vision edges with red, the world narrowing to just Ryker's throat and how easily I could tear it out. The taste of copper floods my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting for control.

"When was this?" I manage through clenched teeth.

"Couple hours ago." Ryker swipes to another photo—Maya sitting on her bed, face in her hands. She looks broken. Because of me. He pockets the phone, smirking. "Don't worry—she's on her way back to New York. Safe and sound. For now."

My fists clench at my sides, every muscle coiled to attack. Ryker notices, his hand drifting toward his waistband where I know he's carrying.

"Careful, Brotan," he warns. "Quinn doesn't need you in one piece. He just needs you in the ring."

I force the beast back, swallowing rage that burns like acid. Maya's face hovers in my mind, not the broken one from Ryker's photo, but smiling, looking at me like I'm worth something. "If I do this... Quinn leaves her alone? For good?"

"Scout's honor." Ryker raises three fingers in a mocking salute. "Quinn's a businessman. Once he's got what he wants, he moves on."

"When?"

"Tomorrow night. Quinn's been waiting for this." Ryker's expression turns thoughtful. "Your girlfriend should be in New York by then. Maybe she'd like to come watch? Front row seats to see her monster get put down?"

The next instant happens on pure instinct, a red haze descending over my vision. My hand closes around his throat, lifting him off his feet. His eyes bulge as I squeeze just enough to cut off air but not crush his windpipe.

"You go near her, you so much as say her name again, and Quinn won't find enough pieces to identify your body." I bring him close enough to feel my breath on his face. "We clear?"

He manages a nod, face purpling. I drop him and he collapses, gasping and coughing.

"Jesus... fucking... Christ," he wheezes. "Psycho... bastard."

"What time? Where?" I demand, towering over him.

He scrambles back, still clutching his throat. "Warehouse district. Brooklyn. 11 PM." He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a folded paper. "Address. Flight info. Everything you need."

I snatch the paper and scan the details. Commercial flight leaving Atlanta in four hours. Just enough time to make it if I leave now.

"One more thing," Ryker says, finding his feet. "Come alone. No club. No backup. Quinn's got eyes everywhere—one hint of your brothers, and all bets are off."

I nod once, already turning away. "I'll be there."

"Oh, and Brotan?" Ryker calls after me. "Make it look good when you go down. Quinn's got a lot riding on this fight."

I don't answer, don't trust myself to speak without returning to finish what I started with his throat. I just kick my bike to life and tear out of the lot, gravel spraying in my wake. The paper crumples in my fist as I push the machine harder, faster, the wind doing nothing to cool the fire in my blood.

The ride back to the clubhouse passes in a blur of asphalt and rage, my mind already in Brooklyn, already calculating what I'll need to do. How I'll need to lose convincingly without making it obvious. How I'll face another orc in combat for the first time since the camps.

Memories I've spent years burying rise like corpses in a flood—the stench of the pits, the roar of the spectators, the sickening crunch of bone, the color of orc blood darker than human. The guards laughing as they threw us in together, taking bets on which children would survive.

The clubhouse lot is empty except for Diesel's bike and a prospect's car. Good. Fewer witnesses. I park and head straight for my room, grabbing the duffel from under my bed and shoving in the bare essentials—change of clothes, toiletry kit, the few personal items that matter.

My hands pause on the small wooden box buried beneath my shirts. Inside, the bullet from my first underground fight, the one that nearly ended me before I became Crow. A reminder of everything Brotan was, everything I've tried to outrun. I add it to the duffel, a talisman for what lies ahead.

I'm zipping it closed when Diesel appears in the doorway, arms crossed.

"Going somewhere?" His voice is deceptively calm.

"Got a flight to catch."

"Like hell you do." He steps into the room, blocking my exit. "Hammer said wait a day."

"Don't have a day." I shoulder the bag. "Quinn's got a fight set for tomorrow night."

"And you just rolled over and took it?" Anger edges into his tone. "Since when does Crow bow to some human fight promoter's demands?"

"Since he had someone take pictures of Maya through her bedroom window." The words scrape my throat, taste like copper on my tongue. "Since he made it clear what happens if I don't show."

Diesel's expression shifts, the anger collapsing into something worse—understanding tinged with pity. "We can protect her, brother. The club—"

"The club can't be anywhere near this." I cut him off. "Quinn's watching. One hint of Ironborn involvement and the deal's off."

"What deal? You taking a dive for this asshole?"

I don't answer, which is answer enough.

"Jesus Christ." Diesel runs a hand over his face. "Against who?"

"Another orc." The admission burns my throat. "Goes by Granite."

Diesel drops his hand, shock written across his features. "You swore you'd never—"

"I know what I swore." I try to push past him, but he plants himself more firmly.

"Let me call Hammer. We can figure this out."

"There's nothing to figure out." I check my watch—three hours until the flight. "This is my mess. I'll handle it."

"By committing suicide?" Diesel shakes his head. "You know you'll never walk out of that ring alive. Quinn won't let you."

I don't answer, can't meet his eyes. The silence stretches between us, weighted with everything unsaid.

"You stupid son of a bitch." Diesel's voice drops, a dangerous edge creeping in. "You think dying in that ring fixes anything? You think that's what she wants?"

"I think she deserves a life without monsters in it." I look up, meeting his gaze directly, letting him see what this is costing me. "Both the ones hunting her and the one she thought she could save."

"She didn't think she was saving you," Diesel says, his voice dropping, "She saw you. The real you. That scared you more than Quinn ever could. Crow, don’t do this."

"I'm sorry, brother." The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have. "I'm out of choices."

The move is lightning-fast—a right hook Diesel sees coming but chooses not to block. Recognition flashes in his eyes a half-second before impact, a silent acknowledgment of my choice. He drops like a stone, unconscious before he hits the floor. I catch him, lowering him carefully onto my bed.

"Forgive me," I mutter, though he can't hear me.

I grab my cut from the hook on the wall, running my fingers over the patches that mark my life for the past four years. The bike and the chain. The territory markers. The date I patched in. The only real family I've known since the camps. With careful movements, I fold it and place it on the dresser, a final goodbye. My phone goes beside it, a severed connection to the life I almost believed I could have.

I try not to think about Maya as I head for the door—the way her skin felt beneath my fingertips, how she looked at me like I was worth saving, how her smile made the beast inside me go quiet for the first time in twenty years. How I'll never see that smile again.

One last glance at Diesel's unconscious form, and I'm gone, through the clubhouse, out the door, into the fading daylight. I throw the duffel across my bike and kick it to life, the engine's roar drowning out whatever remains of my conscience.

The road stretches ahead, leading away from Shadow Ridge, away from everything I almost let myself believe I could have and toward an ending I've been running from since the day I stepped into my first fighting pit.

At least I know that when this is all done, no one else will suffer for my mistakes. Maya will be safe. The club will move on without me. And all of this—the pain, the fear, the memories of what might have been—will finally end with me.