Page 2

Chapter Two

Maya

Six months later

T he medical community has a term for doctors who crack: impaired physician. As if failure is a medical condition with its own diagnosis code. A year ago, I lost a patient I shouldn't have. Yesterday, I packed my life into my Honda. Today, I'm staring at a dusty clinic in a town that doesn't even register on most maps. This is what rock bottom looks like—Shadow Ridge, Georgia.

The town sits before me now. Peeling paint and boarded windows tell a story of slow death by economic failure. An obituary written in faded storefronts and empty parking lots. Perfect. I came here to bury myself, too.

My Honda sputters as I pull into what passes for the town's main street. The GPS chimes that I've arrived at my destination, but all I see is a building with a hand-painted "CLINIC" sign hanging crookedly above a door that's seen better days.

So this is my fresh start. This dusty, forgotten place where I can either outrun my failures or fall into obscurity trying.

I kill the engine and sit in the silence, my hands still gripping the steering wheel like it might somehow reverse me out of this decision. The random phone call that brought me here plays on repeat in my head:

"Dr. Johnson? My name is Hammer. I run the Ironborn MC. We've got a town that needs a doctor, and I heard you might need a change of pace."

I didn't ask how he knew about me. Didn't ask why a motorcycle club president was recruiting medical professionals. I just said yes, because New York's pristine hospitals had become suffocating after the review board cleared me while Jamie Matthews' husband looked on with empty eyes. What did it matter if bikers funded my practice, as long as I could treat patients without politics?

Jamie Matthews—twenty-six, mother of two, routine appendectomy turned fatal on my watch—followed me through every hospital corridor. I kept replaying that night, searching for the moment I could have changed everything. I missed her dropping blood pressure. I trusted the anesthesiologist who'd already been drinking. I didn't check the medication dosage myself. The collection of small mistakes that ended with a dead patient and a career in freefall.

A knock on my window snaps me out of the familiar spiral. A woman with honey blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun and sharp eyes peers in at me, her expression a mixture of curiosity and undisguised assessment.

I roll down the window, forcing professionalism into my voice. "Hello. I'm Dr. Maya Johnson. I'm the new doctor."

"You're in the right place then," she says, gesturing to the building I've parked in front of. "I'm Helen. I waitress at Greene's diner, but I've been keeping an eye on things since Dr. Morris left two years ago."

"Two years?" The words slip out before I can stop them. "This town hasn't had a doctor in two years?"

Helen's mouth twists in what might be a smile or a grimace. "Victor Hargrove made sure of that. Ran everyone out who wouldn't sell to him." She jerks her chin toward the building. "Come on in. I've got the keys. Place needs work, but most of the equipment's still there."

I follow her into what will apparently be my new workplace. The interior is exactly what I expected—dusty, dated, but surprisingly intact. Examination rooms branch off a small waiting area with a lab and an office in the back. Basic equipment sits covered in cloth.

"It's..." I begin, not sure how to finish.

"It needs a lot of work," Helen supplies helpfully, her eyes crinkling at the corners when she smiles. "I'm sure Hammer will have the club boys over here helping you set up when you're ready. They may look rough, but the town has come to trust them for a reason."

I run my finger along the reception desk, leaving a clean line in the dust. "Why did your Hammer person call me specifically? There must be plenty of doctors looking for work."

Helen shrugs, her gaze more perceptive than her casual tone suggests. "Hammer has his reasons. The man plays chess while the rest of us are playing checkers." She hands me a set of keys. "Clinic's yours. The little bungalow next door is included—small, but clean. I stocked the fridge with basics. Town meeting's tonight at seven at Greene's diner. You should come, meet everyone."

And then she's gone, leaving me alone in a clinic to face my uncertain future.

I spend the next few hours cleaning, unpacking the few medical supplies I brought, taking inventory of what's usable and what needs replacing. The work keeps my hands busy while my mind circles the same questions: Why am I here? Can I actually help these people? Will I kill someone else by trying?

By late afternoon, I've made enough progress to need a break. My stomach reminds me that I skipped lunch. I remember seeing Greene's Diner about a mile before the clinic, and food sounds good right now. Not to mention the sooner I'm seen in town, the faster patients will learn to trust me.

The air outside hits differently than New York—cleaner, carrying hints of pine and distant wood smoke, with an undercurrent of red Georgia clay after yesterday's rain. I take a deep breath, trying to reset. This is what I wanted. A new start. A place where I can treat patients on my own terms. Hammer made it very clear he'd be footing the bill for my services as long as I agreed to treat anyone in need of my help.

The diner's neon sign glows even in daylight—"Greene's" in faded blue cursive. A brass bell sounds as I push open the door. The place is nearly empty—just a couple of old men at a booth near the window and Helen behind the counter.

"Doc!" she calls. "Perfect timing. Lunch rush is over. Grab any seat."

I slide onto a stool at the counter and accept the laminated menu she pushes my way. "Coffee, please. Strong as you can make it."

"Have you already put yourself to work?" she asks while pouring.

"Not soon enough," I mutter, scanning the menu.

That's when the bell at the door sounds again. I don't turn, just continue reading the bewildering array of items guaranteed to tickle the tastebuds and clog the arteries. I settle on a hamburger with a side salad and start to give Helen my order, but her attention is focused on something over my shoulder.

"Well, don't you have perfect timing?" she says to whoever's entered. "The new doctor just arrived from New York and could probably use some of your muscle to get settled in."

"After I take this order to Diesel."

That voice. Before I even turn around, something in me knows—a bone-deep recognition that makes no sense.

I swivel my stool, coffee forgotten.

No way.

No fucking way.

He fills the doorway like a sentry—six and a half feet of green-skinned muscle wrapped in a leather vest emblazoned with the Ironborn MC patch.

My clinical gaze automatically catalogs what's changed since I treated him: the knife wound on his left bicep has healed to a pale line, his formerly split lip shows no trace of damage, but a new scar bisects his right eyebrow that wasn't there six months ago. Arms crossed over his chest, scars visible on the exposed skin, tusks glinting in the diner's overhead lights.

Crow.

The orc I patched up in the back of an ambulance six months ago. The one whose eyes bored into mine with an intensity I still can't shake. The one who disappeared into the night with a gravelly "I owe you, Doc" that occasionally echoes in my dreams.

My brain short-circuits as I try to make sense of this impossible coincidence. How? How is he here, in the same backwater Georgia town where I've come to start over? What are the odds? Is this some cosmic joke at my expense?

His gaze sweeps the diner, predatory and assessing, until it lands on me. Recognition flashes in those amber eyes, followed by something that looks like alarm before his expression shutters completely.

"Crow?" The name escapes my lips before I can stop it.

He stares at me for a long, loaded moment. Then his expression shifts, walls slamming shut behind his eyes, his face hardening into careful indifference.

"That's what the patch on my chest says. Do I know you?" His voice is exactly as I remember it—like tires on gravel, rough and unyielding.

The question cuts through me. "New York," I say. "Six months ago. I treated you after—"

"Think you've got me confused with someone else." He cuts me off, a dismissive flick of his gaze over me before turning to Helen. "Kinda hard for humans to tell one orc from another, I guess." He shrugs, the gesture deliberately casual.

The lie is so blatant it leaves me speechless. I know he recognizes me. Saw it in that first unguarded reaction. But now his face is a mask, deliberately constructed to shut me out.

"Right," I say finally, my voice tighter than I intend. "My mistake."

Helen's gaze flicks between us, suspicion clear in her narrowed eyes, but she doesn't comment.

I turn back to my coffee, but it's gone cold, like everything else in the room. The space feels suddenly too small, the air too thick. I need to get out of here, away from his presence and the confusion it brings.

"I should get back to the clinic," I say to Helen, sliding off the stool. "I need to finish unpacking."

"But you haven't eaten," she protests.

I throw a five on the counter. "I'll grab something later."

As I leave my stool, I have to pass directly by him. He doesn't step aside, forcing me to navigate around the solid wall of his body. As I squeeze past, I catch a whiff of leather and motor oil and something distinctly male. The scent triggers an unwanted cascade of memories—the clinical smell of the ambulance mingling with his blood, the unexpected gentleness in his eyes when he thanked me.

I make it to the door before I realize he hasn't moved, hasn't turned to watch me leave. Just stands there, deliberately ignoring my existence while waiting for his to-go order.

It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't matter at all. He's nothing to me—just an unexpected ghost from a life I'm trying to leave behind.

So why does his denial feel like a knife between my ribs?

Outside, I gulp air like I've been underwater. The odds of his being here—of all places—are astronomical. Or worse, it's deliberate.

Hammer. The phone call. The job offer out of nowhere.

This wasn't random chance. This was engineered.

I wait beside my car, pulse hammering in my throat. If Crow thinks he can dismiss me that easily, he's about to learn otherwise. Six years of medical school and four years of residency didn't leave much room for timidity.

Five minutes pass before the diner door swings open. Crow emerges with a paper bag clutched in one massive hand, scanning the street before heading toward a motorcycle parked at the curb—all matte black chrome and leather, intimidating as its rider.

"We need to talk," I call out, stepping away from my car.

He freezes for a split second, then continues as if he hasn't heard me. I follow, closing the distance.

"Seriously? You're still pretending you don't know me?"

He turns, amber eyes narrowing. "Look, lady—"

"Cut the crap, Crow." I step closer, refusing to be intimidated by his size. "I don't easily forget people I've had my fingers inside of."

His eyes widen fractionally at my deliberate phrasing. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

"Not here," he growls, glancing toward the diner windows where Helen's face is clearly visible, watching with undisguised interest.

Without waiting for my response, he strides around the side of the building to the alley that runs alongside it. I follow, anger propelling me forward despite the warning bells in my head about following strange men—orcs—into secluded spaces.

Once we're out of view from the street, he turns on me. "What do you want?"

"The truth would be nice. Why pretend you don't know me?"

He runs a hand over his face, the gesture surprisingly human for someone who projects such carefully constructed menace.

"Yes, I remember you," he admits, voice dropping to that low register that vibrates in my chest. "How could I not? But I'm not the same orc here that I was in New York."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

His eyes flick toward the street, checking for witnesses. "It means I've spent months building trust in this town. Do you have any idea how hard that is for someone who looks like me? I couldn't risk you shattering that by telling people what you know."

"What I know?" I repeat, incredulous. "That you were injured and I treated you? That you were polite and grateful? That doesn't exactly sound reputation-destroying."

"You found me half-dead outside an emergency room," he growls. "Beaten to shit after taking down five humans. You think these people want that kind of violence in their town?"

I search his face, understanding dawning. "These people seem perfectly capable of seeing beyond your tough exterior." I echo the same sentiment I expressed that night in the ambulance, when everyone else kept their distance.

Frustration flashes across his features. "You don't get it."

"Then explain it to me."

He takes a step back, putting distance between us. "Look, I had nothing to do with you being hired. I'll take that up with Hammer when I talk to him."

"Great." I throw up my hands. "You're going to get me fired a second time."

His brow furrows. "You got fired for treating me?"

"No." I hesitate, uncomfortable with how close he's cutting to truths I'm not ready to share. "But it didn't help my case. Still, I'd do it all over again."

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, maybe respect. Then the shutters come down again.

"I'm not going to tell Hammer to fire you," he says finally. "This town needs a doctor. Just... keep what you know about me to yourself."

"I'm not in the habit of sharing patient information," I say stiffly. "Doctor-patient confidentiality applies even in back-alley ambulances."

The ghost of a smile touches his lips, there and gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Fair enough."

An awkward silence stretches between us. There's more I want to ask—how he ended up here, what he's doing with the Ironborn MC, and why my arrival seems to disturb him so deeply. But his posture screams that the conversation is over.

"I should get back to the clinic," I say finally.

He nods once, then hesitates. "That building's been empty for a long time. Needs work. If you need—" He stops, apparently reconsidering whatever offer he was about to make. "I'm sure Hammer will send people to help."

"I can manage," I say, more sharply than intended.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Never said you couldn't."

We stand there another moment, tension humming between us like a live wire. There's something unfinished about this encounter, questions unanswered, words unsaid. But he's clearly done talking.

"See you around, Doc," he says finally, turning away.

I watch him walk back to his motorcycle, paper bag still clutched in one hand. He doesn't look back as he swings a leg over the massive bike, brings it roaring to life, and pulls away from the curb.

Only when he disappears around the corner do I realize I've been holding my breath. I exhale slowly, shoulders sagging with sudden exhaustion.

So much for a fresh start in a town where no one knows me or my failures. Instead, I've run straight into the one person who saw me at my most professionally defiant, when I stood up to an entire hospital for a patient everyone else was content to let die.

The irony isn't lost on me. I came to Shadow Ridge to escape Jamie Matthews' ghost, only to find a living reminder of the night I decided my oath was more important than hospital politics.

As I walk back to my car, Helen emerges from the diner, curiosity written plainly across her face.

"Everything alright, Doc?" she calls, clearly fishing.

"Fine," I reply with forced lightness. "Just clearing up a misunderstanding."

"Uh-huh." Her expression says she doesn't believe me for a second. "Those boys can be intimidating at first, but they're good people. Even Crow, though he'd probably growl if he heard me say it."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The last thing I need is to get caught in town gossip on my first day.

"Town meeting's still at seven," Helen reminds me. "You'll want to be there. Meet everyone properly."

"I will," I promise, sliding into my car.

As I drive back to the clinic, my mind races with questions. What are the chances of crossing paths with Crow again, in a town this small? More importantly, what does it mean for my fresh start if I'm already entangled in secrets and half-truths before I've even seen my first patient?

And why does the memory of his amber eyes—first shocked, then shuttered—keep replaying in my mind?

For now, I push these thoughts aside. I have a clinic to clean, supplies to organize, and a town to meet. The mystery of Crow and my recruitment to Shadow Ridge will have to wait.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, a plan already forming. Orcs might be patient predators, but doctors are relentless in their pursuit of answers. And patience, unfortunately, has never been one of my strong suits.