Page 7

Chapter Seven

Crow

S ix days without her. Each one more hollow than the last.

I've worn paths through the clubhouse like a caged beast, my brothers keeping their distance, watching without getting too close. The memory of Maya's lips haunts me worse than the screams from the camps. Her face when I deliberately cut her down at Gus's cabin—that brief flash of hurt before she rebuilt her walls—replays behind my eyelids every time I try to sleep.

My knuckles are a map of open wounds. The garage wall bears the evidence—blood-flecked concrete where I've driven my fists until bone met resistance. Pain used to clarify. Now it just reminds me I'm still capable of feeling.

Yesterday, I found myself halfway to Dawson County, motorcycle purring beneath me like a predator scenting blood. The underground fighting pit there doesn't ask questions, doesn't care if an orc kills a human, so long as the bets pay. The old addiction whispers promises of relief—a place where violence is the only language, where I don't have to question who or what I am.

But her voice followed me down the highway: "You're more than the damage you can deal."

Bullshit. She believes in redemption, in second chances. In fairytales, monsters turn into men.

Yet I haven't stepped into a ring since that night in New York when her hands stitched me together while everyone else wanted me to bleed out on their doorstep. The longest I've gone without fighting since the camps, where I learned to. The realization burrows under my skin like shrapnel I can't dig out.

My phone vibrates. Unknown number. I check it reflexively, then feel ice crystallize in my veins.

Quinn misses his champion. Time to settle debts.

Ryker. Quinn's enforcer. The message slices through me—a reminder of every reason I pushed Maya away, why distance is the only gift I can give her.

I delete the text without responding, though my fingers itch to engage. To end this circling threat once and for all.

Instead of seeking relief in bloodshed, I've been working my body to collapse with Shadow Ridge's rebuilding projects. Breaking things to build them better, a pathetic metaphor for a redemption I don't deserve.

The hammer cracks another board as I drive a nail with enough force to split hardwood—the third one today. Diesel just silently passes replacements, giving me space to work out whatever's eating me alive from the inside out.

The roar of Silas's pickup cuts through construction noise before it skids to a halt at the edge of our site. The old man practically falls from the driver's seat, moving faster than anyone with a Vietnam-wrecked knee should manage.

"Crow!" he barks, bypassing Diesel and two laborers. Something in his expression makes my hackles rise.

I drop everything, already moving toward him. "What happened?"

"It's the doc." Silas's face is ashen with worry. "Victor Hargrove's assistant called her out to the estate. The old snake's got the fever that's going around."

" What? " The word emerges like gravel through a wood chipper. Diesel's head snaps up at my tone.

"Maya went out there," Silas continues. "Alone. Twenty minutes ago."

"The fuck you mean she's at Victor's ?" My vision narrows, blood roaring in my ears. "And nobody stopped her?"

Silas’s jaw tightens, mirroring my worry. "Nobody knew until she'd already gone. Helen found a note on the clinic door."

My hands curl into fists tight enough to make my bones creak. That stubborn, fearless woman. After everything she's heard about Victor's threats, the fires, the danger that shadows every corner of this town for outsiders who don't know the players. Yet she walks straight into the viper's nest without backup, without telling anyone.

Without me.

"What was she thinking?" The question rasps out, more desperate plea than anger.

"She's a doctor," Silas answers, as if that explains everything.

And maybe it does. That same stubborn commitment to healing that had her standing between me and an ER full of humans who wanted me dead. The determination that drives her to check on Gus daily despite his best efforts to chase her away.

The same quality I admire about her is going to get her killed.

"I'll drive," Silas says, jerking his thumb toward his truck. "You look like you might tear the steering wheel clean off."

"Not happening." I'm already striding toward my bike. "I handle this my way."

"Crow—" Silas starts, but I cut him off.

"If she'd had a way to reach me," I say, the words burning in my throat, low and bitter, "she wouldn't have gone alone."

Nearly a week of punishing myself for wanting her meant making damn sure our paths never crossed. Days of avoiding the clinic, the diner, anyplace she might be. Days when she learned I couldn't be counted on.

If anything happens to her at Victor's estate...

"Where's Ash?" I call over my shoulder, already kick-starting the bike.

"Council meeting in Marshall County," Diesel shouts. "Won't be back till tonight."

I tear out of the site, gravel spraying like shrapnel. The motorcycle's engine screams as I push it beyond what's safe, devouring blacktop between the town's edge and Hargrove's estate.

Victor's been too quiet since his arrest and indictment. Quiet men are dangerous men. Men with nothing left to lose are walking time bombs.

The Hargrove estate looms on the highest hill overlooking Shadow Ridge—a monument to wealth extracted from the town's slow death. Victorian architecture with its wraparound porches and six bedrooms for a man who lives alone. The kind of house that whispers old Southern money, though everyone knows Victor's grandfather was just a moonshiner who got lucky in real estate.

I park directly in front of the main entrance, ignoring the circular drive where Maya's Honda sits. My boots hammer the marble steps as I take them three at a time, the beast inside me straining against a fraying leash.

The maid who answers looks terrified, eyes widening at the sight of a six-and-a-half-foot orc in a leather cut standing on the pristine porch.

"I'm here for Dr. Johnson," I say, voice dangerously soft as I push past her.

Her gaze darts over my shoulder, searching for backup that isn't there. "Dr. Johnson is with Mr. Hargrove. I can tell her you're waiting when she's finished—"

"I'll tell her myself." I force my way into the foyer, swallowing a growl.

The house reeks of wealth, crystal chandeliers, antique furniture, oil paintings of people who stole their legacy instead of building it. I scan for exits, entrances, threats, military habits hammered into me by necessity.

"Sir, you can't just—" The maid hurries after me, voice rising toward panic.

"Which room?" My voice drops lower, a barely contained threat.

"I can't—"

" Which. Room. " I turn, letting enough of the beast show in my eyes to make her shrink back. It's cheap intimidation I rarely use on civilians, but Maya's safety overrides my usual restraints.

She points with trembling fingers toward the grand staircase. "Second floor. Master suite at the end of the hall." Then adds, almost desperately, "His assistant is with them."

Small comfort, but better than nothing.

I take the stairs two at a time, tracking the scent of antiseptic and vanilla that follows Maya everywhere. The door to the master suite stands partially open. I push it wider without knocking.

Victor Hargrove lies in a massive four-poster bed, looking significantly less intimidating in silk pajamas, his face flushed with fever. Maya stands beside him in her professional mode—stethoscope around her neck, medical bag open on the nightstand, expression unreadable. A slim woman in an expensive suit hovers nearby, typing notes into a tablet.

Maya looks up as I enter, shock flashing across her features before professional composure locks back into place. Victor's reaction is slower, his fever dulling his normally sharp gaze.

"You can't be in here," the assistant demands, stepping forward.

I ignore her, eyes fixed on Maya. "We need to talk."

"I'm with a patient," she says evenly, though I catch the steel beneath her words. "Please wait outside."

"Now," I insist, tone making it clear this isn't a request.

Her eyes narrow a fraction. "Crow." Just my name, but loaded with warning. "Please wait outside. I'll be done shortly."

We lock gazes. The tension in her shoulders tells me she's annoyed—but not afraid. There's no panic in her scent, no distress signals in her posture. She's in control of the situation.

Against my better judgment, I nod once. "I'll be right outside."

The assistant begins sputtering about security. Victor, surprisingly, raises a hand to silence her.

"Let the doctor finish her examination," he says, voice raspy with illness. "Her... friend ... can wait."

The way he says "friend" makes my jaw clench tight enough to risk breaking teeth, but I step back into the hallway without further comment. The door remains partially open—close enough to hear voices, far enough that I can't make out most words. I pace the corridor like a predator, every sense on high alert.

The maid reappears, wringing her hands. "Sir, I really must insist—"

"I'm not leaving without her," I state flatly, continuing my patrol of the hallway.

"Then perhaps you could wait downstairs? In the parlor?" Her anxiety pulses in the air, glances toward the master suite, suggesting Victor doesn't appreciate uninvited guests in his private domain.

Good. Let him be uncomfortable. Let him wonder why I'm here, what I might know.

"I'm fine right here."

I don't trust Victor Hargrove. I don't trust his walls, his smile, or the power he still wields from house arrest. Yet I trust Maya enough to wait in this hallway instead of dragging her out. Trust her judgment when every instinct screams to protect her, to eliminate the threat.

When did that happen? When did this human doctor's opinion start to outweigh my own instincts?

The door opens, and Maya emerges, medical bag in hand, professional mask firmly in place. The assistant follows, glaring daggers at me.

"Thank you for your patience," Maya says, tone neutral. "We can go now."

I fall into step beside her as we descend the grand staircase, hyperaware of the assistant following several paces behind. Every muscle in my body remains coiled tight, ready to react to the slightest threat.

The maid hovers at the bottom of the stairs, visibly relieved we're leaving without violence. Maya pauses to give her instructions for monitoring Victor's fever, medication schedules, and warning signs to watch for. I tune out the medical jargon, focusing instead on scanning the massive foyer for any sign of Royce or other dangers.

Only when we're outside, the mansion's ornate door firmly shut behind us, do I allow myself a full breath. Maya maintains her professional composure as we cross the immaculate lawn toward our vehicles.

"You rode here?" she asks, the first crack appearing in her doctor mask. "In your condition?"

"What condition?" I growl.

"Half-cocked and ready to start a war," she says, stopping to face me. "What the hell are you doing here, Crow?"

"Making sure you don't get yourself killed," I reply, unable to leash the edge in my voice. "Victor Hargrove? Seriously? He kidnapped Savvy when she refused to do his bidding."

"He's sick," she says, like that somehow wipes his slate clean. "I took an oath."

"He's dangerous."

"He's under house arrest with an ankle monitor," she counters. "His assistant lives on-site under court order. What exactly did you think was going to happen?"

The rational part of me knows she's right. But rationality has nothing to do with the dread that clawed through my chest when Silas told me where she'd gone. Nothing to do with the images that flashed through my mind—Maya hurt, Maya trapped, Maya at Victor's mercy.

"You shouldn't have come alone," I say finally.

Her eyes flash with something dangerous. "Don't tell me how to do my job. I've treated gangbangers with gunshot wounds and murderers in the ER. I know how to handle myself."

"This is different."

"How? Because it's Shadow Ridge? Because you've decided I need protecting?" She takes a step closer, anger vibrating in every syllable. "Or is it because you're trying to make up for what happened at Gus's?"

The accusation lands like a blade between my ribs. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what is it about? Because from where I'm standing, you've spent days avoiding me, then suddenly decide to play bodyguard the minute I do something you don't approve of."

She's not wrong. The guilt I've been carrying since I pushed her away at Gus's has been festering, mixing with something darker and more possessive that I refuse to name.

"Victor doesn't play by rules," I say instead. "Quiet men are dangerous men."

"So you just barge in, undermining my authority with a patient? Do you have any idea how hard it is to establish credibility in a town like this? How carefully I have to navigate being an outsider?" Her voice drops to a fierce whisper.

"That's not what I was doing."

"Then what were you doing, Crow? Because what you just did shows you didn't trust me to do the job Hammer brought me here to do."

"Hammer wouldn't want you taking unnecessary risks."

"Hammer gave me this job because he trusts my judgment," she fires back. "He specifically said I should treat everyone— everyone —without taking sides in this town's politics."

I have no response. She's right, and we both know it. Hammer would have given exactly those instructions—because that's what Shadow Ridge needs. A doctor without allegiances, who treats the person, not their past.

"You made a mistake. You're allowed to admit it." Her voice softens a fraction, which somehow cuts deeper. "What happened at Gus's doesn't mean you get to overcompensate by hovering like this."

"This isn't about Gus's cabin," I state, the lie burning my tongue. "This is about your safety."

"My safety is my concern, not yours."

"Is that what this is?" I step closer, the space between us humming with something darker than anger. "Going to Victor's alone? Some twisted payback for what happened at Gus's?"

Her eyes widen, genuine shock replacing anger before her expression hardens. "You think I'd risk my life to punish you? That my entire existence revolves around your rejection?" She laughs, short and bitter. "Your ego is even bigger than you are."

"My safety is my concern. Not yours." She turns away, heading toward her car. "Go home, Crow. I can take care of myself."

I watch her go, the beast inside me pacing restlessly, angry and confused. The need to follow her wars with the knowledge that it would only spark another confrontation.

Instead, I return to my bike, swinging a leg over with enough force to make the suspension groan. The engine roars to life beneath me, a mechanical extension of my frustration. I need to burn this feeling out—this unwelcome mixture of concern and attraction and something deeper I refuse to own.

The abandoned warehouse at the edge of town serves as the Ironborn's makeshift gym, heavy bags hanging from exposed beams, salvaged weights, a sparring area marked with duct tape on concrete. My sanctuary when the beast demands release.

Three hours later, my knuckles are raw despite the wraps, and the workout has done nothing to quiet the storm inside me. Instead, it's made it worse—each punch against leather giving my mind space to replay Maya's words. To remember the hurt in her eyes when I deliberately pushed her away.

To acknowledge the truth, that I haven't stepped into a fighting ring since the night she treated me. Something fundamental changed that night when her hands worked on me with care instead of fear. For the first time in my life, someone saw the man beneath the monster, and I'm terrified of losing that, even as I push her away.

After a quick shower in the crude stall we've rigged up, I head out with vague plans to return to the clubhouse. Instead, I find myself circling town, past the darkened clinic, inevitably toward Maya's bungalow. Just to check, I tell myself. Just to make sure she made it home safely.

The scent hits me two blocks away—sharp and chemical. Gasoline. And beneath it, smoke.

My bike roars as I take the corner. Her house comes into view against the night sky, and beside it, flames. Not the house itself, but something dangerously close to the wooden siding.

I abandon my bike in the street and sprint toward the blaze. A trash can positioned beside her porch burns with unnatural intensity—accelerant-fed flames already licking at the edge of the porch railing, climbing toward the main structure. Orange fire casts demonic shadows across the yard. The heat hits me like a furnace blast as I approach.

Through the front window, I catch a glimpse of Maya's living room—dark. Is she asleep inside, unaware of the danger? The thought sends a spike of terror through me sharper than any I've felt since the camps.

Without hesitation, I grab the metal can, searing heat immediate against my palms. Something protective takes over, overriding self-preservation. My hands blister on contact, but all I register is the imperative to get the danger away from her. Pain is secondary to the need to protect her—a need that's become as natural as breathing despite all my efforts to maintain distance.

The front door flies open, and Maya races out, already turning on the outdoor spigot. She grabs the hose, aiming the spray at the trash can I've dragged clear. Her nightclothes—a thin t-shirt and cotton shorts—offer no protection from the heat or potential explosion.

"Get back!" I shout, but she ignores me, moving closer to direct water at the heart of the flames.

For endless seconds, there's nothing but the roar of fire, the hiss of water hitting hot metal, and our heavy breathing. Steam rises as the flames diminish, ghostly tendrils illuminated by the remaining embers. The acrid stench of burning plastic and gasoline fills the air, searing my lungs.

When the fire is finally out, we stand in her yard, surrounded by the smell of smoke and wet ash. Maya lowers the hose, turning to stare at me. Her face red from the heat, hair wild from sleep, eyes wide with residual fear and questions I can't answer.

"Were you checking up on me?" The accusation lacks the heat from our earlier confrontation, replaced by something closer to disbelief.

"No," I lie. "I was driving by."

Her eyes narrow. "At eleven thirty? On my street?"

"Good thing I was." My gaze moves to the charred siding of her porch, where the fire had just begun to take hold. Another five minutes and the whole structure might have been engulfed. If she had been asleep...

She steps closer, reaching for my arms. Before I can pull away, she takes my wrists and turns my hands palms-up. Her touch is gentle but firm, professional instinct overriding any hesitation about our earlier conflict. The warmth of her fingers against my skin sends an unwelcome jolt through my system, even as pain radiates from the burns.

"Jesus, Crow," she breathes, examining the angry red burns already blistering across my palms. "Your hands..."

I try to pull back. "It's fine."

Her grip tightens just enough to stop me. "Can you not fight me on this?" Frustration and concern battle in her voice. "Just once?"

Our eyes lock, the challenge clear. I could break her hold without effort, walk away, disappear into the darkness. She knows it. I know it. And we both know I won't.

"Fine," I concede, the surrender reluctant but inevitable.

Relief flickers across her face, quickly masked by professional focus. "Inside," she says, already turning toward the house, her hand sliding from my wrist to grip my forearm, guiding me as if I might bolt. "Those burns need treatment now."

I follow her through the door, telling myself it's just to make sure she's safe after the fire. Nothing to do with how her touch burns hotter than the flames against my skin, or how her concern carves through defenses I've spent a lifetime building.

I follow her into a small, tidy living room and compact kitchen. She points to a chair before disappearing down a hallway, returning with a first aid kit.

"Why were you really here?" she asks as she runs cold water in the sink.

"I told you. Driving by."

She cuts a look that says she's done with my bullshit. "The clubhouse is in the opposite direction. Put your hands under the water."

I comply, hissing as cold hits the burns. She moves beside me, close enough that I can smell the smoke in her hair, the vanilla on her skin.

"You were checking on me after our fight," she says quietly. "Weren't you?"

"Wasn't a fight," I mutter, looking away.

"Wasn't it?" She turns off the water, gently patting my hands dry before leading me back to the table. "Sit."

She lays out burn cream and bandages with practiced efficiency. Her movements are steady, professional, but there's a tension in her shoulders that betrays how rattled she is.

She takes one of my hands in hers and turns it over. "These aren't just burns. You've been fighting again."

"Only with myself," I admit, the honesty scraping my throat raw.

She returns to treating the damage, her touch clinical yet somehow intimate.

"The fire was intentional," I say as she applies cream to my palm. "Gasoline. Positioned for maximum damage."

She nods, not looking up. "I know."

"This is the second fire since you arrived."

"I'm aware."

"Right next to your house, Maya. Not six hours after you visited Victor. Are you still going to tell me you don't need protection?" Frustration bubbles to the surface.

Her hands still, eyes lifting to meet mine. "You think I don't understand the danger? You think I don't know what's happening?"

"Then why fight me on this?"

"Because this isn't about protection." She resumes bandaging, her touch gentle despite the tension in her voice. "This is about agency. About respect. About you treating me like I'm capable of making my own decisions."

"Even if those decisions put you at risk?"

"Yes." The simplicity of her answer knocks the air from my lungs. "Even then."

I stare at her, trying to reconcile this woman with anyone I've ever known. "You think I don't care?" The words escape before I can stop them. "You think I'd let this place burn if I didn't—"

I cut myself off. Too much. Too honest.

Her eyes meet mine. "I know you care."

The silence that follows sits heavy between us. She's still holding my bandaged hand, her fingers cool against my overheated skin. We're too close, the kitchen too small, the night too full of adrenaline and things we've been avoiding since that first day in the diner.

She touches the edge of the bandage. "Thank you. For being here."

I nod, not trusting my voice. The anger from our earlier confrontation hasn't disappeared, but it's transformed into something else—a current of awareness that makes my skin hum wherever she touches me. My gaze traces the delicate line of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the way her pulse flutters visibly at her throat. She's close enough that I can see water droplets clinging to her forehead, the slight tremble in her lip. Close enough that I can't help remembering the taste of her, the sound she made when I kissed her outside Gus's cabin.

The same kiss I used to drive her away. To show her exactly what kind of monster I am.

Her hands remain gentle on mine, but there's tension in her frame, a coiled energy that mirrors my own. The rhythm of her breathing changes, becomes shallower as our eyes lock. The scent of her vanilla mixed with the lingering smoke fills my lungs with each breath.

Her gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes, and the hunger that surges through me is almost painful. The air between us thickens, charged with something electric that makes my skin prickle. I'm intensely aware of every small movement, the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, the faint flush creeping up her neck.

My body shifts toward her, drawn by a pull I can't fight anymore. Her pupils dilate as I lean closer, her breath catching in a way that makes the beast inside me snarl with triumph. My uninjured hand rises of its own accord, fingers itching to touch her face, to feel if her skin is as soft as I remember.

Outside, a car door slams. Someone calls out, a neighbor drawn by the commotion. The moment shatters.

Reality crashes back. What the hell am I doing? Nothing's changed. I'm still the same damaged monster I was yesterday. Still, the worst possible thing for someone like her.

I pull back like she's burned me all over again. "Stay inside," I say, standing abruptly.

"Crow..."

"Please." The word costs me. "Lock your doors. Stay away from windows."

She hesitates, then nods.

I leave through the back door and retrieve my bike. An older woman, wearing a bathrobe, inspects the charred remains with a flashlight. She startles when she sees me.

"Is Dr. Johnson alright?" she asks.

"She's fine. Fire's out. Might want to keep an eye out, though. Call if you see anything unusual."

She nods. "Should we be worried? Was this intentional?"

I try to soften my stance to reassure her. "For now, it was just an accident. But best to play it safe."

I wait until she returns to her house before starting my bike. The pain in my hands throbs with my pulse, but it's nothing compared to the ache in my chest. I sit for a long time, staring at Maya's darkened windows, wondering what would have happened if that car door hadn't slammed.

Wondering if I would have had the strength to walk away if it hadn't.

The clubhouse is quiet when I return. I stare at my phone for a long moment before making the call I know I can't avoid. Hammer needs to know what's happening.

He answers on the second ring. "Any new developments?"

"Someone tried to torch Maya's place. Tonight."

A string of curses flows through the line. "The worksite fire wasn't enough for these bastards?"

"Apparently not."

I hear the clink of a bottle on his end. "Give me the rundown. Don't spare the details."

I give him everything—trash can wedged against her house, gasoline stench, deliberate placement. He listens, occasionally grunting in acknowledgment.

"We need to find the sons of bitches behind this," I assert.

"And we fucking will." His voice hardens. "How's the doc handling this shitstorm?"

I think of her standing in the yard with the hose, refusing to back down. "She's goddamn reckless. Takes risks no sane person would." The memory of our almost-kiss burns hotter than my hands. "Not sure she gets what she's up against here."

Hammer's rough laugh cuts through the line. "That's exactly why I dragged her ass there."

"What?"

"Her patching you up when I know you made it harder than it had to be." I can almost see him shaking his head. "That kind of steel spine is exactly what Shadow Ridge needs."

I hadn't considered that the same quality that makes me want to put my fist through a wall might be her greatest asset.

"Still not convinced she belongs in this mess," I mutter.

"Yet you're calling me at midnight with your dick in a knot because someone got too close to her house," Hammer fires back.

He's seen right through me, as usual. Each moment with Maya tears away another chunk of armor I've spent years welding in place.

"Someone's raising the stakes," Hammer continues. "The worksite was aimed at our territory. But this? A fire at the doctor's doorstep? That's a whole different level of fucked up. We need eyes on her."

"She won't accept a babysitter."

"Not a babysitter," Hammer barks. "A shadow. If she's breathing, you're there. Clinic, house calls, middle of the night emergencies—anywhere she moves, your ass follows."

The implications sink in, knotting my stomach. "She'll fight me every step."

"She's not stupid. She'll get it." His voice drops dangerously. "Unless there's another reason you're hesitating?"

I grip the phone until the case cracks. "No reason."

"Save the bullshit for someone who buys it," he says. "Start tomorrow. You and Diesel trade off as needed. You're in charge of what that looks like. Keep me in the loop."

The call ends, and I stare at the silent phone, mind racing. Following Maya everywhere. Being close enough to smell her, to see the pulse in her neck, to remember how her lips felt against mine. The tension between us, already a powder keg, with no escape valve.

The fire outside her house might be out. But something else was still burning—something that might consume us both if we stopped fighting it for even a second.

And with Ryker's text lingering in the back of my mind, I know the danger isn't just the fire between us. My past is catching up, and Maya's caught in the crossfire.