Page 6

Dr. Wilson moved with efficient precision around Diesel, hooking up an IV line to deliver fluids while explaining medical terms that blurred together in my exhausted brain.

He drew blood samples, the needle sliding into Diesel's leg with practiced ease. Diesel didn't even flinch—too weak to react. I flinched for him, my fingers twisting together until the knuckles turned white.

"I need to run these right away," Dr. Wilson said, holding up vials of Diesel's dark blood. "I've got equipment in the back. Duke, keep an eye on the IV rate. If it speeds up, adjust it back to this drip."

Duke nodded, familiar with the process in a way that surprised me. The vet disappeared through a swinging door, leaving us alone with Diesel and the quiet beeping of a monitor they'd attached to my dog.

I stepped closer to the table, my hand going to Diesel's head. His fur felt hot under my fingers. "Thank you," I said softly, not looking at Duke. The words felt inadequate for what he'd done, but they were all I had to offer.

"Don't thank me yet," Duke replied, his deep voice rumbling in the quiet room. "Let's see what Doc finds."

He moved to stand across the table from me, his large hands resting lightly on the edge. In the bright fluorescent lighting, I could see details I'd missed before—a small scar near his eyebrow, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the heavy silver ring on his right hand. He watched Diesel with an expression of genuine concern.

"You know a lot about dogs," I said, a statement not a question.

Duke's mouth curved slightly. "Grew up with them. Always had at least two or three around. My dad was kind of a dog guy."

Another piece that didn't fit my mental image of an MC president. Jesse had talked about getting a fighting dog once—not as a pet, but as a weapon, an extension of his violence. The gentleness with which Duke had handled Diesel belonged to another world entirely.

"He's a good-looking dog," Duke commented. "Strong."

"He's the best thing in my life," I admitted before I could stop myself. Too much truth. Too much vulnerability.

Duke's eyes met mine across the table, intense and unreadable. "He'll fight. Dogs like him don't give up easily."

The swinging door opened, and Dr. Wilson returned with a clipboard and a troubled expression. My heart sank.

"He has a severe case of canine parvovirus," he announced without preamble.

Duke's expression darkened. "Parvo. That's serious."

Dr. Wilson nodded. "The symptoms match—vomiting, lethargy, decreased coordination. It's progressed pretty far, but we caught it before it's done irreparable damage."

"But I thought parvo was for puppies," I said, confused. "Diesel is five."

"Adult dogs can get it too, especially if they're stressed, malnourished, or if their vaccinations weren't kept up to date," Dr. Wilson explained gently. "Given his condition, I'd guess he hasn't had his boosters recently?"

My face flushed with shame. Between fleeing Coldwater and living out of my car, keeping up with Diesel's vet care had been impossible.

"When did the symptoms start?" Dr. Wilson asked, pulling me back to the present.

"This morning. He was just a little off yesterday, but this morning he wouldn't eat."

The vet nodded, making notes. "That tracks with the timeline. The virus moves quickly. The good news is we can treat this with aggressive supportive care. I'll start him on IV fluids to combat the dehydration, antibiotics to prevent secondary infections, and anti-nausea medication."

I must have looked lost because Duke translated again. "Parvo wrecks their GI tract. Makes them dehydrated and vulnerable to other infections. But treatment works if you catch it in time."

"Will he be okay?" I asked, my voice small.

Dr. Wilson's expression softened slightly. "We've got a good chance if we're aggressive with treatment. He'll need constant monitoring tonight. The next 24-48 hours are critical."

Constant monitoring. Overnight. My mind raced through implications. I couldn't leave Diesel here alone. But I also couldn't go back to my car—not with so little gas, not knowing if Jesse might have tracked us down. Where would I go? What would I do?

"I'll get the IV started," Dr. Wilson continued, moving toward a cabinet. "And some medication for the nausea and pain."

I watched numbly as he prepared more injections, more tubes, more liquids to pump into my dog. The cost must be mounting by the minute. I glanced at Duke, wondering when his generosity would reach its limit. When he'd start asking what I could offer in return.

"Why is he so sick?" I asked, the question tumbling out before I could stop it.

Duke grabbed another chair and dragged it next to mine, the legs scraping against the linoleum floor. He sat beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body but not so close that we touched. The consideration in that small space between us was yet another contradiction.

"Parvo's nasty," he said. "Dogs can pick it up from anywhere—the ground, a park, even from the sidewalk if another infected dog left it there. It's incredibly contagious and can live in the environment for months."

Dr. Wilson administered the new medications, explaining each one as he worked. Diesel whimpered when a needle entered his leg, the sound piercing through my exhaustion straight to my heart.

Without thinking, I reached out, seeking comfort or connection. My hand landed on Duke's forearm, fingers gripping the leather of his sleeve. He went very still but didn't pull away. Instead, his other hand covered mine, a warm pressure that somehow made the moment more bearable.

"He's tough," Duke said quietly. "Like his owner."

I looked up at him, startled by the assessment. No one had ever called me tough before. Jesse had called me many things—stupid, worthless, his property—but never tough. The unexpected compliment from this intimidating stranger made my eyes burn with tears I refused to shed.

I withdrew my hand, embarrassed by my weakness, by how quickly I'd reached for comfort from a man I should be fearing.

Dr. Wilson finished his work and stepped back, surveying Diesel with a clinical eye. "He's as stable as I can make him for now. I'll check his progress again in two hours. The fluids are already helping, but we need to watch for improvement in his vitals."

I nodded, trying to focus on the positive. Treatment started. Not out of danger, but fighting. It was more hope than I'd had an hour ago.

"He'll need to stay at least two days," Dr. Wilson continued. "Possibly longer, depending on how quickly he responds to treatment."

The vet looked between us, then shrugged slightly. "I'll bring in a cot from the break room. There's a bathroom down the hall if you need it."

After he left, silence settled between Duke and me. I stared at Diesel, watching the rise and fall of his chest, afraid to look at the man beside me—afraid of what I might see in his face, afraid of what he might see in mine.

"Why are you doing this?" I finally asked, the question that had been burning in my mind since he first stopped to help on the sidewalk.

Duke was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "You were willing to drag an eighty-pound dog down the street by yourself rather than give up on him. That kind of loyalty deserves respect."

It seemed too simple an explanation for such extraordinary help. I'd learned the hard way that men like Duke—men with power, men who commanded others—always had angles, always had motives beyond simple kindness.

"I can't pay you back," I said bluntly. "Not with money."

"Did I ask for payment?" His voice had an edge now, not angry but definitely harder.

"No, but—"

"Then don't offer what I haven't asked for."

The rebuke was gentle but firm. I felt heat rush to my cheeks, ashamed of the implication I'd made. But experience had taught me that kindness from men always came with expectations—especially men in MCs.

"You don't know me," I said softly. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough," Duke replied. He stood, his height imposing even in the clinical brightness of the exam room. "I know you love your dog. I know you're scared and exhausted. And I know you need help, whether you want to admit it or not."

Dr. Wilson returned with a folding cot and some blankets tucked under his arm. He set them up in the corner of the room, creating a makeshift bed that looked more comfortable than my car's backseat had been for the past three weeks.

"There's a coffee machine in the waiting room," he told me. "Help yourself. I'll be in the back office monitoring the blood tests, but the alarm will sound if anything changes with his vitals."

I nodded gratefully, suddenly aware of how thirsty I was, how long it had been since I'd eaten or drunk anything.

Duke watched as I settled the blankets on the cot, his expression unreadable. "Will you be alright here?"

The question surprised me. He was leaving? Relief and disappointment battled in my chest—relief at no longer being in the presence of someone so intimidating, disappointment at losing the strange security his presence provided.

"Yes," I answered. "Thank you. For everything."

He nodded once, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He set it on the small table beside the cot. "My number. Call if anything changes. Or if you need anything."

I stared at the card—simple black text on white cardstock. Duke Carson. Heavy Kings MC. A phone number. A lifeline I never expected.

"The clinic is in our territory," Duke said, his voice matter-of-fact. "No one will bother you here."

There was something in his tone—a certainty, a promise of protection—that made me look up and meet his eyes directly. In their blue depths, I saw none of the cruelty I'd grown accustomed to in Jesse's gaze. Just strength, authority, and something else I couldn't quite name.

"Thank you," I said again, inadequate but sincere.

Duke's mouth curved slightly. "Get some rest. Diesel needs you strong."

He turned to leave, his boots surprisingly quiet on the linoleum floor. At the door, he paused and looked back at me, his expression softening just slightly. "He's going to be okay."

It wasn't a question or a hope but a statement of fact—as if Duke Carson's will alone could bend reality to his desire. And strangely, I found myself believing him.

As the door closed behind him, I sat on the edge of the cot, Diesel's steady breathing and the soft beep of the monitor the only sounds in the room. I stared at the business card in my hand, turning it over and over between my fingers.

My world, which had shrunk to just survival—just me and Diesel, just staying ahead of the fear, just making it to tomorrow—had suddenly expanded to include this stranger who had upended everything I thought I knew about men like him.

I didn't trust Duke Carson. Couldn't trust him. Five years with Jesse had beaten trust out of me with fists and threats and broken promises. But for the first time in weeks, I felt something besides terror and desperation. Something that might, if I let it grow, eventually become hope.

I perched on the edge of the cot, positioning myself so I could see Diesel clearly, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath. The IV dripped steadily, fighting the virus that had nearly taken him from me. Whatever came tomorrow—whatever price I might eventually pay for tonight's help—at least Diesel was alive. At least we were safe for now.

And in this moment, that was enough.