Page 8

Chapter Eight

Maya

T he clinic walls close in with each passing hour. My hands slam a patient file onto the counter, barely registering the sharp crack as plastic meets worn laminate.

"You're in my way. Again." The words slice toward Diesel, who's planted his hulking frame directly in the path between exam room one and the supply cabinet.

He grins, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just doing my job, Doc."

"Your job includes hovering three inches behind me every waking moment?"

"Actually, the order was to stay within arm's reach." He winks, completely unfazed by my growing irritation. "Crow's instructions were very specific."

My fingers grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white. Diesel has been my shadow since dawn, just as Crow was yesterday and the day before. Three straight days of being watched, monitored, smothered by orcs who move like silent, leather-clad ghosts. Always present. Never a moment alone.

"I thought Hammer was the one giving orders around here," I say, reaching for another patient folder.

Diesel's laugh fills the empty clinic, bouncing off the freshly scrubbed walls. "Hammer ordered us to be shadows. Crow's the one who decided that meant twenty-four-hour stakeouts." His voice drops. "The only reason I'm here now is because he wouldn't take a damn break and catch some sleep unless I agreed to take over."

This revelation lands hard. Not Hammer's orders. Crow's choice. All this suffocation, this invasion of privacy, is from one man's decision.

"So now I'm under house arrest because Crow can't control his conspiracy theories?"

Diesel cocks his head, gold eyes studying me with unexpected perception. "You know why he's doing it, right?"

"Because he's a control freak with boundary issues?"

"Because he's convinced he's the reason you've become a target." Diesel's voice loses its teasing edge. "He thinks Victor and Royce are using you to send a message to the club. It's eating him alive."

For a heartbeat, I glimpse the weight Crow carries, the responsibility he assumes for every threat, every danger. The memory of his scorched hands, the night of the fire, flashes through my mind, the second-degree burns I'd treated while lecturing him about proper wound care. But sympathy quickly gives way to renewed irritation. My safety isn't his cross to bear.

"Any news on who might have set the fires?" I ask, trying to sound casual as I organize syringes by gauge.

Diesel's expression darkens. "Ash is following a lead on Victor's old crew. The accelerant from both fires matched, suggesting premeditation." He glances toward the window, scanning the parking lot with practiced vigilance. "Whoever it is, they're escalating. First the worksite, then your place."

A chill cascades down my spine despite the clinic's stuffy air. The fire at my bungalow had been deliberate, calculated, and set while I slept inside. If Crow hadn't shown up when he did...

I shake off the thought and grab my coat from the hook, the leather squeaking as I yank it free. "If anyone needs me, I'll be back in an hour."

Diesel straightens, tension tightening his frame. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to the warden about a reprieve."

His eyes widen, then crinkle with amusement. "Not sure who's gonna be more pissed—you or him. But I'm definitely staying behind."

The drive to the Ironborn clubhouse takes fifteen minutes, each mile fueling my determination as my tires crunch over dirt roads. The clubhouse sits on the edge of town in a sprawling ranch-style house that once belonged to a local cattle rancher before Victor ran him out of town. Now, motorcycles stand sentinel in the driveway beneath a large wooden Ironborn MC sign hanging over the front door.

The same front door I barge through without knocking, startling two orcs lounging on a leather sectional patched with duct tape. The television plays what looks suspiciously like a daytime soap opera. One, younger, with facial piercings, scrambles for the remote while the other attempts to look intimidating.

"Can we help you?" the older one asks, rising to his full height, his shadow stretching across worn floorboards.

"I'm looking for Crow." My voice leaves no room for argument. "Don't make me ask twice."

They exchange glances, a silent communication passing between them. "I wouldn't go in there," the younger one says, nervous fingers tapping his thigh. "He's asleep."

"Well." I cross my arms, channeling the authoritative stance I perfected during residency. "I guess it's time for someone to tell my security detail to rise and shine. Which room?"

The older one sighs, gesturing down a hallway where motorcycle parts and tools line the walls. "Last door on the right. Your funeral."

I stride down the corridor, pushing open the indicated door without hesitation. The hinges creak softly.

The room is dark, blackout curtains drawn against midday sun. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then I see him.

Crow lies sprawled across a king-sized bed, one muscled arm thrown above his head, the other resting on his bare chest. The covers tangle around his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his torso—olive-green skin mapped with scars and tattoos that disappear beneath the sheet. His face, usually guarded and tense, is softened in sleep, making him look almost vulnerable.

I hesitate. There's something deeply intimate about seeing him like this—unaware, unguarded. It almost feels cruel to wake him. Almost.

I approach the bed, reaching out to shake his arm. "Crow."

My fingers barely graze his shoulder when his hand shoots out, closing around my wrist with bruising force. In a blur of movement too fast to track, I'm suddenly on my back, pinned to the mattress by his weight. His eyes are open but unseeing, wild with something feral and dangerous.

"Crow," I gasp, heart hammering in my ribs. "It's me. Maya."

For a terrifying second, he doesn't recognize me. His breathing is harsh and ragged, muscles coiled for violence. My medical training kicks in immediately: pupils constricted to pinpoints, respiratory rate elevated, carotid pulse visibly hammering beneath his skin—classic autonomic nervous system response to perceived threat. Hypervigilance with dissociative features. Acute stress reaction.

Then awareness flickers in those amber eyes. The battle fog clears, replaced by something worse: raw horror.

He releases me like my skin is toxic, backing away to the edge of the bed. He sits with his back to me, shoulders hunched, head dropped into his hands.

My pulse gradually slows, but the adrenaline leaves me shaky. I sit up, rubbing the red marks blooming on my wrists. The rational part of me understands this wasn't personal, wasn't intentional—a classic PTSD episode, triggered by unexpected touch during sleep.

But another part of me, the part that's survived my own traumas, registers how easily he overpowered me, how quickly I became vulnerable. A shadow of fear lingers despite my professional understanding.

I reach out, hesitating before my fingertips touch his back. "Crow—"

He flinches away, turning with eyes that won't quite meet mine. "Why are you here?" The question scrapes from his throat, rough and strangled.

"I needed to talk to you." My voice sounds small in this darkened room that smells of leather, motor oil, and his unique musk.

"It couldn't wait?" His jaw tightens, the tendons in his neck straining beneath olive skin.

"It can now," I admit, shame flooding through me at the recklessness of barging in here.

He turns fully, and I see what he's trying to hide—fear tangled with the anger in his eyes. Not fear of me. Fear of himself.

"I could have hurt you," he says, voice dropping to something barely audible. His fingers flex, then curl into fists, knuckles whitening against green. "I almost did."

"But you didn't."

"That's not the fucking point, Maya." The words burst from him, edged with desperation. "I'm not like you. I wasn't built for..." He gestures between us, unable to name whatever this is. "People get hurt around me. They always have."

"That's not true." I move closer, refusing to let him retreat. "You were disoriented. But you stopped. You recognized me."

"That's just luck," he snarls, but the anger isn't directed at me. It's turned inward, a self-hatred so deep it makes my chest ache. "You don't know what I've done. What I'm capable of when—" He cuts himself off, unwilling to finish.

"I know exactly who you are," I say, the certainty in my voice surprising even me.

Before he can pull away, I cross the space between us and place my hands on either side of his face, forcing him to meet my gaze. His warmth radiates through my palms, his stubble rough under my fingers. This close, I can see every detail—the golden flecks in his amber eyes, the subtle variations in his skin tone, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow. Lines of pain etched by years of carrying burdens no one should bear alone.

"You're not just a weapon," I tell him, my voice soft but unyielding. "You're a protector. For Gus. For that stray dog. For this town. For me. You've been trying to keep me safe even when I fought you every step." My thumbs trace the hard line of his jaw. "I'm not afraid of you. You need me to be. But I never could be."

Something in his expression shatters—the iron control slipping to reveal raw need beneath. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes, a question in them that sends electricity racing down my spine.

"You should leave," he says, but his hands move to my waist, contradicting his words.

"Is that what you want?" I ask, knowing the answer but needing him to say it.

His grip tightens, drawing me between his knees until our bodies press together. His scent—leather and soap and something uniquely his—fills my lungs.

"What I want," he growls, voice dropping to a register that vibrates through my core, "isn't what's good for you."

"Let me decide what's good for me." My fingers slide into his hair, feeling its unexpected softness. "Just once, stop fighting this. Stop fighting us."

He leans in, hesitates a breath away from my lips, giving me one last chance to retreat, to come to my senses. To save myself from him.

Instead, I close the last inch between us. My heart stutters at his confession, at the pained honesty in his words. I've always sensed a darkness in him, a coiled tension held tightly leashed, but in this moment, he lets me see beneath the surface. Beneath the fierce warrior's exterior beats a heart bruised by a lifetime of violence and exile.

My body molds to his as I press closer. His large hands span my back, drawing me nearer until I feel the warmth of his skin through my thin shirt.

"Show me," I whisper, tilting my face up in blatant invitation. "Show me what I do to you, Crow. Let go."

The first touch of his mouth surprises me. It's tentative, almost reverent—at odds with everything his size and strength suggest. His lips are unexpectedly soft against mine, his breath warm while his tusks press cool against my cheeks. Then something breaks loose in both of us, like a dam crumbling under too much pressure. The kiss deepens, turning hungry and desperate, consuming. His tusks graze my skin, the slight sting only heightening the pleasure coursing through me.

He pulls back abruptly, and my world halts. "Maya," he whispers, lowering his forehead to mine. I recognize the pattern—he's about to retreat, to build walls between us as he's done before.

I refuse to lose him now that he's come this far, now that we're this close to the truth. So I play the only card I have—I whisper the name that echoes who he is beneath the armor he wears: "Brotan."

The sound transforms him. It's the permission he needed all along. He captures my mouth again, kissing me like a drowning man, and I'm his only air. There's new depth to it now, each slide of his tongue against mine suggesting more than desire. It feels deeper, more consequential—a claiming.

My hands explore his body, tracing the laddered lines of his scars, marveling at the strength coiled in his powerful muscles. He's so solid, so real beneath my palms that my head spins with the reality of him.

His hands move to my waist before tugging at my shirt. Our kiss breaks just long enough for him to pull the fabric over my head and toss it aside. My bra follows, his surprisingly deft fingers finding the clasp between my breasts. The lacy cups fall away, baring me fully to his gaze. Cool air brushes over my sensitive nipples, making them tighten. The sensation sends an intoxicating shiver through my body.

"Perfect," Crow breathes reverently, his large hands cupping my breasts. "So fucking perfect."

I lose myself in sensation, in the slide of his calloused palms over my skin. He lifts me effortlessly, my legs winding around his hips, and carries me to the bed. The comforter feels cool on my back, a delicious contrast to the furnace of his body covering mine.

"I've dreamed of this," he confesses, his lips trailing from my mouth to my ear. "Dreamed of exploring every inch of you. Mapping your body with my hands, my mouth."

"Yes," I breathe, arching against him in silent invitation. "Touch me, Crow."

He obliges with startling reverence, his hands skimming over my curves with breathtaking thoroughness. He discovers every sensitive spot—the hollow of my throat, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hips. Each caress stokes the ache building between my thighs.

His mouth follows where his fingers have been, placing open-mouthed kisses along my neck, my ribs, the ticklish spot above my waist, before returning to my breast. A rumbling moan escapes him as his tongue circles my nipple, then his mouth sucks until the sweet edge of pain sends sparks along my nerve endings.

I arch into his touch, silently begging for more—more contact, more pressure, more of him in every way.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, pulling back to look at me. "Tell me to stop, Maya. Tell me before it's too late to end this."

I tangle my fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth back to mine. "Don't you dare."

The weight of his body pins me to the mattress as his mouth moves to the sensitive spot above my hip. The barrier of my remaining clothes feels too restrictive as desire builds beneath my skin.

Impatient for skin-to-skin contact, I move restlessly beneath him. My nails rake down his back, leaving crescent marks in their wake. He groans, the sound sending a surge of electricity straight to my core.

His palms grip my waistband, and I lift my hips as he tugs my pants and underwear down in one swift motion. Being suddenly exposed while he remains partially clothed should make me self-conscious, but there's no room for embarrassment here—not with the naked hunger transforming his features.

His gaze moves over me, taking in every curve and hollow. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he fights for control. "Do you have any idea how many nights I've dreamed about you like this?" His voice catches, vulnerability threading through the desire. "How many times I’ve thought about tasting you? Making you come apart under my tongue?"

The combination of honesty and vulnerability sends fresh heat rushing through me. Power surges as I realize my effect on him—this battle-hardened warrior trembling at the sight of me.

He settles between my thighs, his strong hands gently spreading them wider. "Been dying to know if you taste as good as you smell," he murmurs, his breath teasing against my center. "If you're as sweet as I've imagined."

The first touch of his tongue along my seam draws a cry from my throat, my back arching off the bed. His hands grip my hips firmly, holding me in place as he devours me with single-minded focus.

The contrast of soft lips and rigid tusks creates a sensation I've never experienced—dangerous and thrilling, the cool hardness on sensitive flesh. He reads my responses with devastating accuracy, finding every spot that makes me gasp, as if he's studied a map of my pleasure.

I clutch at his hair as tension coils tight at the base of my spine. His eyes lock with mine, something vulnerable in their depths—as if he's seeking redemption in my pleasure, absolution for sins I cannot name.

"Crow," I gasp, my body drawing taut. "Please... I need..."

He slides a thick finger inside me while his tongue maintains its rhythm. I moan deeply as he fills me, my body yielding as he claims me inch by inch. The dual sensations send me flying over the edge, vision blurring as pleasure crashes through me in relentless waves.

I float back to myself, trembling and breathless, muscles liquified. He works me through every aftershock until I pull gently at his hair, suddenly oversensitive.

He rises, satisfaction burning in his expression as he tastes me on his lips. The sight of him—this powerful creature looking at me like I'm something precious—sends another pulse of desire through my already sensitive body.

"Sweet," he growls, voice thick with need. "Better than I imagined."

He draws me into a kiss that tastes of me—tangy and musky on his tongue. There's something primal and claiming about it that makes me moan, my hand sliding between us to cup the impressive bulge straining against his boxers.

"My turn," I whisper when we break apart, my hands exploring the bare expanse of his chest, tracing the contours of muscle beneath olive skin.

My fingers trail lower, following the defined ridges of his abdomen that tense beneath my touch. I pause at his waistband, meeting his eyes. "Can I touch you?"

He gives a sharp nod, jaw clenched tight. I slip my hand inside his boxers, wrapping my fingers around him. The heat scorches my palm, and I gasp at his size and hardness. He's thicker than any human I've been with, with distinctive ridges I can feel beneath my exploring fingers.

Crow inhales sharply, eyes falling closed as he leans into my touch. A rumble builds in his chest as I stroke him, learning what makes his breath catch, what draws those sounds from deep in his throat.

"Maya," he groans, my name both prayer and curse on his lips.

Emboldened, I tug his boxers down his powerful thighs. He springs free, impressive and intimidating.

"Is this an orc thing?" I ask, running my thumb over the ridges, fascinated by how his entire body tenses. "These ridges?"

"Yeah," he manages, breathing ragged. "Helps with... God, don't stop..."

I smile, intoxicated by the power of reducing this dangerous man to incoherence with just my touch. "I want to taste you. Like you tasted me."

I reach for him, but he catches my wrist with a strangled groan, gently pulling my hand away. He guides me back onto the bed, following me down.

"Did I do something wrong?" I ask, uncertainty cutting through desire.

He shakes his head, eyes dark with need. "If I let you do that, this will be over before it begins. I've been wanting you for too long. I need to be inside you first."

"So demanding," I tease, though anticipation thrums through me. "I like this side of you. Always so controlled before. But not now."

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growls. "How hard it is not to just take what I want."

"Then take it," I challenge, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I'm not afraid of what you want."

He moves with fluid strength, positioning himself above me. His body creates a shelter, his arms bracketing my head. I feel strangely safe beneath all that power, all that potential for violence now harnessed for pleasure.

He brushes hair from my face, a gesture so tender it creates a lump in my throat. The contrast between this gentleness and his strength stirs emotions I can't put into words.

"Promise to tell me if I hurt you," he says, concern evident despite his commanding tone.

"I will," I promise, tracing the scar bisecting his eyebrow. "I trust you."

The blunt pressure of him against my entrance steals further words. He pushes forward slowly, giving my body time to accept him. The stretch burns, intense enough to make me gasp, but he watches my face carefully, ready to stop at any sign of discomfort.

"Breathe, Maya," he murmurs, cupping my face. "Just breathe."

I focus on filling my lungs, on relaxing. He inches forward, restraint visible in his trembling arms and jaw. When he's fully seated inside me, we both go still, adjusting to the sensation of being joined so intimately.

His forehead drops to mine, our breaths mingling. "You feel so good," he whispers, and the naked honesty in his voice pierces something deep within my chest.

I cradle his face between my palms, struck by what I see in his eyes—not just desire, but something more vulnerable. Fear, hope, and something deeper neither of us is ready to name.

He begins to move, setting a rhythm that tells me more about him than words ever could. Every thrust is controlled, deliberate, giving pleasure rather than taking it. I roll my hips to meet him, taking him deeper.

As he moves, I gasp at the unexpected sensation. The ridges I'd traced with my fingers now create an entirely different experience, each one catching and stimulating nerves I didn't know existed. Every withdrawal and advance sends cascading waves of pleasure through me, the textured surface creating friction unlike anything I've experienced with a human lover.

"Oh god," I breathe, understanding dawning. "The ridges..."

A knowing smile crosses his face, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "Evolution's gift," he murmurs, adjusting his angle slightly. "Designed to make sure you feel every... single... inch."

"Fuck, Maya," he growls against my ear, voice rough with need. "So goddamn tight. Been wanting this since I first saw you."

His words send liquid heat flooding between my thighs. The unfiltered need in his voice, the way he can’t hide what he wants, makes me feel powerful in a way I’ve never experienced.

"Yes," I moan, my nails marking his back, claiming him as he claims me. "Harder, Crow. Don't hold back."

He shifts, changing the angle, and suddenly every thrust hits a spot deep inside that makes me cry out. The combination of his size, the perfect angle, and those incredible ridges creates a sensation so intense I feel myself climbing toward release far faster than I expected. Tension builds with each stroke, higher and tighter, until I’m teetering on the edge of release.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs. "Take all of me until you come so hard you forget your own name. Until I make you mine."

"I'm already yours," I confess, the words tumbling out uncensored. "Have been since that night in New York."

His pace quickens, each thrust deeper than the last. I hold tight to his shoulders as the world narrows to just this—his body moving inside mine, our breathing, the place where we're joined. His tusks graze my neck as he buries his face against my throat, a growl vibrating through his chest into mine.

"You feel so good," he groans, breath hot on my skin. "So perfect."

"Don't stop," I plead, pulling his mouth to mine for a bruising kiss, biting his lower lip just hard enough to sting. "Right there—just like that."

His gravelly voice and explicit words affect me more than any practiced touch. The ridges drag deliciously against my inner walls with each thrust, creating friction in places I never knew could feel so good. My inner muscles clench around him involuntarily.

"Give it to me, Maya. I want to feel you come for me."

The command in his voice, combined with his relentless rhythm, pushes me to the brink. When he slides a hand between us, his thumb finding my most sensitive spot, I can’t hold on any longer.

"Come for me now," he orders, voice strained with his own approaching climax. "Let go, baby. I've got you. Always got you."

Something in those simple words—the promise of safety, of being held—breaks the last of my resistance. With one more deep thrust, I come apart completely, crying out his true name.

"Brotan! Oh God!"

My release triggers his own. His rhythm falters as he drives deeper, his grip tightening on my hip. With a sound that's half growl, half my name, he pulses inside me, his entire body tensing with the force of his climax.

For several moments, we remain locked together, catching our breath, our bodies slick with sweat. Despite his size, he balances carefully above me, mindful of his weight.

"My Maya," he whispers against my ear, his voice reverent. The words hold a note of wonder, of disbelief, as if he can't quite believe I'm real, that I'm here with him.

Eventually, he withdraws and rolls to his side, pulling me against his chest. One arm wraps securely around my waist, his heartbeat slowing beneath my cheek. His body radiates warmth, seeping into my bones.

My fingers trace the circular pattern over his heart—an intricate design of runes surrounded by mountain peaks, the black ink stark against his skin. "Your clan mark?" I ask.

He nods, breath catching as I press my lips against the ink. "How did you know that?"

"I've been researching orc culture," I admit. "Hammer wanted me ready to treat patients regardless of species."

"Given on my first birthday," he explains, voice softening with something like fondness. "After I survived a year."

My fingers find another set of interconnected lines that wind down his side like roots seeking earth. "And this?"

"My name. Brotan." The word sounds different in his mouth—rougher, more guttural. "My true name."

His muscles jump beneath my touch as I explore his body, learning the map of his history through ink and scars. Each mark tells a story of survival, each scar a battle won against forces that would have destroyed anyone weaker.

After several minutes, I realize he's drifted off, exhaustion finally claiming him. Three days of constant surveillance, of barely sleeping to keep watch—it's caught up to him all at once, dragging him under.

Carefully, I try to lift his arm to make my escape, to let him rest properly.

His grip instantly tightens, pulling me back against his chest with surprising strength for someone half-asleep. "Where do you think you're going?" he mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

"I thought I'd let you rest," I whisper, settling back into the warmth of him.

"Not without you." His arm wraps more securely around my waist, hand splayed possessively across my hip. "I'm your shadow, remember? Can't protect you if you're not here."

"I'll be fine," I protest halfheartedly. "Diesel can watch me if you're worried."

That rouses him fully. His body tenses against mine, muscles going rigid with sudden alertness. "Not a chance," he growls, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Orcs can smell sex. You're not getting near any of my brothers anytime soon, not while you smell like mine."

The possessive edge in his voice would normally irritate me, make me bristle with feminist indignation. Instead, it sends a pleasant warmth spreading through my chest, a sense of belonging I've been missing since Jamie's death. Since long before that, if I'm honest.

I tuck my head beneath his chin. His body curls protectively around mine, solid and steady. I find myself surrendering to the comfort of being held—something I haven't experienced in longer than I care to admit. There's safety in his arms that my independence rebels against even as my heart craves it.

"Rest," he murmurs, already drifting back to sleep, his breathing growing deeper. "I've got you."

I yield to exhaustion, tucking my body more securely against his, letting the steady rhythm of his breathing lull me toward sleep.

The thought settles in quietly: there's nowhere else I'd rather be than wrapped in the arms of this complicated orc, even as he guards me in his sleep.