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T hree days of agony. Three days of waiting, wondering, wishing that Diesel would get better quicker.

His condition had improved dramatically since yesterday. The IV fluids had perked him up, and the antibiotics were fighting the infection. Still, Dr. Wilson insisted on keeping him under observation for another day.

I hadn't left the clinic except for brief trips to the bathroom and one quick run to a nearby convenience store for toiletries—expenses paid with my precious remaining cash. Every penny spent made my stomach knot with anxiety. The thin stack of bills in my wallet was all that stood between us and complete destitution.

A soft knock at the door made me jump. I straightened immediately, my body tensing as I calculated the distance to the nearest exit. The door swung open, and Dr. Wilson entered with two coffee cups in hand. His tired eyes crinkled with a smile that seemed genuine.

"Thought you might need this," he said, offering one of the cups. "It's from the good machine in the staff room, not that awful sludge in the waiting area."

I hesitated before accepting it, the warm cup a strange comfort in my chilled hands. "Thanks."

Dr. Wilson pulled up a chair beside me, not too close—respecting my space in a way that made my shoulders relax a fraction. We sat in companionable silence watching Diesel's steady breathing, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

"He's a fighter," Dr. Wilson said finally, nodding toward Diesel. "His vitals have improved significantly. The fluids and antibiotics are doing their job."

I felt such profound relief that tears threatened to spill, but I blinked them away—I'd cried enough in my life; tears wouldn't solve problems. "When can I take him home?" The question hung awkwardly in the air. Home. As if I had one. Nope. I’d be taking him back to whatever accommodation Duke had organized for me.

"Tomorrow, I think. Barring complications." He took a sip of his coffee. "You've hardly left his side. That kind of dedication means something."

I stared down at my cup, embarrassed by the praise. "He's all I have."

"Duke mentioned you might be staying in town for a while," he commented casually, after a comfortable silence had stretched between us.

At the mention of Duke's name, I tensed slightly. My hand stilled on Diesel's fur. The biker who'd found us, who'd brought us here without question when I couldn't even afford the emergency visit.

"He's a good man, you know," Dr. Wilson continued, sipping his coffee. "Harsh when he needs to be, but fair. Always. In the fifteen years I've known him, I've never seen him break his word."

I studied his face for any sign of deception or blind loyalty. I'd seen plenty of men defend other men's actions, justify their cruelty, make excuses for inexcusable behavior. But Dr. Wilson's expression remained open, honest.

"You know him well?" I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

Dr. Wilson chuckled. "As well as anyone gets to know Duke, I suppose. He's a private man. But I've treated his dogs, patched up his men, and even stitched him up a time or two." He paused, watching me carefully. "You're wondering about the motorcycle club."

It wasn't a question. I nodded anyway, grateful he'd said it so I didn't have to.

"The Heavy Kings have been in Ironridge for decades," he explained. "Duke's father founded the club. When he died—accident, but people talk—Duke stepped up. He was young, but he had this . . . presence." Dr. Wilson gestured vaguely. "Some men command respect through fear. Duke never needed to."

I'd seen those men too. Jesse and Venom, who ruled through terror and pain. Men whose pleasure came from breaking others.

"So he's what—some kind of benevolent outlaw?" I couldn't keep the skepticism from my voice. I'd learned the hard way that men with power rarely used it kindly.

Dr. Wilson's laugh was genuine. "I wouldn't go that far. The Kings operate outside the law in plenty of ways. But Duke has lines he won't cross. And one thing he absolutely won't tolerate is hurting women or children."

A lump formed in my throat. “That’s good, I guess.”

"The man's got hidden depths," he concluded with a small smile. "Don't let the leather and patches fool you."

I absently stroked Diesel's fur through the bars of the cage, my mind racing. Every instinct warned me against trust. Against hope. I'd believed in salvation before, and it had nearly destroyed me.

But Diesel was alive because of Duke. We were safe—at least for now—because of him.

"He offered to help us," I said quietly. "Why would he do that? He doesn't know me."

Dr. Wilson stood, collecting our empty cups. "That's a question only Duke can answer." He paused at the door. "But I've never known him to offer protection lightly. If he's extended it to you, he has his reasons." His expression softened. "

Dr. Wilson sanitized his hands at the small sink, then dried them methodically, one finger at a time. "Duke called again this morning," he mentioned casually, his back to me. "To check on Diesel's progress."

My heart stuttered stupidly at the mention of Duke's name. I busied myself adjusting Diesel's blanket, hoping Dr. Wilson wouldn't notice the heat creeping up my neck.

"Third time today," he added with a knowing glance in my direction. "Never seen him so interested in a patient before."

A dangerous, unwelcome warmth unfurled in my chest at this news—a feeling I immediately tried to smother. I'd allowed myself to feel this way about Jesse once, and it had ended in pain and fear.

But Duke wasn't Jesse. The thought slipped through my defenses before I could stop it.

"Does he . . ." The question burned on my tongue, foolish and revealing. I bit it back, but my traitor mouth had other ideas. "Does he have a girlfriend?" The words spilled out, and I was immediately mortified.

Dr. Wilson raised his eyebrows and let out a hearty chuckle. "Interested, are we?" he teased gently.

My face burned hotter than a stovetop coil. I stared at the floor, wishing it would crack open and swallow me whole. "No! God, no. I just—I was just wondering who might be . . . I mean, it's not like I—"

"Breathe, Mia," Dr. Wilson interrupted my stammering, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. “I might not be a human doctor, but I know that in general, humans need to breathe.“

I exhaled shakily, still unable to meet his gaze. "I was just curious," I mumbled, sounding childish even to my own ears. "About what the home life of the president of an MC might be like."

Dr. Wilson's expression softened when he saw my genuine discomfort. He pulled up a chair and sat, giving me the psychological space to recover my dignity.

"Duke's been single for years, far as I know," he answered honestly, all teasing gone from his voice. "Women come and go, but no one sticks." He leaned back, considering his words carefully. "A man like that—with his responsibilities, his position—it takes someone special to fit into his world."

I nodded, trying to look only casually interested while my mind latched onto "single for years" like a drowning person clutching a life preserver.

"The MC life isn't for everyone," Dr. Wilson continued. "Lots of danger, unpredictability. Most women can't handle the long absences, the secrecy, the constant threats from rival clubs." He glanced at me. "Takes someone who understands that world."

Someone like me, who'd lived in its shadow. Who understood its dangers all too well.

I pushed the thought away firmly. "I was just curious," I repeated, more convincingly this time.

Dr. Wilson studied me for a moment longer than was comfortable. "Of course," he said finally, standing up. "I've got a few more patients to check on. Will you be okay here on your own?"

"We'll be fine." I nodded toward Diesel. "I think he's about to fall asleep again."

"Best thing for him," Dr. Wilson agreed. "I'll be back before I leave for the night."

After he closed the door behind him, silence settled over the room like dust. I moved to the window, watching shadows lengthen across the clinic's small parking lot. The building sat on a quiet side street, away from Ironridge's main thoroughfare. From here, I could just make out distant mountains, purple against the darkening sky.

Despite my best efforts, my mind kept drifting back to moments from the past two days—Duke finding me after Diesel had collapsed. He hadn’t even hesitated, he’d just sprung to action. I remembered the gentle way he'd lifted my dog's massive body as if he weighed nothing. How he'd ordered food for me when I was too proud to admit I was hungry, but placed it at the other end of the table, respecting my space.

I recalled the breadth of his shoulders beneath his leather cut, the intricate tattoos visible at his wrists and neck, hinting at more artwork hidden beneath his clothes. The strength in his hands that never turned violent despite his obvious power. The unexpected tenderness in his blue eyes when I thought he wasn't looking.

A shiver ran through me—entirely unrelated to the cool air of the clinic. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly terrified by my own thoughts.

Duke Carson was trouble—a biker president, an outlaw, a criminal; a man who lived by rules far removed from ordinary society. Everything about him should have terrified me. And yet, something in his controlled strength called to a hidden part of me—the part that longed for safety, protection, for someone strong enough to let me be vulnerable.

The part I'd tried to bury after Jesse had discovered my collection of stuffed animals and children's books, hidden carefully in the back of my closet. I still remembered his mocking laughter, his disgust, the names he'd called me. My treasures had ended up in a dumpster, along with any hope that someone might understand or accept that side of me.

"Stop it," I whispered, pressing my palms against my eyes hard enough to see sparks. "Stop it now."

I paced the small room, trying to outrun my thoughts. I knew I was emotionally exposed—homeless, hunted, desperate. These feelings weren't real; they were merely my mind confusing gratitude with attraction. The same mistake I'd made with Jesse, who'd seemed like salvation from Axel's cruelty until I discovered he was simply a different flavor of the same poison.

Besides, a man like Duke would never be interested in someone like me—damaged, broke, carrying dangerous baggage. And certainly not if he found out about my Little tendencies, the childlike needs I'd spent years desperately concealing.

He wasn’t a Daddy Dom. He couldn't be. A man like him wouldn’t be interested in age play.

Anyway, I'd learned to function without that part of myself. Learned to be independent and strong, to never show vulnerability or need. To never reveal the girl inside who sometimes just wanted to color pictures and drink from a special cup and be told she was good.

The thought pained me, and I physically flinched. My nails dug into my palms, the sharp sting grounding me back in reality. This wasn't a fairy tale. Duke wasn't a knight in shining armor, and I wasn't a princess waiting to be rescued. I was a woman on the run from a dangerous MC, and Duke was only helping me because . . . because . . .

Actually, I still wasn't sure why he was helping me. That uncertainty should have been another red flag, another reason to guard my heart. Yet something about his steady presence felt more genuine than anything I'd experienced in years.

Diesel stirred in his sleep, whimpering softly until I reached through the bars to stroke his head. "It's just us, buddy," I whispered, trying to convince myself as much as him. "Just like always."

But even as I said it, I knew something had changed. For the first time in years, we weren't completely alone. And that terrified and thrilled me in equal measure.

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