Page 5

T he wind funneled between the brick buildings, carrying scraps of paper and the stink of exhaust as I hurried through the industrial district. I fingered the bills in my pocket, counting them over and over like they might multiply if I checked enough times. I had no idea if it would be enough.

"Come on," I muttered, scanning each storefront with desperate hope. "Pet store, vet, anything."

But the businesses lining this stretch were all wrong. A hardware store with a faded OPEN sign. A small diner with windows fogged from grill steam. A tattoo parlor with neon designs flickering in the window.

Then I spotted it—Iron Kings Auto. The large garage doors were closed for the evening, but a row of gleaming motorcycles stood sentry outside. My steps faltered. My heartbeat kicked into overdrive.

Motorcycles meant bikers. Bikers meant MCs. MCs meant danger.

I knew better than most what happened to women who crossed motorcycle clubs. The memory of Jesse's ring connecting with my cheekbone flashed through my mind. I touched the spot reflexively, though the bruise had faded weeks ago.

Just keep moving. Don't make eye contact. Don't exist.

I quickened my pace, hurrying past the garage. The smell of motor oil and cigarettes hung in the air. This had to be Kings territory.

The street lamps flickered on as dusk deepened. I tugged my hood lower, instinctively making myself smaller. Ahead, a group of men in leather vests stood outside a building with a weathered wooden sign: King's Tavern.

That confirmed it. I’d heard the Serpents talking about the King’s Tavern. What was I doing here? My stomach clenched. I shouldn’t be around bikers, it was unbelievably dangerous.

They were massive men, all of them. One—a giant with long blond hair and a beard that reached his chest—laughed at something, the sound booming down the street. Another man clapped him on the shoulder, and the movement made the patches on his leather vest catch the light.

I crossed to the opposite sidewalk, hunching my shoulders, willing myself invisible.

These men weren't like the college boys back home who played at being tough. These were men who lived outside the law, who answered to no one but themselves. Men like Jesse.

A neon sign ahead caught my eye: Tony's Convenience. It was small, brightly lit, and blessedly normal. Maybe someone inside could direct me to a pet store or vet still open at this hour.

I approached just as a young woman in a blue store vest stepped outside, keys jingling in her hand. She looked about my age, with a ponytail and tired eyes.

My throat felt tight. I hadn't actually spoken to anyone in days. I'd been avoiding people, keeping my head down, staying invisible.

"Excuse me," I said, my voice coming out raspy with disuse.

She startled slightly, turning to face me. "Yeah?"

"Is there a vet or pet supply store around here?" The words tumbled out too fast. "My dog is sick. I need medicine or something. Please."

Her expression softened from wariness to concern. "Oh, there's Mountain View Veterinary about four blocks that way." She pointed down the street. "But they close at six, so they're done for the day."

My heart sank. I checked my phone: 7:12 PM.

"Shit," I whispered, then caught myself. "Sorry. I just—he's really sick."

She frowned, thinking. "There's an emergency vet clinic on the other side of town, near the mall. They're open 24 hours."

"How far is that?"

"Maybe five miles? It's on Westridge Drive."

Five miles. Might as well be fifty. I couldn't walk that far carrying Diesel, and I barely had enough gas to drive across town and back.

"Thanks," I said, defeat weighing down the word. "Is there a bus or something that goes there?"

She shook her head. "Not this time of night. You don't have a car?"

"Yeah, I do. Thanks for the directions."

"Hope your dog feels better," she called as I turned away.

I nodded without looking back, already calculating my options. The emergency vet would cost hundreds, maybe thousands. Even if I drove there, they'd likely want payment upfront. Forty-three dollars wouldn't cover part of an exam, let alone treatment.

But what choice did I have? Diesel was all I had left. My protector. My family. Maybe they’d take pity on me. Maybe I could trick them somehow. there had to be something I could do.

The walk back to my hidden parking spot felt twice as long. I'd tucked the Honda behind an abandoned warehouse, out of sight from the main roads. A habit I'd developed since fleeing Coldwater.

Every noise made me jump—a cat knocking over a trash can, a car backfiring in the distance, laughter spilling from an open window. In the gathering darkness, every shadow looked like Jesse, coming to drag me back.

My chest tightened with that familiar panic. The feeling of being hunted. It had become my constant companion these past weeks on the run. That and the gnawing certainty that it was only a matter of time before the Iron Serpents found me.

Jesse wouldn't let me go. Not after what I'd seen. Not after what I knew.

I quickened my pace, turning down the alley that led to my car. All I could think about was Diesel, alone and suffering. I'd left him with water and cracked the windows, but the night was growing cold.

"Just hold on, D," I whispered to the darkness. "I'm coming."

When the Honda finally came into view, partially hidden by dumpsters, I broke into a run. Diesel was my priority now. Emergency vet or not, I had to try.

Diesel's eyes were half-closed when I reached the car, just slits of dulled amber in his black-masked face. His breathing came in short, shallow pants that made his ribs shudder under his dense coat. Not good. Worse than when I'd left him. "I'm here, buddy," I whispered, my voice cracking like cheap plastic. "I'm going to help you."

My fingers trembled as I unlocked the door. The interior light flickered on—weak, like the battery was giving up too. Diesel didn't lift his head or thump his tail like he usually did when I returned. He just lay across the back seat, a mountain of black and tan fur barely stirring.

"Diesel?" My voice sounded small in the cramped space of my Honda. I knelt on the driver's seat, reaching back to check him more thoroughly. His nose was dry and hot. His gums, when I gently pried his mouth open, looked pale. "Shit. Shit."

I scrambled into the back, lifting his massive head onto my lap. Eighty-five pounds of loyal protection, reduced to a whimpering heap.

"I found a vet," I told him, stroking the soft fur between his ears. "They're on the other side of town. We just need to get there."

Diesel's eyes fluttered, trying to focus on me. His tail moved once, a weak thump against the seat that broke my heart.

I crawled back to the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine sputtered, then caught. The dashboard lit up, and my stomach dropped. The gas needle hovered just below E, the warning light glowing an accusing orange.

"No, no, no," I muttered, tapping the gauge like it might be stuck. It wasn't. I'd been so focused on finding help for Diesel that I'd forgotten we were running on fumes. The emergency vet was five miles across town. We'd never make it there and back.

I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles blanched white. My options were evaporating like morning dew. I couldn't afford gas and vet bills. I couldn't walk five miles carrying Diesel. I couldn't let him die.

A desperate plan formed in my mind. I'd seen people near King's Tavern. Lots of people. Maybe someone there could help—recommend a closer vet, or even have medicine. Dog owners understood. They had to.

The risk of exposure made my chest tighten. But Diesel's labored breathing left me no choice.

I put the car in gear and pulled out from behind the warehouse. The streets were darker now, streetlamps creating pools of yellow light between stretches of shadow. I drove slowly, conserving every drop of gas, and parked on a side street a block from the tavern.

The engine died with a shudder that seemed final, like it knew it might not start again. I twisted in my seat to look at Diesel.

"We need to walk a little way," I told him, willing strength into my voice. "Can you stand, D? Can you try for me?"

I opened the back door and gently tugged at his collar. Diesel tried—God, he tried. His legs scrabbled weakly against the seat, his nails clicking on the upholstery. But his strength was gone.

I swallowed hard, feeling tears prick behind my eyes. I wouldn't cry. Crying didn't solve problems. But the reality of my situation crashed over me—I needed to somehow carry an eighty-five pound German Shepherd mix who could barely move.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay, we'll figure this out."

I slid my arms under his front legs and tried to pull him toward the door. Diesel let out a small whine that cut through me like a knife. His body was dead weight, solid muscle and bone that barely budged.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "I know it hurts. Just a little more."

Sweat beaded on my forehead despite the cool night air. I changed tactics, climbing into the back seat and pushing instead of pulling, using my legs for leverage. Inch by painful inch, I maneuvered Diesel toward the open door until his front paws dangled over the edge.

My muscles screamed in protest. The weeks of living in my car, of irregular meals and constant anxiety, had whittled away at my strength. But adrenaline and desperation were powerful motivators.

With one final heave, I pushed Diesel's hind end while supporting his front, and his body slid out of the car. I barely managed to control his descent, guiding him to the pavement as gently as possible. He landed with a soft whoof of expelled air, sprawled on the sidewalk.

"Good boy," I praised, though there was nothing good about any of this. "Rest a second."

I closed and locked the car, then crouched beside Diesel. His sides heaved with the effort of breathing. He was huge from this angle—a mountain of fur and muscle that seemed impossible to move further.

"We have to get to the main street," I told him, as if he understood the plan. "People are there. Help is there."

I slid my arms under his front legs, crossing them over his chest, and lifted. His upper body rose slightly off the ground, his head lolling against my shoulder. His breath was hot against my neck, coming in quick pants.

"Just to the corner," I grunted, taking a staggering step backward, dragging his back legs across the concrete. "One step at a time."

Diesel was impossibly heavy. Each step required all my strength, my back bent at an awkward angle, my arms wrapped around his chest. His nails scraped the sidewalk as I pulled him. The sound grated against my ears—the audible evidence of my failure to protect him.

Sweat ran down my face, dripping from my chin. My hoodie stuck to my back. My muscles trembled with fatigue after just twenty feet. But I kept going. One more step. Then another.

"You're my good boy," I whispered through gritted teeth. "My best friend. Just hang on."

A passing couple looked at us curiously but hurried on. I wanted to scream at them for not offering help, but I couldn't waste the breath. Every ounce of my energy went into moving Diesel's massive body.

Fifty feet felt like fifty miles. The corner seemed impossibly far, the main street with its lights and people an unattainable goal. But I refused to give up. Diesel would never abandon me; I wouldn't abandon him.

"Almost . . . there . . ." I panted, though it was a lie. We were maybe halfway to the corner. My arms felt like they were being ripped from their sockets. My lower back spasmed in protest. But I kept dragging, kept moving, one excruciating step after another.

Diesel's weight shifted suddenly. He was trying to help, trying to get his legs under him. My heart leapt with hope.

"That's it, D," I encouraged. "Just a little more."

With tremendous effort, Diesel got his back legs beneath him. For a moment, he stood shakily, leaning heavily against my legs. I wrapped an arm around his middle, supporting as much of his weight as I could. Together, we staggered forward in a grotesque three-legged race.

One step. Two. Three. Each a victory.

But as we took the first step onto the main street, Diesel's legs buckled. It happened so suddenly that I couldn't catch him. His massive body sagged, sliding through my arms despite my desperate grab for his collar. He hit the sidewalk with a thud and a whimper that shredded what was left of my heart.

"No, no, no!" I dropped to my knees beside him, heedless of the pain as concrete bit into my skin. "Diesel, please!"

His eyes found mine, clouded with pain but still trusting. Still believing I could fix this. I stroked his head, fighting back tears. My invisibility shield—the careful anonymity I'd cultivated since fleeing Coldwater—shattered as I knelt there, exposed and vulnerable on a well-lit street.

People were staring now. A woman pulled her child closer as they passed. A man on a smoke break outside a bar watched with detached curiosity. No one approached. No one offered help.

Diesel's breathing grew more labored. His body trembled beneath my hands. The reality of losing him crashed over me in a wave of grief so acute it stole my breath. Not him. Not Diesel. He was all I had left.

"Help," I whispered, then louder, my voice breaking, "Please, someone help us!"

But my words scattered in the evening breeze, lost among the music from the tavern and the rumble of passing cars. I bent over Diesel's body, my forehead pressed against his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent—a mixture of dog and home and safety that was fading like everything else in my life.

I'd failed him. After everything he'd done to protect me, I'd failed him when he needed me most.

I didn't care anymore who saw me. Didn't care if Jesse's friends spotted me or if someone called the police about the crying woman with the dying dog on the sidewalk. All that mattered was Diesel, and I was losing him right before my eyes.

I pressed my trembling fingers to his neck, searching for a pulse. When I felt it—faint but there—relief crashed through me like a wave, quickly followed by another surge of panic. He was alive, but barely. I hunched over him, shielding his body with mine, as if I could somehow transfer my strength into his failing one. That's when a shadow fell across us both, blocking the harsh streetlight, and every muscle in my body tensed at once.

"Your dog needs help."

The voice came from above—deep, authoritative, a statement rather than a question. I kept my head down, fingers buried in Diesel's fur, caught between the instinct to run and the reality that I couldn't leave my dog.

I looked up slowly, my eyes traveling up a pair of worn black boots, past jeans that hugged powerful thighs, to a black t-shirt stretched over a broad chest. A leather vest hung open, adorned with patches I couldn't make out through my tears. When I finally reached his face, my breath caught.

He was terrifying and beautiful at once. Strong jaw darkened with stubble. High cheekbones. Steel-blue eyes that cut through the night like headlights. His dark hair was brushed back from his forehead, silver streaking the temples. Everything about him screamed danger, power, authority.

Biker. MC. Threat.

My heart slammed against my ribs as he crouched down, his movements fluid despite his size. He reached toward Diesel, and my hand shot out instinctively to block him.

His eyebrow raised, a silent question at my audacity. I pulled my hand back immediately, remembering too late what happens when you challenge men like this.

"I'm not going to hurt him," he said, his voice gentler but still commanding absolute attention. "I'm checking his gums."

I watched, paralyzed, as he expertly examined Diesel. His large hands moved with surprising tenderness, checking my dog's gums, feeling for his pulse, lifting an eyelid. Those hands could probably break bones without effort, yet they handled Diesel with careful precision.

"How long has he been like this?" he asked, not looking at me but continuing his examination.

"Since this morning," I managed, my voice small. "He keeps getting worse. Stopped eating. Couldn't stand."

The man nodded, his expression unreadable. He felt along Diesel's abdomen, and my dog whimpered softly.

"Sorry, buddy," the man murmured to Diesel. The unexpected gentleness in his tone made my chest tighten.

I became aware of more presences surrounding us. More shadows falling across the sidewalk. More boots entering my peripheral vision. I glanced up, my mouth going dry.

At least five men stood in a loose semicircle around us. All massive. All wearing leather vests with patches. All watching with inscrutable expressions. They weren't Iron Serpents—their patches and colors were different—but they were clearly another MC. Just as dangerous. Just as unpredictable.

They had to be the Heavy Kings.

I hunched lower over Diesel, making myself smaller by instinct. The scent of leather and motor oil and cologne surrounded me. I was trapped in a circle of men who could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

The leader—because he was clearly their leader—stood in one fluid motion. Even upright, his movements had an economy to them, like a predator conserving energy. He pulled a phone from his pocket and stepped back slightly, thumb swiping across the screen.

"Doc Wilson," he said into the phone after a moment. His tone left no room for pleasantries or preamble. "Need you at the clinic. Emergency."

There was a pause as he listened, his eyes never leaving Diesel's prone form.

"I'll meet you there in ten," he said, then ended the call without waiting for a response.

I stared up at him, caught between hope and terror. He'd called a vet. He was offering help. But nothing came free in this world—I'd learned that lesson repeatedly.

His piercing blue eyes fixed on me, and I felt exposed, like he could see every secret, every fear, every weakness. "I'm taking him to our vet. Now."

It wasn't a question or an offer. It was a statement of fact, delivered with absolute certainty that it would be obeyed. My mind raced with danger signals. Never trust strangers. Never go with men you don't know. Especially not bikers. Especially not after dark. Jesse's voice echoed in my head, warning me about other MCs, about rivals who'd use me to get to him.

But Diesel lay dying on the concrete.

"Who—" I started to ask, needing some shred of information before putting our lives in this stranger's hands.

He cut me off. "Duke Carson. President of the Heavy Kings MC." His eyes flicked to Diesel, then back to me. "Your dog is dying. Time to act."

The bluntness of his words hit like a slap. No sugar-coating. No gentle reassurance. Just the stark reality and a choice that wasn't really a choice at all.

Duke Carson. The name meant nothing to me, but his title did. President. The man in charge. The one everyone answered to. The one who decided who lived and who died.

The Heavy Kings. Not the Iron Serpents. Different territory, different club. They were rivals to the Serpents, but maybe they still shared information. Would one phone call to Coldwater reveal my location to Jesse?

Diesel's breathing grew more labored, each inhale a struggle that wracked his entire body.

Around us, the other men waited silently for their president's orders. One—a giant with long blond hair and a beard that reached his chest—watched me with open curiosity. Another kept scanning the street, like he was on guard duty. None seemed impatient. They simply existed in Duke's orbit, awaiting his command.

"I . . ." My voice failed. Diesel was dying. Right here. Right now. And this man—this dangerous, intimidating stranger—was offering the only lifeline we had.

Duke didn't press me for an answer. He didn't need to. The choice was brutally simple: accept his help or watch Diesel die. He knew it. I knew it.

I couldn't lose him. Not like this. Not when help was standing right in front of me, even if that help came in the form of a motorcycle club president who terrified me down to my bones.

"Please," I whispered, the word barely audible. I swallowed hard and tried again. "Please help him."

Something flickered across Duke's face—approval, perhaps, or just acknowledgment of my decision. He nodded once, a short, decisive movement, then turned to the blond giant.

"Thor, bring my truck around," he ordered.

The massive man—Thor—moved immediately, without question or hesitation. Just a simple "Got it, Prez" before he was gone, striding down the street with purpose.

Duke turned back to Diesel, and without any apparent effort, slid his arms beneath my dog's body. He lifted Diesel as if he weighed nothing, cradling him against his chest with surprising care. Diesel didn't struggle or whimper—either too weak or somehow sensing this man meant no harm.

I scrambled to my feet, unwilling to be separated from Diesel even for a moment. My knees protested from their contact with the concrete, and I realized I'd been kneeling so long they'd gone numb.

A sleek black pickup truck pulled up to the curb, driven by Thor. Duke carried Diesel to the vehicle, his stride steady despite the additional eighty-five pounds in his arms. The other bikers parted to let him through, a sea of leather and denim splitting before their leader.

Duke carefully placed Diesel on the truck bed, arranging him with gentle hands to keep him stable during the drive. Then he turned to me, those piercing blue eyes expectant.

"Get in," he said simply.

I hesitated for just a heartbeat, aware that I was about to place my life in the hands of a complete stranger—a biker, an outlaw, a man whose world operated under rules I didn't understand. But Diesel's labored breathing made the decision for me.

I climbed in, glancing back at Diesel. Duke slid into the driver's seat, his large frame filling the front of the truck cab. He started the engine with a low rumble that vibrated through the seats.

As we pulled away from the curb, I found myself trapped between relief and terror—grateful for the help but acutely aware that I'd just willingly entered the vehicle of a motorcycle club president, heading to an unknown location, completely at his mercy.

And I had no idea what price I'd eventually be asked to pay for saving Diesel's life.

I memorized the streets as we turned, building a mental map in case I needed to find my way back to my car. Left on Main Street. Right on Cedar. Another right onto a road called Blackridge that curved around a small park.

Duke's eyes met mine. I looked away quickly, focusing on Diesel instead.

"He's a German Shepherd mix?" Duke asked, breaking the silence.

The question surprised me—casual, normal, like we were just two people having a conversation about dogs, not a terrified woman and an MC president headed to a mysterious vet in the middle of the night.

"Yeah," I answered, my voice barely audible over the low rumble of the engine.

Duke nodded, as if approving. "They're good dogs. Loyal. Smart."

His eyes returned to the road, giving me space.

"What's his name?" he asked after a moment, taking a gentle turn that kept Diesel from sliding on the seat.

"Diesel."

A small smile touched the corner of Duke's mouth. "Damn. That’s a bad ass name."

Another stretch of silence. The streets of Ironridge slid by outside the windows—unfamiliar territory becoming even more alien as we drove into a part of town I hadn't explored. We passed darkened storefronts, a small movie theater with its marquee lit but no patrons in sight, a park with empty benches.

"Doc Wilson's the best vet in three counties," Duke said, his deep voice filling the cab. "If anyone can help Diesel, it's him. He serves the local community here. Plus the Kings."

"He’s your club's vet?" I asked carefully, trying to understand the relationship. In Coldwater, the Iron Serpents had a doctor on payroll—someone who treated bullet wounds and knife cuts without asking questions or filing reports.

Duke's shoulder lifted in a small shrug. "Kind of. He treats our rescue dogs. The club sponsors a rehabilitation program for fighting dogs."

This information didn't fit with anything I knew about MCs. Fighting dogs, yes—Jesse had talked about the blood sports some clubs were involved in. But rehabilitating them? Rescuing them?

"Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.

Duke was quiet for a moment, then answered simply, "Everyone deserves a second chance."

The words hung in the air between us.

We turned onto a quieter street lined with small businesses, all closed for the night. The truck's headlights swept across darkened windows and locked doors. Duke drove with one hand resting casually on the wheel, his posture relaxed despite the emergency nature of our trip. Everything about him spoke of control—over the vehicle, the situation, himself.

It was so different from Jesse, whose driving matched his personality—erratic, aggressive, fueled by whatever drugs he'd taken or emotions he couldn't contain. Duke drove like a man who knew exactly who he was and where he was going.

Diesel shifted in the bed, a small whimper escaping him. I whispered reassurances. "It's okay. We're getting help. You're going to be fine."

"Has he eaten anything unusual?" Duke asked, his question practical, focused on the problem at hand. "Gotten into something he shouldn't have?"

I shook my head. "No. Nothing." What I didn't say was that we'd been living on barely enough food for both of us, sharing cheap hamburgers and whatever I could afford from gas station convenience stores. "He just... started getting lethargic. Then stopped eating. Then collapsed."

Duke nodded thoughtfully. "We're almost there," Duke said.

The truck slowed as we approached a single-story building set back from the road. A small sign identified it as "Mountain View Veterinary Clinic." The parking lot was empty, the windows dark.

"Is it open?" I asked, doubt creeping into my voice.

"It is for me," Duke answered simply.

Of course it was. Men like Duke Carson didn't live by normal rules or hours. The world bent for them, not the other way around.

As we pulled into the empty parking lot, I spotted a middle-aged man standing by the front door. He wore wrinkled khakis and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, like he'd been called away from a quiet evening at home. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and resignation as our headlights swept across him.

Duke parked directly in front of the entrance. Before the engine had fully quieted, he was out of the truck and opening the back door on my side.

"I'll carry him," he said, again, not a question or an offer but a statement of fact.

As I slid out of the truck, Duke was already carrying Diesel toward the entrance. The vet held the door open, greeting Duke with a familiarity that spoke of a long-standing relationship.

"Another stray, Duke?" the vet called out, his tone exasperated but not unkind.

"Not exactly, Doc," Duke answered as he carried Diesel inside.

I followed close behind, unwilling to let my dog out of my sight for even a moment. As I passed through the door, the vet—Dr. Wilson—gave me a curious glance. I wondered what he saw: a skinny woman in dirty clothes with fear in her eyes, trailing after his biker client like a shadow.

The fluorescent lights inside the clinic were jarringly bright after the darkness of the truck. I blinked, adjusting to the sudden glare as Duke placed Diesel on an examination table in the center of the room. The clinic looked like any other vet's office—clean, clinical, with the scent of antiseptic barely masking the underlying smell of animals.

Duke's hands lingered for a moment on Diesel's fur, arranging him carefully so he lay comfortably on the metal surface. The unexpected tenderness in the gesture made something twist in my chest—a confused, conflicted feeling I couldn't name.

Dr. Wilson immediately moved to examine Diesel, his initial irritation transitioning to professional focus. He ran practiced hands over my dog's body, checked his gums, peered into his eyes, took his temperature.

"What's his name? Age? Symptoms?" the vet fired questions at me in rapid succession.

"Diesel. He's five. He started getting lethargic yesterday. Stopped eating this morning. Fever—I think. Weakness. Then he just . . . collapsed." My voice shook despite my efforts to keep it steady.

Dr. Wilson nodded, listening while continuing his examination. He pressed his fingers along Diesel's abdomen, and my dog whimpered softly.

"Abdomen's tender," he noted. "Gums are pale. Dehydrated." He looked at Duke. "Might be an intestinal blockage. Or parvo, though he seems a bit old for that. Could be poison."

There was that word again. Poison. I swallowed hard.

"I'll need to run some tests," Dr. Wilson continued, now addressing me directly. "Blood work, maybe x-rays. If it's a blockage, he might need surgery."

My heart sank. Tests. Surgery. All things that cost money I didn't have.

"How much?" I asked, my voice small.

Dr. Wilson hesitated, glancing at Duke. "Well, the initial blood work is $200. X-rays would be another $150. If he needs surgery . . ." He trailed off, his expression saying everything his words didn't.

I reached for my wallet, aware of the pathetic $43 it contained. My face burned with shame as I pulled it out, knowing it wasn't nearly enough but having nothing else to offer.

"I—I don't have much money," I admitted, staring at the thin wallet rather than meeting either man's eyes. “But, maybe there’s a payment plan, or—”

Duke's large hand covered mine, stopping me from opening my wallet. The contact was brief but firm—warm skin against my cold fingers.

"Put it on my tab, Doc," he said easily. "Run whatever tests Diesel needs."

I stared at him, unable to process this unexpected generosity. Why would he do this? What would he want in return? There was always a price. Always.

"I can't let you—" I started, but Duke silenced me with a look that was both gentle and immovable.

"You can argue with me after your dog is treated," he said simply.

And just like that, another decision was made for me.

***