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Chapter Three

Crow

T he clubhouse reeks of stale beer and leather when I push through the door. Two prospects are shooting pool in the corner, both looking up, then quickly away when they catch my expression. Diesel's sprawled across our threadbare couch, boots on the table, scrolling through his phone. His head jerks up at the smell of grease wafting from the paper bag in my hand.

"Fuck, finally," he says, making a grab for the food. "Thought you'd crashed the damn bike or something."

I toss him the bag harder than necessary, making him fumble. My head's still swimming with the shit that went down at the diner. Maya's eyes locked on mine, recognition turning to hurt when I pretended she was nobody. Then the confrontation behind the diner, her calling me out, me owning up to being an asshole.

And now she's here. In our territory. The doctor who stitched me up when every other human wanted me to bleed out on their doorstep. The one who looked at me and saw something other than a green-skinned monster.

"Hey, dickhead," Diesel snaps his fingers near my face. "The fuck's wrong with you? You look like someone just kicked your balls into your throat."

"Need to make a call," I growl, stalking toward our war room in the back. I slam the door behind me, cutting off Diesel's "What crawled up your ass and died?"

Hammer has some explaining to do. Now.

I stab at his number on my phone, pacing the cramped space between the gun locker and the war table. Three rings, then:

"This better be bloody important," Hammer barks, the sounds of the New York chapter house loud in the background.

"You hired that fucking doctor from New York," I snarl, not bothering with pleasantries. "The one who patched me up after Quinn's shitstorm."

A pause, then a rough laugh. "Dr. Johnson? Yeah. Shadow Ridge needs someone with balls enough to treat our kind instead of letting us rot. She proved she's got bigger ones than most of the men in that ER."

"You should have fucking told me." I grip the phone so hard the case creaks, fighting the urge to put my fist through the wall.

"Would you have said yes?"

"Fuck no."

"Exactly why you weren't consulted." Something slams in the background. Hammer's always breaking shit when he talks. "She's good, Crow. Too good for that backwater shithole. Plus, she needed somewhere to lay low."

"What the hell happened in New York?" I demand, anger temporarily sidelined by curiosity.

"Lost a patient. Some higher-up suit tried to cover his ass, make her the scapegoat. She chose the patient's care over kissing management's ass—same way she chose patching you up over hospital bullshit."

My jaw clenches, remembering how she'd faced down that entire ER for me. The way she'd placed herself between me and a mob of humans who wanted me dead, her small frame somehow a more effective shield than my own muscle and bone. She'd looked at my wounds, not my tusks—at my pain, not my skin color. The memory burns hotter than it should.

"That's it? One dead patient and she throws away her career?"

"Sometimes one corpse is all it takes to break you," Hammer says, his voice dropping to that dangerous register. "Like one doctor treating you like something other than an animal was enough to change your bloodthirsty ass."

"Nothing changed," I spit, the lie burning my tongue.

"Bullshit. You haven't stepped foot in Quinn's fight pit since that night. Something the entire fucking club couldn't beat into your thick skull for years."

The truth of it slams into me harder than any right hook. I had quit—not immediately, but the hunger for those underground fights had died after Maya stitched me up, after those hands worked on me with care instead of disgust. Something broke in me that night—the desire to bleed and make others bleed suddenly seemed hollow when compared to the simple dignity of being treated like I mattered.

"So that's your game?" I demand. "Hired her to babysit me? Keep me from busting heads?"

"I hired her because that town needs someone who won't let our brothers bleed out in the street," Hammer growls, steel in every syllable. "The fact that she somehow got through your thick fucking skull when none of us could is just a bonus."

"Reassign me," I say flatly. "Send me back to New York. Hell, I'll get back in Quinn's ring if the club needs cash—"

"Not happening," Hammer cuts me off. "We're spread too thin with Vargan's case and Victor's trial coming up. You've built trust in Shadow Ridge. Another member would take months to get where you are."

"So I'm stuck with her," I say, words like gravel in my throat.

"She makes you squirm like a bitch," Hammer observes, satisfaction dripping from every word. "Good. Maybe you'll finally figure out you're more than just the club's attack dog."

I end the call and slam the phone down so hard the screen cracks, matching the fracture lines spreading through my carefully constructed walls by the one human who'd looked at me like I was worth saving.

As I move to pocket the damaged phone, it buzzes with a text. It’s an unknown number, but the message makes my stomach knot into a cold, hard ball.

Heard you're playing house in Georgia now. Miss the old days? -R

Ryker.

My mouth goes dry, copper flooding my tongue like I've taken a hit. Memories flash rapid-fire through my mind—the underground fight pit in Queens with its stench of sweat and desperation, the thunderous roar of the crowd pressing against my skin, the salt-metal taste of my own blood on my tusks. The aftermath of my final fight, when I'd put three men in the hospital and cost Quinn a fortune in canceled bets. Ryker's voice slithers through my memory, hot breath against my ear as I collected my winnings: "Quinn doesn't forget, and he doesn't forgive. Remember that, greenskin."

Now he's reaching out after six months of silence. The timing isn't coincidental—not with Maya suddenly in Shadow Ridge.

My fingers hover over the screen, momentarily paralyzed. A cold sweat breaks out along my spine despite the room's chill, my shirt suddenly adhering to my back. If Ryker's tracking me, if he knows where I am, it means Quinn hasn't forgotten. Worse, he knows where I am.

I stare at the message, thumb hovering over the reply button. Part of me wants to respond, to find out what he wants, to get ahead of the threat. Another part knows better—engaging with Ryker means opening a door better left closed. Not worth it. Not anymore.

I delete the message with a hard swipe, but the unease lingers like smoke after a fire. That part of my life might be behind me in action, but its shadow still reaches long across everything I touch.

That's the real reason I can't have her here. Not just because she makes me feel things I don't want to feel, but because my past has teeth, and I won't be responsible for her getting bitten.

I stride back into the main room, rage and fear still simmering beneath my skin. Diesel's sprawled in his chair, burger half-demolished, watching me with that infuriating grin that makes me want to put his head through the wall.

"So?" he asks, talking through a mouthful of fries. "You done having your little tantrum, princess?"

"Shut it." I drop into the chair across from him, snatching back what's left of my food. The burger's gone cold, but I tear into it anyway, the greasy comfort familiar against my tongue.

Diesel chuckles, wiping grease from his chin with the back of his hand. "This about that woman who just rolled into town? The doctor?" His perception has always been too sharp for his own good. "Helen texted me. Said you damn near swallowed your tongue when some hot doctor walked in."

My teeth grind together, a muscle jumping along my jaw. "Helen needs to mind her goddamn business."

"Said you knew her. Then acted like you didn't. Then had some heated talk outside." He leans forward, eyes gleaming. "Sounds like quite the reunion."

Before I can tell him exactly where to shove his observations, the clubhouse door bangs open. Ash walks in, his scarred face surveying the room with that tactical assessment that comes from surviving too many ambushes. When he spots us, his shoulders ease slightly.

"When'd you get back?" I ask, grateful for the interruption.

"Bout an hour ago." Ash heads straight for our stash, pulling out a beer and cracking it open with his teeth. "Hammer's got me babysitting Victor's case. Interviews all week with witnesses."

"Royce showing his face anywhere?" Diesel asks.

Ash shakes his head, dropping into the chair beside us. "Rat's gone underground since the indictment."

Diesel wastes no time dragging Ash into our business. "You hear about the new doc in town?" he asks, that mischievous smirk spreading wider. "Turns out she patched our boy up after that bloodbath at Quinn's. Now she's here, and get this—he pretended not to know her, she called his ass out, and now he's sulking like someone stole his favorite gun."

"Not like that," I snarl, slamming my bottle down hard enough to crack the glass.

Ash raises his scarred eyebrow, waiting for the real story.

"Maya Johnson?" he asks, and my head snaps up at her name on his lips.

"You know her?" The question comes out sharper than I intended.

Ash shrugs, reaching over to steal a handful of Diesel's fries. "Hammer found her. Said she'd been through some shit, needed somewhere to lick her wounds. Lost a patient, took the fall for some hospital bigwig's mistake."

"Lost a patient," I repeat, Hammer's words from our call echoing in my head. Another puzzle piece clicks into place.

"Escaping into the arms of a green knight in leather armor," Diesel snickers, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Say one more word," I warn, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as I lean forward until we're nose to nose, "and I'll rip your tongue out through your asshole."

Diesel holds up his hands in mock surrender, but that self-satisfied smirk never wavers. The scent of beer and leather between us is familiar—the smell of brotherhood that means I won't actually hurt him. Well, not permanently.

I turn to Ash, ignoring Diesel's bullshit. "Hammer admitted he brought her here because of me."

Ash nods, taking a long pull from his beer. "Said something about her being the only human who ever cracked that thick skull of yours. Made you quit the fight circuit when the rest of us couldn't drag you out with a chainsaw."

The pieces snap together with nauseating clarity. Six months ago, half-conscious and bleeding in Hammer's truck as he drove me back from the ER. His questions about what happened, and my pain-addled rambling about the doctor who'd treated me like I was more than just a monster.

"If there were more humans like her," I'd mumbled, "maybe I wouldn't need to bust so many heads."

Hammer had laughed, called it one hell of an endorsement. I didn't think anything of it then.

Shit.

My phone buzzes with a text from Helen: "Town meeting tonight. 7 sharp. The doctor will be there. So will you."

"Classic Crow move," Diesel grins, reading over my shoulder. "Push away anything that might actually matter before it has a chance to reject you. Working out great for you this time, huh?"

"I didn't—" I start, then stop. He's right. It's what I always do. Keep everyone at a distance, especially anyone who might see past the scars and tusks to something I can't afford to acknowledge.

When the guards forced us to fight in the camps, the ones who survived were the ones who stopped feeling. When we crossed the Rift and humans discovered us, compassion was the first casualty. I learned young that caring makes you vulnerable, and vulnerability gets you killed. Better to be the monster they already think you are than risk letting anyone close enough to see what's left of the person beneath.

Maya doesn't just risk seeing that person—she already has. And that terrifies me more than any physical threat.

"She called me out," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw.

Ash tips his beer in my direction. "Good. 'Bout damn time someone did."

* * *

Since Victor still has the town hall on lockdown, the diner transforms for town meetings. Tables pushed together to form a makeshift council chamber, chairs arranged in rows facing the jury-rigged stage. By 6:45, the place is packed tight—these people might be down, but they're not out. Not yet.

I plant myself in the back corner, positioned to see everything while staying out of the spotlight. Diesel flanks me, for once keeping his mouth shut about Maya. Ash joins us minutes later, passing over cold sodas that'll do nothing to quiet the storm in my head.

"Hell of a turnout," Ash mutters, surveying the crowd. "Word spreads fast when there's fresh meat in town."

My eyes scan the room instinctively, hunting for her. Not here yet. The relief and disappointment war in my gut, both equally unwelcome.

At seven sharp, Savvy Greene takes center stage. She's hardened since seeing Vargan hauled off to New York—the softness burned away, leaving steel in its place. Her kid brother Willie hovers nearby, looking less like the scared teenager I first met and more like someone growing into his own skin.

"Thanks for coming," Savvy starts, voice carrying through the packed room. "As you all know, Shadow Ridge hasn't had a doctor since Victor ran the last one off. Tonight, thanks to the Ironborn MC, that changes."

The door behind me swings open, a gust of night air carrying her scent—vanilla with hints of something floral, now laced with tension. Something primitive within me responds instantly, recognizing her before I even turn. My pulse quickens, an instinctive reaction I can't control. Her footsteps cross the threshold, deliberate as a soldier entering enemy territory.

"I'd like to introduce Dr. Maya Johnson," Savvy says, gesturing toward the door.

Maya moves past me without a glance, spine rigid, chin raised. She steps onto the makeshift stage, the harsh fluorescents picking out copper highlights in her dark hair I hadn't noticed before. The light catches the delicate curve of her jaw, the determined set of her mouth. Even exhausted and tense, there's a grace to her movements that draws the eye. She's smaller than I remember—barely reaching my chest—but radiates the presence of someone twice her size. The fitted blouse and dark slacks she wears do nothing to hide the curves I've tried to forget for six months. My fingers twitch with the memory of her skin under them when she patched me up—cool against my natural heat, soft where I'm all calluses and scars.

"Thank you," she says, voice steady despite the undercurrent I can sense beneath it. "I appreciate the welcome Shadow Ridge has shown me today."

Our eyes lock across the crowded room. No warmth there, just cool professional assessment. The silent accusation cuts deeper than any blade.

"I spent the last five years at New York Memorial Hospital," she continues, gaze sliding away from mine. "I've treated everything from gunshot wounds to childbirths, cardiac surgeries to common colds."

Something haunts her voice when she mentions New York. A shadow crosses her face, there and gone in an instant. Only someone watching as closely as I am would catch it.

"What's her story?" Diesel murmurs beside me. "Looks like she's seen some serious shit."

She has. I recognize that look—the thousand-yard stare of someone who's seen too much death, who carries ghosts they can't shake loose. I see it in the mirror often enough.

"The clinic will open next week, but if you have an emergency before then, the door is open," Maya says, drawing my attention back. "This town has gone without proper medical care for too long. That ends now. Everyone deserves quality healthcare, no matter what they look like, where they come from, or how much they can pay."

That last part sends whispers through the crowd. Her eyes cut to me as she says it, a challenge in the set of her jaw.

Applause erupts, genuine hope rippling through people who've had precious little of it. These folks have been abandoned by everyone—government, corporations, even basic services. A doctor willing to take on this forgotten corner of nowhere represents something many had given up on.

Questions fly. How long will she stay? (As long as needed.) What made her leave her fancy city career? (This matters more.) Can she handle trauma cases? (With the right equipment, yes.)

Through it all, she stays composed, professional, but I catch the moments her mask slips—a tightening around her eyes when someone asks about her experience, the white-knuckle grip on the edge of the table when Victor's name comes up.

When she mentions emergency care, her gaze finds mine again, deliberate this time. The unspoken reference to our first meeting hangs in the air between us.

Guilt slams into me hard. I had no right to deny knowing her, to erase what she did for me. Pride and self-protection, the only shields I've ever trusted, suddenly feel like pathetic excuses.

The meeting breaks around eight-thirty. Maya shakes hands, smiles, and performs the role of town savior with a practiced mask I recognize all too well. But I see what others miss—the exhaustion creeping in, the way she edges toward the door whenever the bodies surrounding her thin out.

When she finally slips out, I follow without thinking. Diesel calls after me, but I ignore him, shouldering through the sweaty press of humans toward the exit.

Outside, the night air has chilled, the scent of pine and dampness heavy in my lungs. The distant chorus of night insects rises and falls in waves. Maya stands beside her Honda Civic, keys clutched in her hand. She startles at my approach, eyes narrowing. The parking lot lights cast shadows across the elegant curve of her neck, highlighting the pulse point beating rapidly there.

"Oh," she says, voice sharp enough to cut. "Twice in one day. Here to pretend you don't know me again, or are we past that?"

The barb finds its mark, slipping between my ribs like a well-aimed blade. My jaw tightens as I taste the bitter remnants of my earlier lie. "I wanted to clear things up better than I did earlier."

"Clear what up? Why you acted like I was a stranger?" She crosses her arms, a barricade between us. "Or why your motorcycle club president recruited me without mentioning I'd be working in the same town as you?"

"Both," I admit. "Hammer keeps his cards close. I had no idea who he was bringing in."

"Right." Disbelief drips from the word. "Look, whatever game you and your club are playing, I'd rather not be the pawn. I came here to practice medicine, not to get tangled in motorcycle politics."

"It's not a game," I growl, fighting the urge to step closer. "Hammer's got his reasons for everything. He thinks Shadow Ridge needs someone who won't turn away our kind."

"And it just happened to be me?" She shakes her head. "Of all the doctors in the country?"

I look away, staring at the darkened storefronts. "I asked to be reassigned. Told him to send me back to New York, let someone else handle this territory."

That gets her attention. Her eyes snap to mine. "You what?"

"Asked to leave," I repeat. "He shot it down. Said we're stretched too thin with all the shit going down, and I've built... connections here."

Understanding dawns in her expression. "So we're both stuck in this town."

"Looks that way."

She stares at me for a long moment, something shifting behind her eyes. "Well, that settles it then. I'm not giving up this opportunity because things are awkward, and apparently, you can't leave. Guess we're both just going to have to deal with it."

The declaration hits with unexpected weight. There's something in her tone, a finality, a challenge, that stirs the beast inside me. Not with anger, but with something far more dangerous.

"When's the clinic opening?" I ask, changing the subject before I say something I'll regret.

"I'm aiming for next week," she says, dropping her arms. "Place is a disaster—dust everywhere, outdated equipment, barely any supplies. But if anyone needs urgent care, I'll be there. Day or night."

Her gaze finds mine again, deliberate. The memory of her hands on me six months ago flashes hot and unwelcome—stitching my wounds, gentle yet efficient. The only human touch I'd felt in years that wasn't meant to harm.

"Why are you really here, Maya?" I ask before I can stop myself. "New York has plenty of people who need doctors."

"I couldn't—" She stops, something raw flickering across her face before she locks it down. "Let's just say New York and I needed some distance from each other."

The evasion is obvious, but I don't push. We all have our reasons for running, our ghosts that chase us from one life to the next. Whatever haunts her, whoever she lost, the wound is still fresh.

"Well," I say, the words scraping my throat, "this shithole town could do worse than you."

Her eyebrow raises slightly. "Was that almost a compliment?"

"Don't get used to it."

The ghost of a smile touches her lips before vanishing. "Good night, Crow."

She gets in her car, and I step back as she pulls away. The taillights recede into darkness, leaving me alone with questions I can't answer and a hunger under my skin that demands release.

I need release. Need the familiar rhythm of violence, the satisfying crunch of bone beneath my knuckles, the metallic tang of blood in the air. Need something—anything—to burn away the confusion Maya Johnson stirs up in me and the gnawing guilt over how I treated her.

But violence is what landed me in her path to begin with. Something fundamental shifted that night in New York, watching her stand between me and a mob that wanted me dead. The primal hunger that's driven me since the camps quieted under her touch, replaced by something equally dangerous—a craving for connection I'm not ready to name.

I straddle my bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The familiar vibration travels up through my legs, into my spine, a comforting rhythm that's steadied me through years of chaos. Two paths stretch before me—the highway that leads to the underground fight club two towns over, where I could lose myself in the only therapy I've ever trusted, or the road back to the clubhouse, to safety, to something resembling a future.

My phone weighs heavy in my pocket. I could call Ryker back. Get ahead of whatever game he's playing. Return to the life I know, where everything makes sense, where I understand the rules.

Instead, I rev the engine and turn toward the clubhouse. The choice feels deliberate, significant—the first time I've chosen restraint over violence when the hunger for blood burns in my veins. Not out of fear for myself, but something more complicated. Whatever game Ryker's playing, Maya could end up caught in the crossfire. The thought of her hurt because of me, because of my past, cuts deeper than any blade I've faced.

The realization slams into me as I accelerate into the darkness. I actually give a damn what happens to her. And that terrifies me more than Ryker, Quinn, and all their threats combined.