Page 9

Chapter Nine

Crow

I wake to the scent of Maya's skin—that mix of vanilla and wildflower that's distinctly hers. Her hair spills across my chest, auburn strands catching the light filtering through gaps in my blackout curtains. Her breathing comes soft and even against my ribs, stirring something protective in my chest.

It's been three days since she confronted me in my room when I tried to avoid her after the fire. Days of learning what it means to let someone close—grabbing meals between her clinic hours and my patrols, snatching sleep when we can, learning every curve of her body with a hunger that should frighten me.

As I watch her sleep, doubt gnaws at me. She deserves better than a scarred fighter who wakes with his hands around her throat. She deserves someone whose dreams don't end with her in danger.

Maya stirs, her body stretching against mine. When she opens her eyes, the unguarded smile she gives me hits something raw behind my ribs.

"Morning," she mumbles, voice husky with sleep.

I brush hair from her face, the gentleness of the gesture still unfamiliar. She's so damn fragile compared to me—all delicate bones and soft skin that bruises too easily. Yet she presses closer, completely at ease with the monster sharing her bed.

"Hungry?" I ask, knowing the answer before her stomach growls in response.

She laughs, the sound bright in my dark room. "Starving. We never got dinner after the emergency at the Thompson farm. Between splinting Mr. Thompson's ankle and unpacking Hammer's supply shipment, I think I had half a protein bar."

"Greene's?" I suggest, though it's barely a question. The diner's become our ritual—the one public place where we allow ourselves to be seen together, though neither of us has put a name to whatever this is.

"Yes, please." She sits up, wincing as she rolls her shoulder. Her neck bears faint marks from my mouth—evidence that should make me feel guilty, but instead feeds something possessive I never knew lived in me.

Not that she's mine. That's a fantasy. Someone carrying what I did in my past doesn't get to claim someone like her. This temporary comfort is already more than I deserve.

I push the thought away as she slides from bed and heads for the bathroom. She emerges five minutes later in yesterday's clothes, now wrinkled from their night on my floor.

"At some point," she says, tugging at her rumpled shirt, "I need to go back to my place for more than just clean underwear. People are starting to talk."

"I'll take you after breakfast," I offer, though everything in me rebels at the thought of her away from my protection, even for an hour. The town's been quiet since the fire at her place. Almost too quiet. Like someone's waiting for us to drop our guard.

Thirty minutes later, we're in our usual booth at Greene's. Helen sets down coffee without being asked, her knowing smile making Maya blush. The older woman's approval surprises me. I expected judgment, not the almost maternal satisfaction she radiates whenever she sees us together.

"I thought you two might sleep in today," Helen remarks as she pours our coffee. "You both looked dead on your feet yesterday."

"Three strips of bacon with my eggs," I tell her, deliberately ignoring the comment. "Crispy."

"Just egg whites and wheat toast for me," Maya says when Helen looks her way. "And fruit, if you have it."

"Got fresh berries in just this morning," Helen says with a wink. "Doctor's gotta stay healthy."

When Helen walks away, I nudge Maya's foot under the table. "Still eating that rabbit food? Your health nut parents rubbing off on you?"

The mention of her family is calculated, testing the waters. Her parents remain the one subject that closes her off, even when everything else between us has opened.

Her eyes flash with that spark that first drew me to her, defiance wrapped in intelligence. "Some of us care about arterial health," she retorts, though amusement plays at the corners of her mouth. "Just because orcs have the metabolism of a blast furnace doesn't mean humans should eat like that."

I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. "Guess that means you won't be stealing my bacon today?"

Her eyebrows shoot up in mock offense. "I have never—"

"Liar," I counter, unable to stop the low laugh that escapes me.

A flush spreads up her neck, and I'm struck again by how easy she is to read—each emotion plays across her face like light on water. Nothing like the calculated masks humans usually wear around Orcs.

"It's different when it's yours," she says with complete conviction. "Everyone knows calories don't count when they come from someone else's plate."

"Medical school teach you that?"

"No." She smiles and shifts in her seat with a joy that hits me square in the chest. "That's girl math."

I laugh again, the sound unfamiliar in my own ears. When was the last time I laughed without it being at someone's expense? Before the fights, maybe. Before crossing the Rift, definitely.

Maya watches me with a softness in her eyes that makes me want to look away. Her hand slides across the table, fingers intertwining with mine—small and cool against my larger, warmer ones.

"Crow," she says, voice dropping to something private, "do you regret this? Us?"

The question blindsides me. For someone who sees so clearly, she's still missing the obvious—that I'm the one who should be questioning why she's wasting her time with me.

"No," I answer honestly. "But you might."

She squeezes my hand hard enough that I feel it. "Don't tell me what I'll think or feel. I've had enough people telling me who I am my whole life."

The steel beneath her words reminds me of why I fell for her—this fierce human who fights every battle like it's personal, who treats people others discard, who somehow sees past my tusks and scars to whatever still lives beneath.

"We need to check on Gus today," she says, merciful enough to change the subject. "His pneumonia should be clearing, but at his age, there could be complications. I want to make sure his lungs are clear."

“After breakfast," I agree, grateful to return to practical matters. "Then I need to meet with Ash about the warehouse district. He's got new plans for security cameras, and he's only in town until tomorrow."

"I've got clinic hours starting at ten," she says. "Diesel's taking the first shift?"

I nod, ignoring the knot that forms in my gut at the reminder that she still needs protection. That the threat that brought us together remains unresolved. That whoever set those fires is still watching, waiting for an opening.

"I could come with you to meet Ash," she suggests, pulling me from dark thoughts. "I've been sketching ideas for an emergency treatment space in the back of the clinic. Nothing fancy, but a place to stabilize critical patients before transport to the County. He might have structural ideas."

The casual "we" in her planning strikes something deep inside me. It's only been three days, and already she's building a future that seems to include me.

This alliance should feel temporary, wrong even. Instead, it fits like something that was always meant to be—settling into me with a rightness I never expected and damn sure never deserved.

I look at her across the table—the doctor who stitched me up when I was bleeding out, who faced down my demons without flinching, who touches my scars with healing hands instead of fear.

"What?" she asks, catching me staring.

"Nothing," I lie, because I can't find words for the feeling expanding in my chest. Something too close to hope for comfort.

Our food arrives, and as I predicted, Maya waits until I'm refilling my coffee before stealing the crispiest piece of bacon from my plate. I pretend not to notice, hiding my amusement behind my mug. This small ritual, her pretending she doesn't want it, me pretending not to see her take it, feels like a secret language only we understand.

After breakfast, Maya slides onto the back of my motorcycle without hesitation. Her arms wrap around my waist, and her body pressed against mine. The engine roars to life beneath us, and I feel her sigh against my back—contentment and something deeper vibrating through her chest into mine.

We're about to pull away when her phone buzzes. The change in her is instant—muscles tensing against my spine, breath catching. I feel her shift to check the screen, then quickly slide the phone back into her pocket without answering.

Not the first time I've seen this reaction. Yesterday at the clinic, when her cell rang, her face tightened before she silenced it. And the day before that, same pattern during dinner. She’s avoiding someone, but I don’t pry. Not my business.

We make a quick stop at her bungalow for a change of clothes, then head to Gus's cabin, winding through forest roads painted with early autumn colors. Maya's grip remains steady, her confidence in my handling of the machine a silent affirmation. I find myself wondering when exactly she started trusting me with her life.

Gus greets us at his door with the shotgun he keeps by his chair, more habit than actual threat these days. His face has regained color, the rattling cough that worried Maya last week noticeably absent.

"Back again?" he grumbles as we enter, but there's less bite in his tone than usual. "Some people appreciate solitude, you know."

"Sit down and take it like a man," Maya replies, her professional doctor voice sliding into place as she drops her medical bag on his kitchen table. "The sooner I listen to those lungs, the sooner we're out of your hair."

The old man rolls his eyes but settles into his armchair without further complaint. "Don't see why you bother. I'm fit as a fiddle."

"You had pneumonia at seventy-eight," Maya reminds him, pulling out her stethoscope. "That's nothing to mess around with."

While she examines him, I patrol the small cabin's perimeter, checking the windows and doors out of long-ingrained habit. The place still needs work before winter—roof sagging in one corner, insulation insufficient for the coming cold. I make mental notes of materials needed and repairs to be done in the next few weeks.

"Checking for bogeymen?" Gus asks, eyes following my movement. "Nobody's fool enough to rob a Vietnam vet with a gun collection."

"Just looking," I respond, not elaborating on the security assessment I can't seem to switch off. Too many years expecting threats from every corner.

Fascination grips me as I watch her work with authority and genuine care, blending in her every movement. The same precise attention she gives my wounds, but gentler with the old man's pride.

"Say, Doc," Gus says suddenly, narrowing his eyes. "You coming down with what's going around town?"

Maya frowns as she packs away her equipment. "No. Are you worried about me, Gus?"

"Nah," he snorts. "It's just, you two have been in my house nearly fifteen minutes, and I haven't heard an argument yet. Thought you might be feverish."

I freeze, uncomfortable with how easily the old man has observed the shift between us. Maya's laugh breaks the tension.

"Just giving your ears a rest today," she says lightly. "We'll be back to butting heads by dinnertime."

Gus's gaze moves between us, too perceptive for comfort. "Uh-huh. Sure."

As we prepare to leave, Maya's phone buzzes again. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, then silences it with a quick swipe. Something tightens in her jaw before she slides it back into her pocket.

"Everything okay?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral, though I've noticed the pattern.

"Fine," she says too quickly. "Just spam calls."

The lie hangs between us, small but noticeable. Everyone's got their secrets. I've got enough of my own not to push.

We leave shortly after, Maya promising to return next week with more medicine. As we walk back to the motorcycle, she bumps her shoulder against my arm—a casual touch that still surprises me.

"That wasn't so bad," she says. "His lungs sound much better than last week."

The bike accepts my weight as I mount it, my body automatically leaving space for hers. "He lives for these visits, no matter how much he grumbles."

She wraps her arms around me, chin resting on my shoulder. "Who would have thought? The town bruiser and the town healer, making house calls together. Nobody saw that coming."

"Let them keep wondering," I mutter, starting the engine. The less attention on whatever is growing between us, the safer she'll be. "Keeps things simpler."

Her lips brush against my skin, stirring something in me—not desire, but something gentler, unfamiliar. "You're not as scary as you think you are," she whispers, her breath warm against my skin.

Instead of responding, I squeeze her thigh where it rests against mine. She has no idea how wrong she is. No idea what lives inside me, what I've done, what I'm capable of doing. But for now, I'll let her believe whatever she needs to. I'll try to be the orc she thinks I am.

The ride back to her bungalow passes too quickly. She slides off the bike with practiced ease, stretching muscles stiff from the journey.

"I need to shower before clinic hours," she says, unlocking her front door. Her eyes meet mine over her shoulder, deliberately provocative. "Care to join me? Save water, save the planet, and all that?"

Heat flares in my gut at the invitation. Three days together, and I still can't get enough of her. "You'll be late opening the clinic."

"Some things are worth being late for," she counters, hooking her fingers through my belt loops to pull me through the doorway.

Inside, she presses against me, rising on tiptoes to bring our mouths level. "I'll be quick," she promises, hands already working at my jacket zipper.

"Maya..." My resolve weakens with each touch. "Diesel will be here soon for your protection detail."

"So?" She tugs my shirt over my head, fingers tracing the clan markings tattooed across my chest with reverent curiosity.

"So orcs have sensitive noses." I capture her wrists as her fingers reach for my belt buckle. "He'll know exactly what we've been doing the minute he gets within fifty feet."

She grins, entirely unrepentant. "I don't care if he knows."

"Easy for you to say," I grumble, but my hands have already found the hem of her sweater, exposing the smooth skin beneath. "You're not the one who has to consider breaking your best friend's jaw for what he'll be thinking about you."

"Poor baby," she teases, then gasps as my mouth finds the sensitive spot below her ear that makes her whole body shiver.

She's leading me toward the bathroom when her phone rings from her bag. I groan against her neck, frustrated at the interruption.

"Ignore it," I plead, reluctant to break this connection. “Whoever it is, they can wait.”

She hesitates, visibly torn, then sighs. "I can't. I have emergency calls routed to my cell—might be a patient."

Reluctantly, I release her. She crosses to her bag, digging out the phone with a frown that deepens when she checks the display.

"Unknown number," she mutters, then answers with professional detachment. "Dr. Johnson speaking."

The transformation is immediate and disturbing. Her spine straightens, shoulders squaring, expression shifting from playful to guarded in the span of a heartbeat. She turns away from me, moving toward the living room, voice dropping.

"Yes, hello." A pause. "Things are going well." Another pause, longer. "Yes, I'm aware of the timeline."

The sight unravels something tightly wound inside me. I follow her, stopping short of touching her, uncertain of my place in this moment. Her body language has closed completely, arms folded across her middle like armor.

"I appreciate the offer, but as I explained before, Shadow Ridge needs a doctor." Her voice takes on a forced lightness I've never heard from her. "Three months is the standard probationary period we discussed. I understand, but my decision hasn't changed."

I move closer, gently wrapping my arms around her from behind, offering whatever support I can against whoever is on the other end of that call. She leans into the contact, then steps away, shoulders rigid with tension.

"Yes, I'll consider it. Thank you for calling." She ends the call, staring at the phone in her hand like it might bite her.

"Maya?" I keep my voice low and careful. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She turns, attempting a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Just my mother. Checking in."

I step closer, reaching for her. "Didn't sound like just checking in."

For a brief moment, she leans into me, her forehead resting against my chest, fingers clutching at my sides. She's holding onto me like I'm an anchor, like she's borrowing what strength I have. The vulnerability in the gesture undoes something inside me. Then she pulls back, arms crossing over her chest, rebuilding walls I thought we'd demolished.

"It's nothing," she insists, voice brittle. "They worry I'm wasting my training. Same conversation we've had since I left Manhattan."

The air between us has changed. Whatever her mother said has changed the connection between us, erected a barrier where none existed minutes ago.

"Maya—"

"I didn't realize how late it was," she interrupts, checking her watch. "I need to get cleaned up and open the clinic." She glances toward the bathroom, then back to me. "It might be better if you go ahead. Diesel should be waiting outside any minute now."

"Are you sure?" I search her face, desperate to understand the change. "I can stay until he gets here."

"I'm sure." Her smile is forced, professional—the one she uses with patients, not with me. "I'll see you later?"

It's a dismissal, wrapped in a question. All I know is that the warm, open woman who teased me about bacon and invited me to share her shower has vanished, replaced by someone guarded and distant.

"Yeah," I say finally. "Later."

I retrieve my shirt and jacket, watching her retreat behind emotional barriers I thought we'd torn down days ago. Part of me wants to demand answers, to discover exactly what her mother said to cause this withdrawal. But the greater part, the part that respects her boundaries, that recognizes her right to privacy, keeps me silent.

At the door, I pause. "Call if you need anything."

She nods, already moving toward the bathroom. "I will."

The door closes between us with a finality that echoes in my chest. I stand there for a moment, staring at the wood grain, wondering how a short phone call could erase three days of connection so completely.

I shouldn't care this much. Attachment is weakness—the first lesson they beat into us in the camps, reinforced in every fight I've survived since. But as I turn away from Maya's bungalow, my chest tightens with each foot that separates us, the physical pain of distance proving it's already too late for those warnings.

Diesel's bike rumbles up the street as I'm mounting mine. He parks beside me, removing his helmet with a questioning look.

"She inside?" he asks, nodding toward the bungalow.

"Yeah." I kick my bike to life, in no mood to discuss what just happened. "She'll be heading to the clinic in about thirty minutes."

He studies me, too perceptive for comfort. "Everything okay, brother?"

"Fine," I growl, the tone carrying a warning he knows better than to ignore. "Just watch her today."

"Always do." He claps my shoulder, then hesitates. "You know, she's different with you. Smiles more. Got a light in her that wasn't there before."

The observation hits harder than it should, especially after what just happened. "Just do your job, D."

I pull away before he can respond, the bike's engine drowning out whatever he might have said. I need space, need to think. Need to understand what's happening between Maya and me, and why that phone call was enough to erase the progress we'd made.

The road to the clubhouse beckons, but Victor Hargrove's estate pulls me toward a brief detour. Three days focused on Maya have made me neglect my other responsibilities. The fires, the threats, Victor's connection to it all—none of it has disappeared just because I've been distracted by a woman with healing hands and a will of steel.

The mansion sits quiet on its hill, nothing stirring behind the ornate windows. The ankle monitor on Victor's leg means he's not going anywhere, but his nephew, Royce, is still out there somewhere. And if there's one thing I've learned in this life, it's that the real danger often comes from the ones you aren't watching.

I make a mental note to have Ash increase surveillance on Victor's known associates. If they're behind the fires, we need to know before anyone else gets hurt.

Especially Maya. Because no matter what just happened between us, no matter how quickly she retreated, one thing remains unchanged—I'll burn this town to the ground before I let anyone harm her.