Page 5

Chapter Five

Crow

F ood isn't an apology, but it's the closest thing I've got.

The takeout containers from Greene's feel foreign in my hands as I stand outside the clinic's door. Maya's car sits in the lot, but the lights inside are dim. She's in there. Has been for three straight days, according to Helen, barely leaving except to sleep at the bungalow.

My stitches itch beneath the skin, already knitting together thanks to orc biology. The demolition work at Silas's place waits, but I've been avoiding it—avoiding anything that might require me to explain these healing hands to her again.

I'd rather face Quinn's entire fight pit again than examine why I'm standing here with cooling food and this unfamiliar ache in my chest.

Savvy cornered me this afternoon, worry etched into her face. "Doc hasn't come in for meals. Helen's worried."

"Not my business," I muttered, focusing on the inventory sheet for the clubhouse.

"Someone should check on her," Savvy pressed. "She's new. Alone. Shadow Ridge can be hard on outsiders."

I know about hard. About alone. About being the outsider that nobody wants but everyone watches, which is probably why I'm here instead of Diesel or Ash, who'd handle this more smoothly.

It’s nothing official. Nothing I could explain to Hammer that wouldn't earn me endless shit from the brothers. Just food for a doctor who's worked through mealtime too many days straight.

A doctor who saw through the monster to the man beneath. Who called me on my bullshit but still fixed my broken parts.

I didn't expect the truth I saw in her face when she talked about her patient. The raw wound of it. The way she carries that death like I carry the first man I killed in the camps—not with pride but with the weight of condemnation.

The clinic door is unlocked. Stupid. This town isn't as safe as she thinks, not with Royce still at large and Victor's trial looming. Anyone could walk in.

Anyone just did.

Inside, the reception area sits dark and empty, but a soft light spills from beneath a closed door down the hall. I follow it, catching an unfamiliar scent—animal, fear, and the sharp tang of antiseptic. My nostrils flare, instinctively categorizing the smells: canine, male, injured. Then I hear movement and what sounds like a low whimper.

"Maya?" I call, not wanting to startle her.

Something crashes to the floor. Footsteps approach rapidly, then the door swings open. Maya stands framed in the doorway, wearing scrubs spattered with what looks like iodine, hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles under her eyes. The animal scent intensifies—fur, blood, and the acrid odor of burned flesh—mixing with Maya's familiar vanilla perfume and the antiseptic tang that follows her everywhere.

"Crow?" Confusion draws her brows together. "What are you doing here?"

I hold up the takeout containers as an explanation. "Savvy sent food. You've been missing meals."

"Oh." She looks genuinely surprised, like the concept of someone noticing her absence hadn't occurred to her. "I've been busy."

Another whimper sounds from behind her—decidedly not human.

"You got a patient back there?" I ask, peering over her shoulder.

She hesitates, then steps aside. "Something like that."

The examination room has been transformed. A makeshift pen occupies one corner, fashioned from what appears to be repurposed equipment boxes and medical supply crates. Inside, a medium-sized dog with mottled brown fur cowers, bandaged paw held gingerly above the floor.

"What the hell?" My shoulders tense instinctively, a reaction to the unexpected presence of an animal. The beast inside me stirs—predatory instincts I've spent years controlling.

Maya closes the door behind me. "Tommy Wilkins brought him in yesterday. Found him limping near Silas's demolition site on Oak Street." She moves toward a small refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. Her movements are precise but weary, the exhaustion of days spent working alone evident in every gesture.

"You're not a vet," I say, setting the food on the counter. My jaw tightens as I glance toward the dog.

"Astute observation." She crosses to the pen and kneels beside it. "Nearest vet's an hour away, and Tommy's mom can't afford that kind of trip. Besides..." She glances up at me, a flash of the same defiance I saw in New York crossing her face. "I promised Hammer I'd treat anyone in need, human or not."

Human or not. Three simple words that cut deeper than they should.

The dog watches her approach with wary eyes, backing himself further into the corner.

"What happened to him?" I stay rooted in place, my body rigid with uncomfortable awareness.

"Burns." Her voice softens with professional sympathy, the same tone she used when treating my wounds. "Walked through what looks like hot ashes—maybe from a burn pile at the demolition site. Paw pads are damaged, but they'll heal with proper care."

I stay back, watching her gentle movements as she coaxes the dog closer to the pen's edge. "Doesn't look intentional," I offer. "Probably a stray looking for food scraps."

"That's my assessment, too." She glances up at me, a tired smile touching her lips. "Actually, he reminds me a bit of you."

"Excuse me?" My fingers curl into fists, then relax—the pattern of tension and release that's become second nature since the camps.

"Fighting help every step of the way." She makes a series of soft clicking noises at the dog. "No matter how much I try to treat him, he puts up a fight. Acts tough when he's hurting."

"I don't see the resemblance," I mutter, though something in my chest tightens at the comparison. She sees too much, this human doctor.

She stands, brushing off her scrubs. The overhead light catches in her auburn hair, revealing hints of gold I hadn't noticed before. "I need to change his bandages and reapply the burn ointment. Since you're here, you can help."

"I don't think so." I take a step back. "Dogs and orcs don't mix."

Maya ignores my protest, already gathering supplies. "Hold him for me. It'll go faster with two people, and you've got the strength to keep him still."

"I'm not a nurse." I take another step back, hands fisted at my sides. These hands have broken bones, spilled blood, and ended lives. The dog's paws are already burned—what if I grip too hard? What if the beast in him challenges mine? Some things aren't meant to be handled by creatures like me.

"And I'm not a vet." She gives me a pointed look. "Yet here we are." Fatigue shadows her face, but beneath it burns the same determination that made her stand between me and an ER full of humans who wanted me dead.

Before I can formulate another protest, she's scooping up the dog, who immediately begins squirming before depositing him directly into my arms. The animal freezes momentarily, startled by the transition, eyes wide with panic.

Something shifts in my chest. A protective instinct surges up, unfamiliar and powerful. The dog trembles against me, and I adjust my hold instinctively, cradling him more securely. His fur feels rough against my calloused fingers, yet somehow fragile.

"Just keep him still," Maya instructs, seemingly oblivious to my internal turmoil. "This won't take long."

I sink onto a nearby stool, holding the dog as she begins unwrapping the bandages. The animal whimpers as the gauze pulls away from raw flesh, but doesn't struggle against my grip. His heartbeat thrums against my forearm, rapid and afraid. The acrid scent of fear rolls off him in waves—a smell I've known since childhood. One that orcs detect more keenly than humans ever could. It reminds me of the camps, of huddled children trying not to attract attention. It's the scent of an opponent just before the knockout shot.

"It's okay," I hear myself murmuring to the mutt. "Almost done."

Maya works efficiently, cleaning each paw with antiseptic before applying a thick layer of ointment. Her hands move with the same precision she used on my knuckles, gentle but confident. The dog gradually relaxes in my arms, resignation replacing fear.

"You're good with him," she comments without looking up from her work. "He fought me like hell yesterday."

"Animals can sense fear," I say. "And weakness."

She glances up, eyes meeting mine. "So can people."

The moment stretches between us, uncomfortably perceptive. I look away first.

"There." She finishes wrapping the last paw in fresh gauze. "You can put him back in the pen while I get his dinner ready."

I carry the dog back to his makeshift enclosure, setting him down carefully. He immediately limps to the furthest corner, collapsing with his back to the wall, eyes fixed on me with lingering suspicion.

The defensive posture strikes a chord so deep it physically aches. I know that stance—the calculation of threats, the positioning that protects vital organs, the desperate attempt to appear stronger than you are. I perfected it by age six in the camps, where showing weakness meant becoming prey.

Without consciously deciding to, I step over the low barrier of the pen and sit down inside. The dog retreats further, ears flattening against his skull.

"Easy," I say, voice dropping to a register I never use with humans. "I’m not gonna hurt you."

I extend my hand, palm up. The gesture stops me cold—these hands have cracked skulls, broken ribs, left men gasping in their own blood. These hands know how to destroy, not comfort. They've never been used to offer safety, only to take it away.

Yet here I am, offering them to a creature that can't possibly understand why it should trust me.

Minutes pass in stillness. The dog watching me. Me watching him. The camps taught me patience in the cruelest ways—how to wait for guards to pass, how to endure pain without making a sound, how to bide your time until survival becomes possible again.

Curiosity finally overcomes the dog's fear. He inches forward, nose twitching as he scents me. Orc. Predator. Danger.

"That's it," I murmur, the gentleness in my voice foreign even to my own ears.

Another hesitant shuffle forward. Then another. His breath warms my fingertips, and I fight the instinct to grab, to dominate, to control—all the reactions beaten into me by humans who saw my kind as animals to be trained. Instead, I remain motionless, letting him choose.

When he pushes his head under my palm, something fractures inside me—a wall I've maintained since the first time I had to fight another orc child for the guards' entertainment. His fur feels coarse under my fingers, matted in places from surviving on streets that offered no kindness. The warmth of living flesh against my palm sends an unfamiliar current through me. The contrast is jarring—my calloused hands built for violence against this creature's vulnerability, his rough but delicate fur catching against the hardened ridges of my palm. Something in this connection feels both foreign and somehow right.

I scratch behind his ears, movements tentative and unpracticed. The dog leans into the touch, eyes half-closing.

Before I can process what's happening, he's pressed against my thigh, head resting on my leg, a deep sigh escaping as tension visibly leaves his body.

Trust.

Something so simple it seems impossible. So easily destroyed, it's rarely worth the risk.

For a disorienting moment, I imagine a different life—one where creatures come to me for safety instead of running in terror, where these hands are known for comfort instead of combat. The fantasy fades when I glance down, seeing green skin marked by scars and old wounds, a permanent reminder of what I was built to be.

Yet this animal doesn't see those hands the way humans do—as weapons. He sees only what I've offered: gentleness where he expected pain.

The warmth spreading through my chest is unfamiliar, uncomfortable. Is this what normal people feel? Those who weren't shaped into weapons by human cruelty? This instinct to protect something smaller, to offer safety without expecting blood in return?

In the camps, they taught us trust was weakness—the vulnerability that gets you killed. The military reinforced it through betrayal and exploitation. The fighting circuits cemented it in blood money. Trust is the luxury of those who never had to fight for survival.

Yet here sits this burned, abandoned creature, choosing to trust me—a monster that makes children cry and grown men reach for weapons.

"Looks like you've made a friend."

Maya's voice startles me back to reality. She stands in the doorway, bowl of kibble in hand, watching with an expression that sees too much. The dog's ears prick up at her voice, but he doesn't leave my side.

"He was just scared," I say, suddenly defensive, as if admitting to gentleness is admitting to weakness.

"They all are, at first." She enters, setting the bowl within reach. There's something different in her expression now—not just the clinical assessment of a doctor, but something softer, more personal. "Most strays are. Takes time to realize not everyone wants to hurt them."

Her eyes meet mine, and I know she sees the connection between the burned animal and the scarred orc. Both strays. Both defensive. Both expecting pain from every outstretched hand.

"I didn't take you for the soft-hearted type," she continues, kneeling to join us in the pen. She moves more carefully than necessary, exhaustion evident in the way she braces herself against the floor.

"I'm not." The denial comes instantly, protectively, even as my fingers continue their gentle rhythm through matted fur.

"Evidence suggests otherwise." Her smile is small but genuine—the first real one I've seen directed at me, not the doctor's professional mask or the wary curve of lips humans offer when they're afraid to offend.

Heat crawls up my neck. I've stared down fighters twice my size without flinching, but this exposure makes me want to retreat. I need walls between me and whatever Maya's seeing right now. Need the safety of being feared rather than understood.

"Food's getting cold," I say, carefully extracting myself from the dog, who whines softly at the loss. The takeout containers sit forgotten on the counter, a reminder of my original purpose here.

"Heaven forbid." Her eyes hold mine, refusing to let me hide. "Who knew it would take a stray dog to crack that armor of yours?"

"Don't." The word emerges sharper than intended.

She shifts closer, deliberate and unafraid, closing the space between us until I can catch the faint scent of vanilla on her skin. Her eyes never leave mine, challenge flashing in their hazel depths. "Don't what? Notice that you're more than the weapon you pretend to be?"

I stand abruptly, needing the height advantage, needing to remind us both of who I am. The beast inside me stirs, the familiar comfort of anger rising to shield more complicated emotions.

"You don't know who I am." My voice drops to the growl that makes humans step back. Her gaze flickers to my mouth, to the tusks that mark me as other, but she holds her ground.

She rises to face me, unflinching despite my size, despite the threat implicit in my posture. "I know enough."

"You know what I let you see."

"And what about what you just showed that dog?" She gestures to the animal, who watches our exchange with renewed anxiety. "Was that an act, too?"

There's no answer that doesn't crack me open further, doesn't expose parts of myself I barely acknowledge exist. Parts that wouldn't have survived the camps, the military, the fights. Parts I don't know what to do with now that they're stirring to life.

For a heartbeat, I see her lips part as if she might say something else—something that could tear down what remains of my defenses.

We stand locked in that charged silence, neither willing to retreat, when both our phones come alive at once—hers ringing, mine vibrating in my pocket.

"Hello?" Maya answers, eyes still locked on mine.

I check the screen. Diesel. I swipe to accept, defenses already put back in place. "What?"

"Fire," Diesel's voice is strained. "Oak Street location. Silas was inside. Two others. The place is going up fast."

The beast inside me surges forward, a salvation from feelings I'm not equipped to handle. Action. Crisis. Danger. This I understand. I can be the protector, the fighter, roles I've perfected since childhood—anything but the exposed nerve Maya had somehow managed to touch with her probing words.

Maya's face drains of color as she listens to her caller. "How many injured?" she asks, doctor mode engaging, her earlier probing gaze replaced by professional focus.

"On my way," I tell Diesel, ending the call and already moving toward the door. The familiar surge of adrenaline floods my system, burning away the uncomfortable vulnerability of moments before.

"Fire at the demolition site," Maya says, stuffing gauze and bandages into a bag.

"I know. Diesel just called. Silas is inside." My voice returns to its customary growl, armor sliding back into place, where it should have stayed.

She pauses, medical kit half-packed. "You have transportation?"

"My bike."

"I'll follow in my car." She resumes packing, all business now. "Burns, smoke inhalation—I need to bring oxygen. The closest hospital is over an hour out. We'll need to triage until they arrive."

The dog whines from his pen, sensing the sudden energy shift. I glance back at him, an unexpected tightness gripping my chest.

"He'll be fine," Maya says, reading something in my expression I'd rather she hadn't seen. "I'll come back for him after."

We leave together, the emergency creating a functional truce that bypasses the raw edges of our earlier confrontation. The takeout containers remain on the counter, our intended meal forgotten in the urgency of the moment. Outside, my bike waits at the curb behind her Honda.

"Stay behind me," I command, voice hardening as I reclaim familiar territory. "I know the fastest route."

She nods, all challenge gone in the face of crisis. "Don't wait. I'll be right behind you."

I straddle my bike, kick it to life with more force than necessary. The engine's roar drowns the quieter voice inside me, the one that still feels the press of fur against my palm, the weight of a trusting head on my leg.

As I tear out of the parking lot, Maya's headlights steady in my mirror, I force my thoughts toward the fire, toward action, toward the clarity that comes with having a clear enemy to fight. This is what I was made for—charging into danger, not sitting in dog pens having moments of emotional revelation.

Yet as the cold night air blasts against my face, I can't fully banish the memory of the dog choosing to trust me. Of Maya seeing something in me worth challenging, worth pushing past the walls I've spent a lifetime building.

Ahead, orange flames lick the night sky, casting an unnatural glow against the clouds. I can smell the accelerant already—that chemical tang beneath the smoke that signals this was no accident. Someone set this fire deliberately. Victor's people are getting bolder, testing our resolve to rebuild what he tried to destroy.

At least firefighting gives me something to focus on besides the unsettling realization of what just happened in that clinic. For a few moments back there, I wasn't the monster, the weapon, the beast. I was something else. Something I'm not sure I have a right to be.

And that terrifies me more than any burning building ever could.