Page 6

Chapter Six

Maya

T wenty-six hours without sleep. The numbers blur on my watch as I blink away the grit of exhaustion. Every muscle in my body aches, my bones hollowed out by fatigue that reminds me of the worst thirty-six-hour shifts during residency. I slouch into the diner's vinyl booth, my thighs sticking to the seat as I cling to consciousness by pure stubbornness.

The fire consumed most of the night. Flames roared through the ancient wood beams like kindling, thick smoke billowing into the darkness and turning the stars to smudges. By some miracle, everyone made it out alive—burns of varying degrees, smoke inhalation, one broken wrist from a panicked drop off the scaffolding.

I treated them in the street, using the hood of someone's pickup as my examination table while firefighters from three counties battled the blaze. The ambulances wailed in an hour later from the next town over, their sirens echoing through the empty streets until sometime after midnight.

Through it all, Crow worked alongside me. The orc who'd fought so hard to hide his gentleness with that burned dog just hours earlier carried the injured without complaint, fetched supplies from my car, and held pressure on wounds when I needed an extra pair of hands. His massive form moved with single-minded purpose through the chaos, backlit by the orange glow of destruction.

"Looks intentional." Diesel's voice carries from the next booth over, where he sits huddled with two locals who helped at the fire. "Accelerant pattern around the back entrance. Classic arson job."

"That building had issues," one of the locals interjects. "Could have been a spark off damn near anything that spread."

Diesel shakes his head. "I checked that place over before we started taking it down. There was nothing left to spark."

"Victor's crew," the second man I recognize as a construction worker mutters.

"Doesn't take a goddamn forensic expert," Diesel replies, voice rough with anger. "We start rebuilding the town, and suddenly buildings catch fire? Royce is sending a message from whatever shithole he's hiding in. Either that or Victor's got contacts outside our reach."

Their conversation drops to harsh murmurs. The implications sink into my exhaustion-dulled brain. If someone's targeting the rebuilding efforts, it means the town—these people I'm responsible for medically—are all at risk. This isn't just property damage; it's a threat to everyone here.

My phone vibrates against the table. Mom's name flashes on the screen because, of course, she would call now, when I'm too exhausted to maintain my defenses. I think about letting it go to voicemail, but she'll keep calling until I answer.

"Hi, Mom."

"Maya? You sound awful. Are you sick?"

I dig my fingertips into my temples. "Just tired. Long night."

"Oh? Some excitement at your little... clinic?" The pause before "clinic" speaks volumes—the implication that whatever happens in Shadow Ridge barely qualifies as medical practice.

"There was a fire in town." I close my eyes. "Multiple injuries. Nothing life-threatening."

"A fire? In that quaint little place? How dramatic." She pauses, expectant silence stretching between us. "Well, I'm sure it felt very important to you, darling. Almost like a real emergency."

Her condescension scrapes across nerves already rubbed raw by sleeplessness. But I'm too damn tired to mount a defense.

"Did you need something, Mom?"

"Your father and I were comparing our calendars. We might be able to arrange a visit next month, see this... clinic of yours firsthand."

My stomach knots. "A visit?"

"Don't sound so alarmed. We're simply curious about this place that's keeping you so busy."

I can picture their visit with perfect clarity—Mom's pinched expression as she catalogs the clinic's outdated equipment, Dad's clinical assessment of everything I'm doing wrong, their united front of disappointment. And now there would be Crow and the Ironborn to explain. The motorcycle club funding a doctor’s office. The Orcs are rebuilding a town after a human tried to destroy it.

"Maya?" Mom prompts. "Are you still there?"

"Yes." I straighten my spine. "It's just not a good time for visitors. The town is still recovering from significant damage, and we are in the midst of rebuilding its medical infrastructure. Maybe in a few months when things are more settled."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, your father wants to speak with you."

The phone rustles, then Dad's voice, crisp and direct. "Maya."

"Hi, Dad."

"Your mother says you sound unwell."

"I'm fine." I press my back against the booth, forcing myself upright. "Just tired."

He exhales, the sound weighted with judgment. "This is precisely what concerns me. Working yourself to exhaustion in a place with no support staff, no proper facilities. This isn't sustainable."

His dismissal mirrors what I've seen in Crow's eyes when he speaks of his past—that resigned certainty that nothing good can last, that survival means conforming to others' expectations. We're both fighting to define ourselves against the roles others assigned us.

"I have to go, Dad." My voice sounds distant to my own ears. "I'll call next week."

"Maya—"

I end the call and drop the phone like it's burned me. My eyes sting with exhaustion and the threat of tears I refuse to shed. Not here. Not in public.

"Parents, huh?" Helen's voice breaks through my fog. She stands beside the booth, an oversized sundae drowning in hot fudge in her hand. "They sound very…concerned."

Heat crawls up my neck. "How much did you hear?"

"Enough." She slides the sundae in front of me. "Figured you needed this more than the person who ordered it."

"I can't—"

"Hush." She slips into the booth across from me. "Eat your feelings like a normal person instead of bottling them up until the damn breaks."

A startled laugh escapes me. I take a spoonful of ice cream, the sweetness cutting through the bitterness still lingering from my father's disapproval.

"So," Helen says, settling in. "Want to talk about it? Your parents?"

"Not really."

She nods, watching me eat with quiet satisfaction. "My oldest son was pre-law. Wanted it his entire life. Full ride to UGA. Dropped out in his junior year to become a firefighter."

I look up, surprised by the personal disclosure.

"Oh, I lost my mind," Helen continues, eyes distant with memory. "Screamed, threatened to disown him. Couldn't understand why anyone would throw away a future as a lawyer to run into burning buildings."

"What happened?"

Something softens in her expression. "Two years later, he pulled a family of four from a house fire. The youngest was just a baby. The news aired a clip, and I saw the mother grab his hands, sobbing, telling him he was sent from God." She shakes her head. "That's when I got it. He wasn't running away from his dreams. He was running toward his purpose."

The parallel isn't subtle, but it strikes home anyway. "My parents think I'm wasting my potential."

"And what do you think?"

I push the ice cream around the bowl. "I think... for the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm actually helping people. Not just going through motions, checking boxes, following the limitations of insurance companies."

"Sounds like you may have found your purpose as well. Your parents will just have to accept your path," Helen says simply. She reaches across the table, patting my hand. "Your life isn't theirs to live."

I'm pondering that thought when the diner door crashes open, hard enough to rattle the blinds on the windows. I flinch, nerves still raw from the night's chaos. Every head turns as Crow's massive frame fills the doorway, his leather cut hanging open, black shirt underneath streaked with soot. The brutal daylight does nothing to soften the hard angles of his face or the intensity in his expression as he scans the room.

His gaze catches on me for a split second—just long enough to set my pulse racing—before he strides toward Diesel's table, deliberately ignoring me. That shouldn't sting. It absolutely shouldn't matter.

But it does.

"We got confirmation," Crow growls as he reaches Diesel, his voice carrying across the near-empty diner. "The fire chief from Clemmons found gas pouring throughout the site, and a jerrycan melted into the rubble."

"Fucking knew it," Diesel slams his fist on the table, rattling silverware. "What's the plan?"

"No plan yet. Ash and Hammer are working on it." Crow's posture radiates tension, the tightly leashed violence I'd glimpsed before. Nothing like the orc who'd tempted a stray from his hiding place. "Keep your eyes open. Tell the others."

He exchanges terse nods with the men, then turns and scans the diner again. His gaze locks with mine, and for a moment, I think he might walk away. Instead, he stalks toward my booth with deliberate steps, the sheer size of him drawing every eye in the place.

Helen follows my stare, something knowing flashing across her face. "Well, that's my cue." She slides from the booth. "Looks like trouble found you."

"Wait," I grab her wrist. "Don't leave me alone with him."

"Honey, I know better than to get in an orc's way." She pats my hand and slips away, nodding to Crow as she passes. "She's all yours, big guy. Try not to break her."

Traitor.

Crow slides into the booth across from me, the vinyl protesting beneath his weight. Up close, exhaustion drags at his features—shadows deepening beneath his eyes, a new tension pulling at his mouth. The beast is back in control, and none of the vulnerability from the clinic is visible in his posture.

"You look like shit," he says, voice rough like leather on stone.

I raise an eyebrow. "Such a charmer. You look worse."

Something that might almost be a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth before vanishing. "I've been looking for you."

"Found me." I push the half-eaten sundae away, suddenly self-conscious. "Last night was insane. Thanks for your help with the injured. You were... You saved lives out there."

His posture stiffens, shoulders squaring as if I've accused him of some crime. The cords in his neck tighten.

"I did what anyone would've done," he mutters, gaze dropping to the table, jaw clenched.

"Not everyone," I correct. "You."

There it is—the same retreat I witnessed at the clinic. The immediate withdrawal when someone notices his capacity for compassion. I've hit a wall, and pushing against it will only make him shut down harder.

"You said you were looking for me?"

He shifts, uncomfortable with the personal question. "There's an old man named Gus Whitaker living deep in the woods, fifteen miles out. Served with Silas in 'Nam." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Been holed up in his cabin, refusing to come in even though Silas says he's been sick all week."

The mention of a sick patient snaps my professional instincts into focus, fatigue falling away. "How sick? What symptoms?"

Crow's expression changes, relief flickering across his features at my immediate concern. "Bad cough. Fever. Couldn't get a full breath without making this sound like his lungs were full of broken glass. Stubborn old bastard wouldn't let me drag him to town."

"You've seen him?"

"This morning. Rode out as soon as the site was clear. His place is on my rounds."

Something tells me Gus's cabin is nowhere near Crow's normal patrols, but I let the thought drop. "Pneumonia," I say, already mentally cataloging the supplies I'd need. "Probable pneumonia. How old is he?"

"Pushing eighty. Wife died years ago. Only really talks to Silas."

I grab my bag, energy surging through me. "I need to see him to come up with the best treatment plan. Can you give me directions? I'll head out there now."

Crow blinks, genuine surprise crossing his features. "You've been up for over a day. You're dead on your feet."

"I've gone longer." I'm already sliding out of the booth, fatigue temporarily forgotten. "Pneumonia kills seniors fast. We can't wait."

"Jesus, slow down," Crow growls, though there's a hint of grudging respect in his tone. "If you just tell me what to do, what to bring him, I can handle it. Old man doesn't like strangers anyway, and you need sleep before you collapse."

So now he wants to show concern for me. "Not happening," I cut him off. "I need to examine him myself. Auscultation, vitals, and decide which antibiotics based on his condition." I'm already cataloging supplies in my head. "I've got everything at the clinic. We can stop on the way."

Crow stands, his massive frame blocking the aisle. "You're really gonna do this? Now? After a night from hell?"

"That didn't stop you from riding out to check on him this morning." I meet his gaze directly, unflinching. "Someone needs help. That's what doctors do."

Something shifts in his expression—respect, definitely recognition. "Not all of them."

I don't miss the echo of earlier words in his speech. "I did what any good doctor should have. Now, let's get to Gus while we can still help."

"Bike's outside," he says, the words simple but show his compliance.

"Meet you there in five. I need to grab my emergency kit from the car and a few things from the clinic."

Twenty minutes later, I'm on the back of Crow's motorcycle, arms wrapped around his waist as we speed down country roads. The vibration of the engine travels through my body, a constant hum that somehow keeps me alert despite my exhaustion.

I try not to focus on the solid warmth of him between my thighs, the way his muscles shift beneath my arms as he navigates turns. Try not to inhale the scent of leather and smoke that clings to him. Try desperately to maintain professional detachment.

And fail spectacularly.

Gus Whitaker's cabin sits at the end of a dirt road so rutted it nearly dislodged me from the back of Crow's bike twice. The structure, a log cabin that looks as old as its owner, sits nestled into a grove of tall pine trees that easily hide it from the road. If I hadn't come with Crow, I'd have never found it.

Crow is helping me dismount and handing me my bag when the old man greets us with a shotgun barrel jutting through the cracked door.

"Told you not to bring nobody, Brotan," he rasps, using a name for Crow I've never heard before. The sound of it jars me, but I'm too focused on the task at hand to question it further.

"And I told you to stop being a stubborn ass," Crow replies, climbing the porch steps and not flinching at the weapon trained on his chest. "Put the fucking gun down, Gus. She's a doctor."

"Don't need no doctor." The words dissolve into a wet, hacking cough, which confirms that he absolutely does.

"Then why are you sweating through your shirt in sixty-degree weather?" Crow counters, taking a step forward rather than back. I don't miss how he's angled himself so I'm behind him and out of range if Gus decides to pull the trigger.

"Go the fuck away and take her with ya." The gun barrel wavers.

"Come on, old man." Crow swats the shotgun with his hand, moving it to point to the ground instead of me. "She's patched me up twice, and you know how I feel about humans."

The shotgun lowers slightly. Bloodshot eyes peer at me from behind the door's crack. "That true? You've patched up this asshole?"

"Twice." I step forward, medical bag clutched like a shield. "Dr. Maya Johnson."

"Hmph." The gun drops completely. "Prettier than old Doc Morris, I'll give you that."

"Yeah." Crow mutters as he pushes the door open, forcing Gus to step back. "I hadn't noticed."

I pretend I didn't hear him.

The cabin's interior smells of mentholated rub, stale coffee, and decades of dust. Despite the clutter of a lifetime's possessions, there's a military precision to the arrangement—canned goods on shelves with all labels facing out, boots aligned perfectly by the door, a neat stack of newspapers next to a fireplace still smoldering from last night. Gus shuffles to a threadbare armchair, lowering himself with the careful movements of someone whose joints betray him daily.

"Crow says you've been feeling sick for a while. Tell me what's going on?" I set my bag next to his chair and pull out my stethoscope.

"Crow?" Gus questions, his voice cracking with a strained chuckle. "Who the hell is Crow?"

Crow steps forward so he's standing square with Gus's chair. "Me, you old hardass."

Gus grunts and gives a small head shake. "Can't just have one damn name like the rest of us."

My exam confirms it: advancing flu, bordering on pneumonia. His lungs crackle like tearing paper. Temp's 101.3, pulse rapid and thready. He's already dehydrated—skin tents when pinched.

"You need fluids, antibiotics, and monitoring," I tell him, packing my stethoscope away. "Ideally, at my clinic, where I can keep an eye on you."

"Not happening." The declaration comes out between clenched teeth.

I look at Crow, who gives me a small headshake.

"Then someone needs to check on you every day," I counter, setting pill bottles on his side table with more force than necessary. "Make sure you're taking these, staying hydrated, and not drowning in your own fluid-filled lungs. I'll write a script for some antibiotics, and," I cut a glance to Crow, "Brotan can bring them out later."

Gus's gaze shifts to Crow, who's now standing arms crossed over his chest, expression closed. "I suppose this green menace has already volunteered?"

Crow's mouth quirks. "Someone has to make sure you don't die in your sleep, old man."

"Been trying to die in my sleep for a decade. Hasn't stuck yet."

I swallow a smile despite myself. "I'll come when I can, too. Between us, we'll keep you alive despite your best efforts."

Gus makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a harrumph, but I catch the flash of relief in his eyes—the involuntary reaction of a man who's been alone too long.

"You two know each other well?" I ask, checking Gus's blood pressure one final time.

"Better than we should," Gus mutters, the words triggering another coughing fit.

Crow shifts his weight, gaze fixed on the floorboards. "It’s not a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Gus's eyebrows shoot up. "Girl ought to know what kind of monster she's riding with."

"Gus—" Crow's warning is clear, muscles tensing beneath his leather, but the old man waves it away with a gnarled hand.

"Few months back, Silas asked the club to check on some of us recluses out here in the sticks," Gus continues, rheumy eyes fixed on me. "This one drew the short straw." He jerks his chin toward Crow.

Crow's jaw clenches so tight I can almost hear his teeth grinding. The tension in the room thickens.

"Found me with my old service pistol," Gus says, his voice dropping to something raw and honest. "Had the barrel under my chin. Been sitting like that for hours, trying to work up the nerve."

The words punch through me. Suicide. I glance at Crow, whose expression has gone carefully blank, the same mask he wears whenever vulnerability threatens to crack his surface.

"This green bastard didn't say a word," Gus continues, ignoring the crackling tension. "Just sat down across from me. Waited me out." Gus's short sentences carry the weight of a memory too heavy for flourish. "When my hand started shaking too hard to hold the gun anymore, he took it. Emptied the bullets into his pocket like he was collecting loose change."

"You were having a bad day," Crow mutters, the words scraped raw. "Everybody has bad days."

"Says the man who came back the next day. And the day after that." Gus's eyes narrow on me. "Been showing up every few days since. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we just sit."

"I think that's enough reminiscing," Crow cuts in, voice tight with warning.

Gus ignores him. "First time he came back, I told him to get the hell off my property. Man didn't budge. Just sat there in my living room like a green statue. Finally asked him what his problem was."

Crow shifts his weight, muscles bunching beneath his leather.

"That's when he started talking. About the camps where they put his kind. About the fighting pits after. About what it's like to hate yourself so much you can't stand your own reflection." Gus's eyes, suddenly sharp despite his illness, lock on mine. "He's not what he pretends to be, Doc. Not a mindless weapon. Not an unfeeling beast."

"Gus," Crow's voice drops to that dangerous register that would make most people retreat. "Fucking enough."

The cabin goes silent except for Gus's labored breathing. Crow's massive shoulders rise and fall as he struggles to contain whatever's raging inside him. His eyes meet mine briefly—anger layered over something raw and wounded—before he looks away.

"I'll wait outside," he mutters, ducking through the doorway that's too small for his frame.

The door closes with careful restraint, like he's fighting the urge to slam it. Through the grimy window, I watch his silhouette retreat toward the motorcycle.

"He'll be alright," Gus says softly behind me. When I turn back, the old man looks drained, illness and emotion carving deeper lines into his weathered face. "Just doesn't like being seen."

I finish packing my equipment, trying to process everything I've just learned. "You two have a lot in common."

"More than either of us wanted," Gus admits. "First time he told me about those camps, about what they made him do there..." He shakes his head slowly. "It was like looking in a goddamn mirror. Same eyes I'd see when I came back from 'Nam. Man who can't wash the blood off his hands, no matter how hard he scrubs."

I swallow hard, understanding resonating through me. Just like my father wants to wash away my connection to Jamie's death, to pretend it never happened by burying me in a prestigious practice far from here. But some stains don't wash away—they become part of your skin, part of who you are.

"I'll be back tomorrow to check on you. Take the antibiotics every six hours, even if you start feeling better. Drink water until your urine runs clear."

"Yes, ma'am." A hint of a smile breaks through his gruff exterior. "He's not as tough as he pretends to be."

"I know," I say softly, and realize I mean it.

Outside, Crow stands by his motorcycle, one hand resting on the seat, staring into the surrounding woods. His profile is sharp against the afternoon light, jaw still tight with the tension from inside.

He turns as I approach, expression guarded. "He okay?"

"He will be," I say, breaking the silence. "If you check on him like you promised."

Crow nods, not looking up from the bike. "I will."

"Why do you care?" I challenge, stepping closer. "About him. About that dog. About this town? You act like you're just some... fighting machine. Like caring makes you weak."

He straightens to his full height, gaze burning into mine. "Because it does."

"Bullshit."

The word hangs between us. His nostrils flare, jaw tightening.

"You don't know a fucking thing about me," he says, voice dangerously soft.

"I know what I've seen. What you try to hide." I stand taller, refusing to back down. "What Gus couldn't help but tell me because he needed me to understand who was really standing in that room."

He steps closer, using his size to intimidate. I stand my ground even as my pulse hammers.

"What you've seen is a fucking mask," he snaps, the words erupting like they've been held back too long. "Gus doesn't know shit. Nobody does." His chest heaves with the effort of trying to control his voice. "You want to know who I really am? I was the smallest kid in the camps. Easiest target. Guards used me for entertainment. Older Orcs used me for practice. Every fucking day was about survival, nothing else."

The raw admission stuns me. He continues, words flowing like poison from a lanced wound.

"When I was ten, I fought back. Nearly killed a guard with his own baton. That's when I learned the only way forward was through blood and pain. Mine or someone else's." His voice drops, nearly vibrating with controlled rage. "I fought to survive, then for money, then because it was the only thing that made me feel anything at all."

He turns away, jaw working. "There's not a protective bone in my body. Not after what humans took from me."

I step closer, refusing to let him retreat into the comfort of his familiar pain. "That can't be true. You relocated to Shadow Ridge to protect this town. You sat with Gus when he was ready to end everything. You made sure he knew he wasn't alone. You held that burned dog when it was terrified, gave it comfort when it expected pain."

"That's not—"

"And that night at the hospital," I press on, "you didn't give a shit about yourself. You were more worried about me losing my job. Where was your selfish fighting machine then?"

He stares at me, and for a moment, I see past the rage to something raw and wounded beneath.

"You have a heart, Crow." I pause, then quietly add, "Brotan. Hammer might have given you a new name, but he didn't give you a new soul. That part of you survived, even when you tried to bury it."

“Hammer gave me that name because death follows in my wake, Maya. I’m not who you want me to be. I never will be.”

His eyes close briefly, shoulders dropping a fraction. The fury bleeds from him, leaving something more vulnerable in its place. Something that terrifies him more than rage ever could.

Then he moves—so fast I barely register it happening. One moment we're standing a foot apart, the next his hands are framing my face, his mouth crashing down on mine with brutal intensity.

The kiss isn't gentle. It's desperate. Hungry. His lips claim mine like he's starving and I'm salvation. His tusks press against my cheeks, the slight pain only sharpening the pleasure coursing through me. My hands find his chest, fingers digging into leather and the solid muscle beneath, not pushing away but pulling closer.

Heat erupts everywhere our bodies connect, a wildfire consuming rational thought. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of coffee and something darker, more savage. I make a sound I've never heard myself make before—halfway between a whimper and a moan—and feel him shudder in response.

Just as I surrender completely to the sensation, he tears himself away. His breathing comes harsh and ragged, pupils blown wide with desire, but his expression hardens into something deliberate and cruel.

"That's the man I am," he growls, voice rough as gravel. "I take what I want and I don't give a fuck how much it hurts you, or anyone else."

The words land exactly how he intends, knocking the air from my lungs. From pleasure to pain in the space of a heartbeat. The calculated cruelty in his tone—designed to push me away, to make me hate him—hurts worse than if he'd struck me.

"Get on the bike," he says flatly. "We're done here."

I stand frozen, body still humming with the echo of his touch, mind struggling to process the whiplash shift.

"Now." The word holds no room for argument.

I move almost on autopilot, climbing onto the motorcycle behind him. My hands hesitate before wrapping around his waist, every point of contact a fresh reminder of what just happened.

The engine roars to life, and Crow takes off faster than before, the sudden acceleration forcing me to hold tighter or risk being thrown off. The wind stings my eyes, providing a convenient cover for the tears threatening to form.

But even as hurt radiates through me, cold logic follows close behind. This isn't about anger—it's about fear. The harder he cares, the harder he pushes away. He's the wounded animal in the corner, lashing out at the hand trying to help.

Just like I'd run from New York, from Jamie's memory, he's running from the chance to be something more than what his past made him.

So I'll follow his lead for now. I'll pull back. Wait. I'll give him space and time and allow him to come to me when he's ready, if he ever is. Because the battle raging inside him is one he doesn't know how to win—maybe doesn't believe he can win.

My cheek rests against his back as we ride, the vibration of his bike numbing my exhausted brain. His body radiates heat that burns through my jacket and into my bones, chasing away the chill of the wind. For someone trying so hard to push me away, he can't seem to stop his body from seeking contact with mine at every turn.

And despite the hurt still fresh from his words, despite all the reasons I should maintain professional distance, I can't deny the growing certainty that Crow—Brotan—is becoming important to me in ways I'm not ready to examine.

The trees blur as we speed back toward town, his body my only solid reference point in a world that's spinning too fast. Pine needles catch the afternoon sun like copper threads, their scent sharp and clean in the air rushing past us. My eyelids grow heavy, and I tighten my grip around his waist, giving in to exhaustion at last.

As consciousness fades, I understand one thing with perfect clarity: the man who kissed me wasn't the man who pushed me away. One was real. One was a mask.

And I already know which is which.