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Chapter Four

Maya

E leven patients in two days. Not exactly the emergency rush I'd promised the town, but each face that walks through my clinic door hammers home the same truth—Shadow Ridge is desperate for medical care.

The clinic itself is slowly taking shape around me, though the weight of its history presses against the freshly painted walls. Decades of medical care, followed by years of abandonment—both ghosts lingering in the building's bones.

Each patient's story has wrapped itself around my heart more quickly than I expected. Mrs. Abernathy, seventy-eight, clutched my hand with fingers twisted by arthritis when I promised that she wouldn't have to make the forty-mile drive for her heart medication anymore. The relief in her watery blue eyes made my throat tight. Mr. Wilson brought me tomatoes from his garden as payment, even as his blood pressure readings made my pulse quicken with concern—how was he still standing? When little Aiden Cooper's fever broke after two days of antibiotics, his mother called me an angel, though she'd been treating his strep throat with honey and prayer for a week before bringing him in. The rest showed up with barely-there complaints—obvious excuses to size up the new doctor, to determine if I'm worth investing their trust in.

I get it. Trust is currency in a town this small, and I'm still a stranger. Each examination is as much about proving myself as it is about medicine.

"Last box," Diesel announces, dropping a heavy container of medical supplies onto the recently cleaned counter. The tattooed orc has been showing up daily since the town meeting, hauling furniture, unpacking supplies, fixing the clinic's ancient plumbing—all while pretending it's no big deal.

"Thanks." I wipe dust from my forehead with the back of my hand, leaving what I'm sure is a grimy streak. "You don't have to keep helping, you know."

His gold-flecked green skin gleams with sweat as he flashes a grin that displays impressive tusks. The expression looks more threatening than friendly, though I'm learning that's just how orc smiles appear to human eyes.

"Club orders. Make sure the doc's taken care of."

"Right." I carefully unpack blood pressure cuffs, arranging them by size on the metal shelving. The methodical task grounds me, gives my hands something to do besides shake with exhaustion. "Tell Hammer I appreciate it."

"Not Hammer's orders." Diesel's smile stretches wider at my obvious confusion. "Crow told us to help you set up. Then threatened to rip out our spleens if we bothered you." He shrugs, as if death threats are normal conversation. Maybe among Orcs, they are. "First time I've seen him care about any human. Must've made quite an impression in New York."

A flash of warmth cascades from my scalp down to my chest, my pulse quickening traitorously. I haven't seen Crow since our conversation after the town meeting. True to his word, he's stayed away. I tell myself the hollow feeling in my chest is relief, not disappointment.

"I just did my job," I mutter, focusing intently on organizing the pressure cuffs into perfect alignment. But even as I say it, I know it's not entirely true. Treating Crow that night had felt different—more personal, more defiant. I'd faced down an entire hospital not just because of my oath, but because something in his eyes had reached past my professional distance and touched something human in me.

"Uh-huh." Diesel's tone makes it clear he doesn't believe me. He watches me with a knowing look that makes me irrationally defensive. "Well, your water heater's fixed. Exam rooms are clean. Anything else before I go?"

"No, that's everything. Thanks."

After Diesel leaves, I continue organizing supplies, trying to create order from chaos. The clinic waits, almost expectant in its quiet. Afternoon sunlight filters through freshly cleaned windows, dust motes dancing in the beams. I've spent every waking hour cleaning, organizing, and inventorying to keep my hands busy so my mind doesn't wander to things I can't fix.

Like Jamie Matthews flatlined under my hands. Like my career in flames. Like Crow's amber eyes following my movements in the parking lot.

I shake it off, nearly dropping a box of syringes. Fantasies about brooding orcs have no place in my professional life. If I'm honest with myself, which I rarely am these days, it's not just about professional boundaries. It's about the growing awareness that the attraction I feel toward him would be the final nail in the coffin of my parents' approval. Not that I haven't already hammered that coffin shut by coming here, but being drawn to an orc would confirm every fear they've ever voiced about my "impulsive decisions."

My only focus needs to be rebuilding this clinic and proving to myself that I still deserve to call myself a doctor. Healing others might be the only way I can begin to heal myself.

Savvy insists I take breakfast at the diner each morning—"Doctor can't run on empty"—her generosity barely disguising her strategy. People see me there, get used to my presence, and start to believe I might stick around. Smart woman. I like her immediately, understanding why she's become the heart of this broken town.

I lock up the clinic and head to my car just as my phone rings. Mom's name flashes on the screen, sending a ripple of dread through my body. I wait until I've pulled out of the lot and am on the road before answering.

"Maya! Darling!" Her voice carries its usual artificial brightness. "How's the... adventure going?"

"It's not an adventure, Mom. It's my job." I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. "The clinic's seeing patients already."

"That's... nice." The pause speaks volumes. "And your... accommodations? You said it's a cabin or something?"

"A bungalow. It's fine."

"How... rustic." The word drips with wealthy Manhattan disdain.

"When do you think you'll be ready to come home?" She shifts tactics, abandoning pretense. "This little sabbatical is understandable, darling, but there's no need to punish yourself indefinitely."

"I'm not punishing myself." The lie burns my throat raw. "These people need a doctor."

"Maya." Her voice drops, maternal concern pushing through the society wife veneer. "What happened wasn't your fault. The hospital review made that clear."

The familiar knife twists in my gut. "The review was a cover-up. You know that. Bought with money that could have been used to save lives."

"Sweetheart—"

"How's Dad?" I interrupt, unable to stomach another round of absolution I don't deserve.

"Oh, you know. Busy as always. Actually, he's right here. Let me put him on."

The phone rustles as it changes hands. Dad's voice comes through, crisp and businesslike, as if this is one of his surgical consultations.

"Maya."

"Hi, Dad."

Silence stretches between us. Charles Johnson has never mastered the art of small talk, especially with his only daughter.

"Your mother says you're settling in." He clears his throat. "You know it's not too late to reconsider this... detour."

"It's not a detour."

"I had lunch with Alan Lucas last week. Hospital board. He mentioned they're restructuring the surgical department. There would be a place for you."

Of course. Dad and his connections. Always the safety net I've both resented and relied on.

"Dad—"

"Or elsewhere, if that's what you prefer. I have colleagues at Presbyterian and Mount Sinai. One call, Maya. That's all it would take."

"I'm not ready." My voice sounds weaker than I want it to.

"Ready?" He sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. "Better doctors than you have lost patients, Maya. You don't throw away a career over one incident."

"This town needs me."

"But do you need it?" His voice cuts like a scalpel. "Hiding in some backwater won't bring that woman back."

Jamie Matthews. Twenty-six. Mother of two. Dead while I was distracted. "She has a name, Dad."

He's silent for a moment before I hear him clear his throat. "Punishing yourself won't bring Ms. Matthews back."

I know he's right, but I don't want him to be. I can't face the fact that I can be happy and eventually put this behind me, while she'll never hug her kids again.

"I have to go." My grip tightens on the phone. "I'll call next week."

"Maya—"

I end the call before he can finish, just as I'm turning into the diner's parking lot. I press my forehead against the steering wheel, inhaling slowly through my nose, cataloging the sensations clinically: elevated heart rate, pressure in my sternum, slight constriction in the airway—all predictable physiological responses to stress. The same aftermath that always follows conversations with my parents.

God, they'd lose their minds completely if they knew I was mentally cataloging the exact shade of an orc's amber eyes, or how his scars mapped across his green skin like constellations I wanted to trace with my fingertips. The surgeon's daughter, the Columbia med school graduate, infatuated with someone they'd consider barely civilized. The thought almost makes me laugh, despite the ache in my chest.

Movement near the diner's entrance catches my eye. A familiar bulk exits through the doorway, impossible to mistake.

Crow.

I was so deep in my conversation that I missed his bike being parked out front. Yet another moment of inattention, the kind that sends my thoughts spiraling back to the operating room, to Jamie's monitors, to everything I should have seen but didn't.

He moves with a stiffness that triggers my medical instincts—subtle favoring of his left side, careful way he holds his massive frame. As he crosses the parking lot, morning sunlight reveals damage even from this distance. His face is bruised, and he's carrying what looks like a bar towel filled with ice pressed against his temple.

The urge to retreat wars with professional obligation. I could drive away, head straight to the clinic. Avoid another charged encounter with the orc who pretended not to know me, then apologized, then vanished for days.

But those injuries...

"Damn it," I mutter, grabbing my bag and getting out of the car.

He notices me immediately, amber eyes narrowing as I approach. For a moment, he looks like he might turn and walk away. Something flickers across his face—surprise, wariness, and something else I can't quite name.

"What happened to you?" I ask, gesturing to his face.

"Nothing." His voice is gruff, dismissive. His gaze slides away from mine, focusing on some point over my shoulder.

"Doesn't look like nothing. You need medical attention."

"I'm fine."

"That's what you said last time, too."

His jaw tightens, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he schools his expression back to neutral. He hadn't expected me to reference our shared history so directly.

The memory hangs between us. The ambulance, his blood on my hands, the strange intimacy of emergency care. The metallic scent of blood mixing with antiseptic, the heat of his skin beneath my fingers like touching sun-warmed stone, the way his pulse had hammered against my fingertips as I'd worked. Feverishly hot compared to human temperature, yet somehow... right.

His eyes meet mine, hard and defensive. A muscle jumps in his jaw. "You didn't give me a choice then."

"I'm not giving you one now, either." I match his stare, refusing to be intimidated despite the fact that he towers over me. "Besides, having a patient might help others around here start trusting me. Think of it as your civic duty to the town."

Through the diner window, I spot Helen watching us, curiosity plain on her face. Her eyebrows rise suggestively when she catches me noticing, and she makes no attempt to hide her interest. Behind her, I notice two older women leaning toward each other, their gazes fixed on Crow and me. One nudges the other and whispers something that makes them both smile knowingly.

Great. Small town gossip mill already at work. By tomorrow, half of Shadow Ridge will be speculating about the new doctor and the intimidating orc. My professional reputation—the only thing I have left after New York—could be compromised before I've even properly established myself here. And yet, the warmth of his gaze makes it hard to care as much as I should.

"Fine," he finally mutters, the word sounding like it's been dragged from somewhere deep and unwilling. "I'll stop by later."

"Now." I stand my ground, not budging.

He eyes my Honda with skepticism. "No way I'm fitting in that tin can."

"Then I'll follow you on your bike." I cross my arms, refusing to back down. "So long as you can ride with those hands."

He flexes his fingers, wincing slightly, the rough skin of his knuckles split and angry. "I've ridden with worse."

"Of course you have."

Twenty minutes later, I'm cleaning the first of many wounds in the clinic's main examination room. Crow sits on the table, leather cut discarded, wearing only a black t-shirt that does nothing to disguise the muscled bulk beneath. His body radiates heat that I can feel each time I lean in to work on his injuries, like standing next to a furnace. I try to maintain clinical detachment, but it's becoming increasingly difficult with every brush of my fingers against his skin.

The clinic seems smaller somehow with him in it, as if the space itself conforms to his presence. The antiseptic smell mingles with leather and motor oil, creating something uniquely him.

"You're going to need stitches in at least three of these," I say, examining his knuckles. "What were you hitting? Concrete?"

"Close enough." He watches me work, expression guarded but not hostile. Something in his posture has shifted since our first meeting—less defensive, more... accepting? "Some demolition work."

I pause, antiseptic swab hovering above a particularly nasty gash. "Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."

His eyes darken, something dangerous flickering in their depths that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. Not fear—something else entirely. "You calling me a liar, Doc?"

"I’m not calling you anything." I resume cleaning, the silence between us charged but not uncomfortable. The routine of medical care creates its own rhythm—disinfect, assess, repair. My hands move with practiced precision while my mind catalogs each injury, each old scar, building a history of violence written in his flesh.

"Why do it?" I ask finally. "The fighting."

He's quiet for so long, I think he won't answer. The hum of the old refrigerator, where I keep my medications, fills the room, punctuated by the occasional drip from the sink that still needs to be fixed.

"It's what I know," he finally says, voice low. "Been fighting since the camps. It's... simple. Clear."

"The camps?" I look up, meeting his gaze, my hands stilling against his skin.

Something shifts in his expression—guarded, wary. The shadows behind his eyes deepen. "Orc internment camps. After the Rift crossing. They put us there when I was five."

The medical part of my brain catalogs this information dispassionately. The human part recoils at what it implies—a child trapped, forced to fight for survival. The story is written in every scar I've treated. "I didn't know."

"Most humans don't." His voice takes on an edge that speaks of memories too painful to voice directly. "They shoved us into those camps when we first crossed over. Said it was for 'processing,' for our 'protection.' Really it was about fear. Control." His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the green skin. "Guards used to make us fight each other for extra food. Entertainment. I was small for an orc. Had to learn quick or die."

The matter-of-fact way he describes such horror makes my stomach clench. I want to say something, offer some comfort, but what words could possibly address such trauma? Instead, I continue cleaning his wounds, hoping my touch communicates what my voice cannot.

"Before the club, fighting was how I made my living," he continues after a moment. His shrug seems deliberately casual, but I catch the tension beneath it. "Underground circuits, bare-knuckle stuff. Only thing I was good at."

"And that's what this is?" I nod toward his battered hands.

The ghost of a smile touches his lips but doesn't reach his eyes. "Think what you want, Doc."

I prepare a suture kit, mentally calculating how many stitches each wound will need. "Tell me about Shadow Ridge. How'd you end up here?"

His eyes follow my movements, watchful but no longer hostile. Something like trust has begun to build between us, fragile as new skin over an old wound. "Hammer bought properties after Victor got arrested. Club's trying to rebuild the place."

"So you're what—the local muscle?" I thread the needle, noting how he doesn't flinch when I begin the first stitch. His pain tolerance is remarkable, though that thought brings no comfort given how it was likely acquired.

"Me and Diesel. Keep the peace. Support the residents. He's good with building and I'm…" He drops off, and my mind fills in the blanks. He's good at destroying.

"So you 'Keep the peace'? While moonlighting as an underground fighter?" I can't keep the skepticism from my voice as I tie off the first stitch and move to the next wound.

"Never claimed to be consistent, Doc." Something like humor flickers in his eyes, gone before I can be sure I saw it.

We fall into silence as I work. His body heat seeps into me each time my fingers brush his skin, an unwanted awareness building with every point of contact. I focus on the wounds, on the rhythmic in-and-out of the needle, on the clinical reality of mending damaged flesh. But beneath that practiced focus runs something quieter—an awareness of him as more than a patient. The broadness of his shoulders beneath the thin t-shirt, the flex of muscle when my fingers press against his skin, the rumble of his voice that seems to vibrate through me when he speaks.

God, Maya, get it together. He's a patient. You're his doctor. There are ethical boundaries here, not to mention the complications of being new in town, of his clear issues with violence, of the worlds of difference between us.

"Why haven't you shown your face at the clinic until now?" The question escapes before I can catch it, hanging between us like a live grenade.

His posture stiffens, shoulders drawing back slightly. "I told you after the town meeting. I'm trying to build something here."

"And being seen with me threatens that?" The hurt in my voice is embarrassingly obvious.

"Not the way you think." His voice is low, almost reluctant. His eyes meet mine, intense in their amber clarity. "People here—they've started to trust me. To see me as something more than just muscle. If they knew about New York, about Quinn's fight pit..."

I understand his meaning. If the town knew about the violence I witnessed that night, they might view him differently. I'm a walking reminder of his past, of the parts of himself he's trying to leave behind.

"I wouldn't have told anyone," I say softly. "Doctor-patient confidentiality isn't just for show."

"I couldn't take that chance." His gaze drops to my hands as they work on his injury. "Trust... it doesn't come easy for someone who looks like me."

The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. For all his intimidating size and gruff exterior, there's something painfully human in the way he guards himself. I wonder how many times he's been betrayed, how many doors have been closed in his face, how many people have seen only his green skin and tusks instead of the person beneath.

I tie off the last stitch, deliberately tighter than necessary. "There. Try not to bust them open for at least three days."

"No promises." The corner of his mouth twitches upward.

I step back, creating necessary distance.

"Your turn," he says unexpectedly.

"What?"

"Why Shadow Ridge?" His eyes stay on mine, unwavering. "Why leave New York? The fancy hospital? The career?"

The question hits too close to Jamie Matthews, to the ghost that follows me. "I needed a change." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.

"Bullshit." The word is soft but definitive. "Nobody gives up a surgical career to patch up farmers in the middle of nowhere. Not without a reason."

I busy myself with cleaning up, avoiding his gaze. The instruments clatter too loudly as I drop them in the metal basin. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you're running from something." He shifts, wincing slightly as the movement pulls at fresh stitches. "Recognize it 'cause I've done enough of it myself."

The quiet certainty in his voice breaks something loose inside me—a hairline fracture in the careful wall I've built around Jamie's memory. The weight of the secret presses against my chest, making it hard to breathe. For months, I've carried it alone, letting it fester inside me like an untreated wound.

"I lost a patient." The words fall between us, heavy with unspoken weight as I arrange instruments that don't need arranging. "My fault. My responsibility."

"Doctors lose patients." His tone isn't dismissive—there's understanding there, recognition of pain.

"Not like this." My hands tremble slightly as I dispose of bloodied gauze. The memory of that night floods back—the blaring monitors, the controlled chaos of the code, the moment I realized what I'd missed. "She was twenty-six. Two kids. Routine procedure. I missed something I shouldn't have."

I wait for the judgment, for the clinical assessment that all doctors eventually offer—the distance that makes tragedy bearable in our profession. It doesn't come.

"You think it's your fault." It's not a question.

I turn to face him, the words I've never spoken aloud suddenly desperate to escape. "I was distracted. The anesthesiologist had been drinking—I smelled it on him but didn't report it. I was worried about offending him, about hospital politics." The self-loathing burns in my throat. "I should have checked the medication myself. I should have noticed her blood pressure dropping. I should have—"

"Been perfect?" he interrupts, his voice gentler than I've ever heard it. "Never made a mistake?"

He's quiet, waiting for more, but I can't continue. Can't explain how the hospital covered it up, how they made it disappear with paperwork and legal maneuvering, how Jamie's husband looked at me at the funeral with bewildered grief that still haunts my dreams.

"So you ran." No judgment in his voice, just simple understanding.

"I tried to stay." I turn back to face him, finding his eyes softer than before. "But I couldn't keep walking those halls, seeing her everywhere. Knowing what I'd done—what I'd failed to do."

The admission hangs between us, raw and exposed. Something shifts in his expression—recognition, maybe. Of what, I'm not sure. But for the first time since Jamie's death, I feel like someone truly sees me, not the mistake, not the failure, but the person drowning beneath the weight of it all.

He slides off the examination table, standing to his full height. This close, the size difference between us is stark—me barely reaching his chin, him a wall of green muscle and barely contained power. Yet nothing is threatening in his posture.

"You did good work, Doc." He gestures to his stitched hand. "Again."

Something unfurls in my chest at his acknowledgment—warm and unexpected. I duck my head to hide the flush I can feel spreading across my cheeks, the sudden quickening of my pulse. It shouldn't matter that he approves of my work, yet somehow it does.

"Just doing my job." The words sound hollow, inadequate.

"That what you told yourself in New York too? When you patched me up in that ambulance?"

His question catches me off guard, sending me back to that night—the chaos of the ER, the hostility directed at him, my own fierce determination that my oath applied to everyone, regardless of species. "I—"

"Because it wasn't just a job then." He steps closer, near enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. His scent envelops me, distinctly masculine and utterly compelling. "You fought for me. Against your whole hospital."

"Anyone would have—"

"No." His certainty is absolute, his eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes my heart race. "They wouldn't. I've spent my life being treated like something less than human. I know the difference."

Heat floods my face, uncomfortable awareness spreading through my body. He's too close. Too perceptive. Too much. My doctor's objectivity crumbles beneath his gaze, replaced by something far more personal, more dangerous.

"I should finish getting the clinic ready," I say, stepping back, needing distance. "Patients might come."

But he doesn't move, amber eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Why'd you really help me that night?"

"Because it was right." The truth is simple, unvarnished.

His hand, massive and newly stitched, reaches toward my face. My breath catches as his rough fingertips hover near my cheek, a whisper away from contact.

The doctor in me knows this is inappropriate—he's my patient, I'm his physician. There are ethical boundaries for good reason. Years of medical training and professional standards scream in my head to step back, to reestablish proper distance. But another part of me, the woman who's been going through the motions for months, who's been numb since Jamie died, leans almost imperceptibly closer to his touch.

Then he hesitates, his expression shifting through emotions too complex to name, and his hand drops. The aborted gesture sends an electric current through me, unwanted awareness sharpening to painful clarity.

"You believe that." Wonder colors his voice, as if I've said something extraordinary instead of stating the obvious. "You actually fucking believe that."

He studies my face, his expression shifting to something more perceptive.. "That's why it's eating you alive about that patient, isn't it? Because you believe doing right isn't optional—it's who you are."

I freeze, stunned by the accuracy of his assessment. He's cut straight to the core of me, laid bare the truth I've been running from—that I judge myself by an impossible standard, that perfectionism isn't just my goal but my identity.

"Whatever happened to that woman," he continues, voice rough with certainty, "there's no way in hell it was from neglect. Not from someone who'd fight an entire hospital to treat an orc she didn't even know."

My throat tightens, the truth of his words penetrating defenses I've maintained for months. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not here. Not now.

For a moment, something dangerous and electric builds between us—a recognition, a possibility. His eyes drop to my mouth, pupils dilating slightly, and my heart stutters in my chest. I find myself leaning toward him, drawn by some force I can't name.

Then he steps back, the moment shattering like glass. His expression closes, walls slamming back into place.

"Thanks for the stitches, Doc." He grabs his leather cut from the chair.

"Stay out of the fighting rings," I call after him, unable to help myself. "The next time you might not get so lucky."

He pauses at the door, looking back over his shoulder. "Haven't been in a ring since New York. Since you."

The admission stuns me. "But your hands—your face—"

"Helping Silas tear down that condemned building on Oak Street." A hint of a smile crosses his face. "Old man's too stubborn to hire professionals. The place almost collapsed on us both. I pushed him out of the way in time."

"You're doing demolition work? For the town?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

"Club's rebuilding Shadow Ridge. Every member pulls their weight." He shrugs, the gesture almost self-conscious. "Demolition's just fighting without a moving target. Uses the same skills."

The revelation shifts something fundamental in my understanding of him. Not a mindless animal seeking violence, but someone channeling destructive skills into something constructive. Someone trying to build rather than destroy. Someone trying to rewrite his own story, just as I am.

"See you around, Doc." He's gone before I can respond, the door swinging shut behind him.

I stand frozen in the examination room, surrounded by the evidence of his presence—bloodied gauze, suture packets, the lingering scent of leather and musk. The space feels emptier without him, as if he took something vital with him when he left.

What the hell just happened?

And why do I feel like I just gained something I never expected to find in the first place?