Page 12

Chapter Twelve

Maya

T he stranger staring at me from the mirror wears a dark green evening gown that catches every hint of light, transforming it into emerald fire. Her hair forms an elegant crown of auburn curls, not a strand out of place. Perfect makeup hides the shadows beneath her eyes, the evidence of sleepless nights and silent tears.

I barely recognize myself.

Three days ago, I stood in a burning clinic in Shadow Ridge. Now I'm in my parents' Manhattan penthouse, dressed for a gala I have no desire to attend. My mother worked quickly—private jet the night of the fire, movers for the belongings that wouldn't fit in my hastily packed suitcase, and a team of stylists today to transform me back into the polished Manhattan doctor I once was.

As if Shadow Ridge could be erased with the right shade of lipstick.

I smooth my hands over the sequined fabric, trying to find comfort in its cool texture. The dress is beautiful, objectively. Expensive. Perfect for the Winthrop charity ball, where I'll be introduced to potential clients as Long Island's newest concierge doctor.

Perfect for a life I no longer want.

"There you are!" My mother sweeps into the room, her own designer gown rustling softly. She circles me, adjusting nonexistent imperfections. "Much better. You look like yourself again."

"Do I?" The question emerges softer than intended.

She meets my eyes in the mirror, her smile tightening at the corners. "Of course. That awful small-town pallor is finally gone." Her hands settle on my shoulders. "Soon this whole... Georgia episode will feel like a strange dream."

The mention of Shadow Ridge brings a sharp ache to my chest. I see flashes of everything I left behind—the clinic I'd begun to rebuild, Helen's knowing smile across the diner counter, Gus's gruff affection.

Crow.

"Mom, I don't think I've made the right choice," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "I left so much unfinished there."

Her smile disappears. She guides me to sit on the edge of my bed, sinking down beside me with practiced grace. "Maya, darling. We've been through this." She takes my hands in hers, her diamond tennis bracelet catching the light. "You made the best possible choice. The only sensible choice."

I shake my head. "But the clinic—"

"It was burning to the ground when we arrived," she interrupts. "A sign if I've ever seen one."

"Signs can be misinterpreted."

She sighs, the sound edged with impatience. "Even that... Crow person agreed you should leave. He practically insisted." Her voice softens with calculated sympathy. "When even the locals think you should go, it's time to listen."

The memory of Crow's cold dismissal cuts fresh. His amber eyes turned to stone as he spoke to my father like I wasn't even there. You can leave as soon as you're ready. Send her home where she belongs.

Had he meant it? Or was it another attempt to protect me by pushing me away?

"What you're feeling is perfectly normal," my mother continues, patting my hand. "Pre-party jitters, that's all. The Winthrops are intimidating, but Marcus specifically requested you based on your surgical record." A hint of genuine pride softens her expression. "This position is everything you've worked for—prestigious clients, exceptional compensation, and normal hours."

I force a smile. "I just need a minute to finish getting ready."

"Don't take too long." She checks her diamond watch. "The car is waiting downstairs. Your father and I will be inside when you're ready." She pauses at the door. "Tonight is the first night of the rest of your life, Maya. Try to look happy about it."

The door closes behind her with a soft click. I turn back to the mirror, studying the stranger who stares back at me.

I'm trying to do the right thing. For my career. For my parents' approval. For my own healing after Jamie. For Crow, who made it clear that I don't belong in his world.

But as I reach for my clutch, Jamie Matthews' face flashes before me—twenty-six years old, mother of two, dead on my operating table. I'd run to Shadow Ridge to escape that memory, only to find something worth staying for. Something I'm now abandoning.

I can't shake the feeling that I've left behind something essential—something that matters more than prestigious clients, parental approval, or even my own safety.

I've abandoned the woman who was finally becoming the doctor she always wanted to be. The kind of doctor Jamie would have been proud to have.

I gather what remains of my courage, grab my evening bag, and open the door to the hallway. When I glance up, a wall of green blocks my path.

I freeze, staring up at the massive orc filling the doorframe. He's older than Crow and Diesel—gray at his temples, lines etching the corners of his eyes, his olive-green skin weathered by years I can only guess at. Despite his age, he's somehow larger than Crow, with shoulders that make the already narrow hall feel like a shoebox.

"Dr. Johnson," he says, his voice deep and gravelly. "We need to talk."

I take a step back, my pulse quickening. "Who are you?"

He glances down the hallway, then back at me. "Not here."

Before I can protest, he's inside, closing the door behind him with surprising gentleness for hands that size. I retreat further, calculating the distance to my phone, to anything I could use as a weapon.

"Hammer," he says, answering my earlier question. "President of the Ironborn MC."

The name clicks into place—the voice on the phone that recruited me, the man Crow answers to. Still, caution keeps me wary.

"Prove it," I demand, stronger than I feel in this designer dress that suddenly seems like the flimsiest of armor.

A hint of approval crosses his face. "Smart girl. What would convince you?"

"Where are your patches? Your cut?"

He gestures to his tailored suit—expensive but understated, designed for someone his size. "Not exactly inconspicuous as is," he says, voice like granite sliding against stone. "Wearing patches would make me a target in this neighborhood."

His directness—different from Crow's sparse sentences but carrying the same weight—convinces me more than any identification could. I relax slightly, curiosity replacing fear.

"Why are you here?"

Hammer moves to the living room, surveying the penthouse with barely concealed discomfort. "I'm here because I owe you the truth." He turns to face me. "Crow made you leave Shadow Ridge. I knew about it, and I didn't intervene. I agreed you should go."

The admission stings more than it should. "So you came all this way to tell me you both think I'm better off in New York? Message received."

"No." His expression darkens. "I came to tell you I was wrong. If I'd known the danger that would follow, I never would have brought you to Shadow Ridge in the first place. But sending you away didn't fix anything."

A cold weight settles in my stomach. "What danger? What's happening?"

"Quinn." The name means nothing to me, but Hammer's tone gives it weight. "Underground fight promoter from New York. Has his hooks in Crow from before the club. He's been forcing Crow's hand, using you as leverage."

"The clinic fire," I whisper, understanding dawning. "The man who came in for stitches—"

"Quinn's enforcer," Hammer confirms. "He threatened you directly. That's why Crow pushed you away. Why he told your parents to take you home."

"To protect me." The pieces slide into place with sickening clarity.

"Always the hero," Hammer mutters, shaking his head. "Always protecting everyone but himself." His voice drops, something almost paternal in his concern. "But it's gone too far now. Crow's agreed to fight tonight."

"So? He's fought before."

"Not like this." Hammer's voice drops. "He's going to throw the fight. Against another orc."

The significance must show on my face because Hammer nods grimly.

"He swore he'd never fight another orc. Not after the camps. But Quinn's got him backed into a corner. If he doesn't do this—"

"He thinks I'll be in danger," I finish.

"You're leverage. As long as Quinn knows he can get to you, he owns Crow."

I smooth my hands over my dress, processing this information. An image of Crow in that fight pit flashes through my mind—not the proud, powerful orc I know, but a man deliberately losing, sacrificing himself. For me.

Part of me, the wounded, rejected part, wants to say Crow made his choice. He pushed me away. He can deal with the consequences. But another part, the part that swore to do no harm, can't let him walk alone into destruction.

"Quinn wouldn't risk murder in a public venue," I say, grasping for logic.

Hammer's expression tells me I'm wrong before he speaks. "If Quinn's after what I suspect he is, Crow throwing the fight won't be enough. He wants to make an example. He wants him broken. Or worse."

My chest constricts as the reality of what Hammer's saying hits me. "What can I do?"

"Come with me. To the fight." The request comes abruptly. "I've got brothers positioned throughout the venue, but they can't move too early without putting Crow at risk."

"But I can?"

"You're the only thing that matters enough to him to possibly stop this before he enters that ring." Hammer steps closer, intensity radiating from him. "If we can reach him in time, maybe we can get him to call the whole thing off."

I study his face, looking for deception, for manipulation, for anything that would explain why he'd come to me for help. I see only fear, the same fear I feel clawing at my throat.

"You're asking me to walk into danger," I say, needing him to acknowledge it. "After you both tried so hard to get me away from it."

"I have no right to ask this of you." He meets my gaze directly. "I'm knowingly putting you at risk. If I knew of another option, I'd take it."

The decision should require more deliberation. More weighing of consequences. But something in me shifts, crystallizes into certainty. I think of Jamie Matthews, how I failed to save her. I can't fail someone else I care about. Not again.

I think of Crow's hands, gentle despite their strength. Of his voice in the darkness of his room. Of every moment he's protected others while expecting nothing in return.

"Let me change," I start, gesturing to my dress.

"No time," Hammer cuts me off. "We're already cutting it close." He glances at his watch. "Fight's across town. Brooklyn warehouse district. We need to move now."

I grab my phone and send a quick text to my mother: I'm sorry. Something came up. Don't wait for me.

"There's a service elevator," I tell Hammer, slipping my phone into my clutch. "The one the staff uses. We can avoid the lobby."

He nods, following as I lead the way through the kitchen to the back hallway. As we descend in the narrow service elevator, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in its burnished doors—a woman in a glittering gown, heading toward danger instead of away from it.

For the first time since leaving Shadow Ridge, I recognize myself.

Outside, the night air hits my bare arms, raising goosebumps. Hammer leads me to a sleek motorcycle parked illegally at the curb—larger than Crow's but similar in style.

"You're kidding," I say, looking down at my dress.

"Fastest way through Manhattan traffic." He hands me a helmet. "Ever ridden before?"

"With Crow." The memory brings a fresh ache. "But not in evening wear."

"Hike it up," he says, practical rather than crude. "And hold on tight."

I do as instructed, gathering the sequined fabric high enough to straddle the bike, dignity be damned. This isn't the first time I've thrown caution aside for Crow, and it likely won't be the last.

As Hammer starts the engine, I wrap my arms around his waist, struck by the differences from riding with Crow. Where Crow is all heat and coiled tension, Hammer is solid stone—immovable, reliable. The engine beneath us roars to life, deeper than Crow's Harley.

We tear into the night, weaving through traffic, the city lights blurring around us. My heart pounds in time with the engine's roar as fear and hope battle for dominance. I don't know what we'll find when we reach Brooklyn. I don't know if Crow will listen, or if we'll be too late.

I only know that running away never solved anything. And it's time we both stopped running.

The warehouse district looms against the night sky, its industrial silhouettes stark against the cloud-reflected city lights. Abandoned buildings stand sentinel alongside renovated spaces where Brooklyn's wealthy play at danger. Hammer pulls to the curb beside a nondescript building, its windows blacked out, bass thumping from within.

"This is it?" I ask, dismounting with as much grace as I can manage, fighting with the yards of sequined fabric tangled around my legs.

Hammer doesn't answer, just guides me toward a side alley where shadows shift and separate. As we approach, I realize the shadows are orcs—at least ten of them standing silently in the darkness. The light from a distant streetlamp catches on green skin, on tusks, on eyes that follow our approach with predatory focus.

I don't recognize any of them, yet they all seem vaguely familiar—the same watchful stance as Diesel, the same controlled power as Crow.

"Brothers," Hammer addresses them. "This is Dr. Johnson."

They nod acknowledgment, their expressions giving nothing away.

"What's the plan?" I ask, trying to ignore how small I feel among them, how out of place in my evening gown.

Hammer turns to me. "We get you to where Crow is being held. But I need your word that you'll follow every instruction. No questions, no hesitation."

"Even then, it might not be enough," adds one of the orcs, his voice surprisingly gentle despite his imposing size.

"I understand," I say. "I'll do whatever it takes."

Hammer nods, satisfied. "Haverk, you lead. Keep her between you and me. The rest of you, create distance but stay alert."

They move with practiced coordination, forming a loose pattern around us as we approach the warehouse entrance. Two hulking human bouncers check tickets and pat down guests. I flinch as one reaches for me, but a single look from Hammer has them stepping aside, waving us through without a word.

The air inside hits me like a wall, thick with sweat, alcohol, and anticipation. Music pulses through massive speakers, but it can't drown out the crowd's hungry energy.

Inside, the warehouse has been transformed into a makeshift arena. A fighting cage stands in the center, floodlights trained on the chain-link structure that will soon contain Crow. The crowd mills around it—humans in everything from ragged street clothes to tuxedos and evening gowns, with scattered orcs throughout, though they're vastly outnumbered.

I spot a familiar face in the crowd—Dr. Mendelson, head of cardiology at New York Memorial, laughing with a group of colleagues. My stomach churns as I wonder how many more from my parents' social circle might be here, cheering for blood while sipping champagne.

We push through the crowd, my sequined gown actually helping clear a path as people turn to stare. Havrek creates space with his bulk while Hammer keeps close behind me, one hand hovering near my back without touching. The press of bodies, the roar of conversation, the smell of alcohol and sweat—it all swirls around me in a disorienting blur.

Halfway across the room, we're intercepted by another orc, young, with a jagged scar running down his neck.

"Hammer," he says urgently. "Quinn's got Crow locked down tight. Fight's about to start. No way to reach him before he enters the cage."

Hammer curses under his breath. "Where?"

"Back room. Armed guards. Quinn's taking no chances."

I feel my hope faltering. "What do we do now?"

Hammer's eyes narrow, scanning the warehouse. "Change of plan. We get you close enough for Crow to see you without Quinn or Ryker spotting you first."

"Who's Ryker?"

"Quinn's enforcer. The man who threatened you. He'd recognize you instantly." Hammer points toward the announcer's platform. "That's Quinn. Gray suit, red tie. Ryker will be nearby."

I follow his gesture to a well-dressed man in his fifties, silver-haired and commanding, surrounded by security. Even from this distance, his predatory confidence is evident.

"Come on," Hammer says, pulling me toward the edge of the crowd. "We need to get positioned before they bring Crow out."

We push our way around the perimeter, staying in the shadows. My dress, designed to attract attention at a charity gala, now feels like a beacon in this space. I try to make myself smaller, keeping my head down as we move.

The Orcs create a barrier around me, but even their imposing presence can only do so much in the increasingly packed space. We're pushed back, away from the cage, until we're nearly against the wall.

"This is too far," I protest. "He'll never see me from here."

"We'll get closer when the fight starts," Hammer assures me. "Right now, everyone's watching for Quinn's signal."

A spotlight sweeps across the crowd, and the announcer's voice booms through speakers mounted overhead.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight's main event is about to begin!"

The crowd roars in response, surging toward the cage.

"In this corner," the announcer continues, "the challenger you've all been waiting for. Standing six-foot-seven, three hundred and fifty pounds of pure destruction. The newcomer who's been tearing through the underground circuits! GRAAAAANITE!"

The warehouse erupts as an orc enters from a side door, arms raised in triumph before a punch has been thrown. He's massive—taller and broader than Crow, his green skin nearly black under the harsh lights. He moves with cocky swagger, playing to the crowd, but I can see what others might miss—his movements lack Crow's efficiency, his stance betraying inexperience despite his intimidating size.

Granite climbs into the cage, bouncing on the balls of his feet, feeding off the crowd's energy. His youth shows in every motion—unrestrained power without the precision that comes from surviving the battles Crow has fought.

"And his opponent," the announcer's voice drops dramatically, "the former champion who dominated these rings for three years before disappearing. Tonight marks his return to the cage! The Savage! brOOOTAN!"

The crowd's reaction shifts—boos mixing with cheers, the energy turning ugly with bloodlust as if the mere mention of his name awakens something primal in them. And then he appears.

Crow.

My heart stops.

He walks toward the cage with his head down, shoulders hunched—nothing like the proud warrior I know. No leather cut, just bare skin marked with tattoos I've traced with my fingertips. His face is blank. His eyes empty. He’s defeated before the fight has even begun.

Something inside me breaks at the sight. I surge forward, pushing past the orcs surrounding me.

"Crow!" I try to scream, but the crowd's roar swallows my voice.

A massive hand clamps over my mouth, pulling me back as I struggle.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Hammer hisses in my ear. "Quinn's men are watching for exactly this."

I wrench away from his grip. "He needs to know I'm here!"

"And he will," Hammer says, "but not like this. We didn't come here to get you killed."

My vision blurs with frustration as I struggle to keep my composure when Crow enter the cage, never looking up, never scanning the crowd as he usually would. He's already surrendered—to Quinn, to this fight, to whatever fate awaits him after.

"There has to be a way," I plead, turning to Hammer. "We have to reach him before it's too late."

The bell rings, cutting through the chaos. The fight begins.

Granite doesn't waste time with circling or sizing up his opponent. He charges, throwing a haymaker that would cave in the skull of anyone with slower reflexes. Crow dodges—barely—but makes no attempt to counter. Another punch comes. Then another. Crow blocks or evades, but never strikes back.

"What's he doing?" I whisper, though I already know.

"Exactly what Quinn wants," Hammer says grimly. "Making it look good before he goes down."

Punch after punch, Crow remains standing, but for how much longer? Blood trickles from a cut above his eye. Red punch marks bloom across his ribs. His movements grow slower with each hit he absorbs. Meanwhile, Granite is smiling, playing to the crowd, clearly enjoying his dominance.

"He doesn't know, does he?" I realize. "Granite has no idea this fight is rigged."

Hammer's expression darkens. "Kid probably thinks he's earned this win. That's how Quinn operates—he uses people against each other. Makes them think they're climbing up when they're just pawns."

The orc to my left, the thickset with a jagged scar across his cheek—suddenly tenses. "Ryker's with Quinn now," he says, nodding toward the announcer's platform.

I follow his gaze to where Quinn stands with his entourage. A tall, lean man has joined him. The same man who came to my clinic, who threatened me with that cold smile. As I watch, Quinn says something to Ryker, who nods, then signals to someone in the crowd.

That person turns and signals to someone in Granite's corner.

"What's happening?" I ask, dread pooling in my stomach.

"The end," Hammer says. "Quinn's giving the order."

Granite charges again, but this time there's something different about his approach—more purpose, less showmanship. His movements shift from performative to lethal. He feints left, then connects with a vicious right hook that sends Crow reeling. Crow drops to one knee, head bowed.

He isn't going to get up. He's going to let this happen.

"No!" I tear away from Hammer before he can stop me, pushing through the crowd toward the cage. Someone grabs my arm but I wrench free. A man twice my size blocks my path and I duck under his outstretched arm.

"Crow!" I scream, but my voice drowns in the roar of bloodthirsty spectators.

In the cage, Granite circles Crow like a predator, saying something I can't hear. Crow remains on his knees, offering no resistance. Granite draws back for what can only be a finishing blow.

"CROW!" My voice tears from my throat, raw with desperation.

He doesn't hear me. The punch connects with sickening force, dropping him flat on his stomach, face turned toward where I stand at the edge of the crowd. His eyes are closed.

"Get up!" I scream, fighting my way to the front, using my elbows, knees, anything to create space. My dress tears as someone grabs at it, but I keep moving until I'm pressed against the cage. "Crow, look at me!"

His eyes flutter, then open—unfocused at first, then sharpening as they find mine.

"Fight!" I cry, fingers curling around the chain link. " Fight for yourself for once in your goddamn life! Fight for me!"

His eyes sharpen with recognition. Confusion. Disbelief. Then something else—anger, purpose, life flooding back into his battered body.

Granite, seeing me and hearing my pleas, throws back his head and laughs. "Your human thinks you can win," he mocks, loud enough for me to hear. "Let me show her what happens to weak orcs who let themselves be pets."

He lunges forward for the final blow, fist raised to crush what remains of Crow's resistance.

It never lands.

Crow's hand shoots up, catching Granite's fist mid-air. The larger orc's momentum halts so abruptly that the whole cage shudders. The crowd falls silent, collective breath held.

"My name," Crow says, voice carrying in the sudden quiet, "is Brotan Thronshade." He rises to his feet, still gripping Granite's fist. "And I am no one's pet."

He twists, and Granite howls as something in his wrist gives way. Crow releases him, steps back, and settles into a fighting stance I recognize from the night I first met him—balanced, controlled, lethal.

"You want a real fight?" Crow asks, the beast I've glimpsed beneath his control finally showing itself. "Let's give them one."

Granite charges with an enraged roar. This time, Crow doesn't just evade—he counters with a right cross that snaps Granite's head back, and a follow-up body shot that makes the larger orc grunt in pain.

The fight transforms. No longer a scheduled execution, but a test of skill against power. Granite has size, but Crow has something more valuable—experience forged through survival, technique honed by necessity. Each movement calculated, deliberate, effective.

"Get her out of here," someone shouts near me. "Quinn's seen her!"

Hands grab my arms. I struggle until I recognize Hammer at my side.

"We need to move," he says urgently. "Quinn's men are coming."

"I can't leave him," I protest.

"You've done what you came to do. Look at him."

In the cage, Crow fights with renewed purpose, every movement precise. He's no longer going through motions, no longer an orc resigned to defeat. He's magnificent—powerful yet controlled. The crowd's mood has shifted, excitement replacing bloodlust as they witness skill instead of slaughter.

"He's fighting for you now," Hammer says. "Don't make his sacrifice meaningless by getting caught."

I let Hammer pull me back into the crowd, my eyes never leaving the cage. We've barely made it ten feet when shouts erupt behind us.

"There she is! The doctor!"

Ryker's voice cuts through the noise of the fight. I look back to see him pointing in our direction, security pushing through the crowd toward us.

"Run!" Hammer pushes me ahead of him, creating a path through the spectators.

The warehouse erupts into chaos as those nearest us try to get out of the way, others pressing closer to see what's happening. My torn gown tangles around my legs as I run, slowing me down. Through gaps in the crowd, I catch glimpses of the cage: Crow gaining the upper hand, Granite bleeding from a cut above his eye, Quinn's face twisted with fury.

Then a gunshot cracks through the air, and everything changes.

The crowd scatters in panic, creating a momentary opening in the sea of bodies. Before I can move, someone grabs me from behind with a painful grip on my arm that spins me around.

"Hello again, Doctor." Ryker's cold smile makes my blood freeze. "Quinn would like a word."

I struggle, but his fingers dig deeper. "Let me go!"

Hammer lunges toward us, but two security guards intercept him, blocking his path with drawn weapons. Through gaps in the fleeing crowd, I see other Ironborn members similarly cornered.

Ryker drags me toward the VIP section, his grip crushing against my bare arm. I fight him every step of the way, but it's like struggling against iron. I catch glimpses of the cage. Of Crow still fighting, unaware I've been captured. Granite is bleeding heavily now, staggering but still standing.

Quinn waits on his elevated platform, expression cold and calculating. He studies me as Ryker forces me beside him.

"So this is the doctor," Quinn says, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I see why Brotan was so protective."

Ryker positions me at the railing, in full view of the cage. A sharp prick at my side makes me gasp—the point of a knife pressing through the sequined fabric of my dress.

"Make sure he sees her," Quinn orders.

Ryker puts his mouth close to my ear. "Call to him. Now."

When I hesitate, the knife digs deeper. I gasp in pain, the sound carrying across the suddenly quieter warehouse.

In the cage, Crow's head snaps up. His eyes find mine, widening as he takes in my position, the knife at my side, Quinn standing behind me. Understanding dawns in his expression, followed immediately by something I've never seen before—pure, unrestrained fury.

"That's right," Quinn says in my ear. “He’s remembering our agreement. He loses this fight, or his doctor dies where she stands."

But Quinn has miscalculated. Badly.

Something fundamental shifts in Crow—a transformation visible even from a distance. The careful control he's maintained since I met him shatters. The beast he's always fought to contain breaks free.

Crow turns back to Granite. His next punch isn't calculated or restrained. It's raw power born of rage. The impact echoes through the warehouse, and Granite drops like a stone, unconscious before he hits the mat.

"Kill him," Quinn orders, voice tight with anger.

Guns appear in the hands of security guards. The crowd screams, stampeding toward exits. But Crow is already moving over the top of the cage in a single fluid motion, landing with predatory grace on the warehouse floor.

He comes for us like vengeance personified, unstoppable, focused, each movement with lethal purpose. Two guards step in his path. He doesn't slow, doesn't hesitate. One goes down with a crushed windpipe, the other with a shattered knee.

"Shoot him!" Quinn shouts, backing away.

A gun fires. Misses. The crowd's panic reaches fever pitch.

Crow reaches the platform in seconds, his eyes locked on Ryker. One hand grabs the knife at my side, wrenching it away while the other delivers a punch that sends Ryker crashing against the wall. I hear something crack as he slides to the floor, motionless.

"Run," Crow growls, pushing me toward the edge of the platform. "Now!"

I see Hammer fighting his way toward us, creating a path through the chaos. I start moving in his direction when another shot cracks behind me.

I turn instinctively and see Crow's face contort in pain, blood blooming across his shoulder. Quinn stands a few yards away, gun raised, smoke still weeping from its barrel.

"Keep going," Crow urges, still pushing me forward despite the blood spreading across his shoulder.

More shots ring out behind us. I feel Crow's body jerk against mine, his breath catching in a pained grunt. His hand on my back suddenly presses harder, shoving me forward.

"Run!" he roars, his voice strained in a way it wasn't before.

I glance back and see fresh blood spreading across his abdomen. Still, he forces me ahead, his body shielding mine from further bullets.

I can't. My feet won't move. Everything inside me, the doctor, the woman, even the daughter my parents raised to help others, refuses to leave him. Every instinct screams to protect him, to stop the bleeding, to save him.

Instead of running away, I turn and catch him as he drops to his knees.

The cage rattles violently behind us. I glance back to see Granite, the orc who was supposed to destroy Crow, vaulting over the fence. He charges through the crowd, moving with unexpected speed for his size.

I press myself against Crow's chest, waiting for the impact, for the blow that will end us both.

It never comes.

Granite surges past us, tackling the nearest gunman. Another goes down under his massive fists. I stare in shock—wasn't he just trying to destroy Crow seconds ago? Why is he suddenly helping us?

"What is he doing?" I gasp, clutching Crow's arm.

"Choosing a side," Crow mutters, his eyes tracking Granite's movements.

"Get Brotan out!" Granite bellows over his shoulder. "NOW!"

He reaches Quinn, who fires wildly, the bullet grazing Granite's shoulder. The young orc doesn't even flinch, just knocks the gun away and delivers a blow that sends the promoter sprawling. Understanding dawns—Granite realized he was just another pawn in Quinn's game, expendable once his purpose was served.

I don't wait to see more. I grab Crow's uninjured arm and pull, guiding him through the pandemonium toward where Hammer is fighting his way toward us. Blood soaks Crow's side, but he's still moving, still conscious. The exit seems impossibly far as panicked humans and orcs alike rush for the doors.

"Almost there," I encourage, leading Crow through the surge of bodies.

Hammer reaches us, immediately supporting Crow's other side. Together, we make our way to a side exit and step into the cool night air. An SUV with tinted windows waits at the curb, engine running.

"In!" Hammer orders, throwing open the back door.

I help Crow inside, climbing in after him. The interior lights reveal the full extent of his injuries—the shoulder wound seeping blood, the more worrying abdominal wound that could have hit vital organs. My medical training kicks in, cataloging damage, planning treatment.

"Where to?" the driver asks as Hammer slams the door.

"Hospital," I say automatically.

"Clubhouse," Crow counters, voice strained but determined.

"You need a doctor," I argue.

The ghost of a smile crosses his blood-spattered face. "I have one." His eyes hold mine, full of a trust that makes my chest ache.

I want to scream with frustration. "You've been shot. Twice."

"Will I live?" he asks, eyes locked with mine.

I assess his wounds more carefully—the bullet in his shoulder missed major arteries, and the abdominal wound appears to have entered at an angle that likely spared his vital organs. With his orc physiology and my care, his chances are good.

"Yes," I admit reluctantly. "With proper care. If I don't kill you myself first."

"Good." His undamaged arm snakes around my waist, pulling me onto his lap despite my protests about his injuries. He holds me against him, his heart pounding beneath my palm.

Then he kisses me, deeper and harder than ever before, with none of the restraint he's always shown. It's desperate, hungry, a claim and a promise wrapped into one. His lips press against mine with bruising intensity, his tusks cool against my heated skin.

I should push him away, should insist on treating his wounds immediately. Every medical instinct screams about blood loss and infection. But the woman in me, the one who faced down Quinn and his thugs to save this stubborn orc, responds with equal desperation.

Instead, I kiss him back with everything I have, all the fear, the anger, the relief pouring into that single connection. When we finally break apart, both breathless, his eyes hold mine with fierce intensity.

"Never again," he says, voice rough. "No more running from each other."

For once, I'm in complete agreement.