Chapter One
The morning started like any other Thursday at Crimson Hollow Veterinary Clinic. Ryan clocked in at seven, tied his hair back with the scrunchie he kept around his wrist, and made his rounds checking on the overnight boarders. Mrs. Henderson's ancient beagle had finally eaten something. The tabby with the infected paw looked better. Everything routine, everything predictable.
He was restocking the supply cabinet in exam room two when he heard the commotion at the front entrance.
Multiple voices. The bell above the door chiming frantically. Dr. Sullivan calling out from somewhere down the hall. Ryan abandoned the gauze rolls and hurried toward the lobby, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum.
Three men stood just inside the doorway. Two of them supported a large crate between them. Another crate sat at their feet. Through the wire doors, Ryan could see movement. Dark shapes. The smell hit him immediately—blood and fear and unwashed fur.
“Fighting dogs,” Dr. Sullivan said, already pulling on gloves. “Get room four prepped. We need IV setups and the surgical tray ready to go.”
Ryan nodded and turned to move, but his eyes caught on one of the men. The tallest one, standing slightly apart from the others. Dark hair pushed back from his forehead. A day or two of stubble along his jaw. He wore a plain gray shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms were corded with muscle, and his hands—
Ryan looked away. Forced himself to focus.
“I’ll get everything ready,” he said, and his voice came out steadier than he felt.
He walked quickly down the hallway, counting his steps the way he always did when he needed to center himself. Twelve steps to room four. He pushed through the door and started pulling supplies from the cabinets. Catheters. Saline bags. Syringes still in their sterile packaging. His hands moved automatically through the familiar motions, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the lobby.
The man's eyes were brown. Light brown, almost amber in the fluorescent lighting.
Ryan shook his head and grabbed the stainless-steel tray from the autoclave. This was ridiculous. There were injured animals that needed him, and he was standing here like some teenager with a crush.
Dr. Sullivan backed through the door a moment later, supporting one end of a crate. The tall man—the one Ryan absolutely was not thinking about—held the other end. They lowered it carefully onto the exam table, and Dr. Sullivan unlatched the door.
The dog inside didn’t move.
“Okay,” Dr. Sullivan said quietly. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Ryan stepped closer, focusing entirely on the animal now. A pit bull, maybe three years old. Scarring across the muzzle and front legs. Fresh wounds along the shoulder, still seeping. The dog's breathing came shallow and quick.
“Poor baby,” Ryan murmured. He reached into the crate slowly, letting the dog smell his hand first. “It’s okay. We’re going to help you.”
The dog's eyes tracked him. Frightened but not aggressive. Ryan’s heart twisted.
“Can you get a line started?” Dr. Sullivan asked.
“Yeah.” Ryan pulled on gloves and prepped the catheter. His fingers stayed steady even though he could feel someone watching him. The tall man hadn’t left. He stood near the wall, arms crossed, and Ryan could sense his presence like a physical thing.
The dog flinched when Ryan touched her leg, but she didn’t try to bite. Good girl. He found the vein and slid the catheter in smoothly, secured it with tape, and connected the IV line.
“There we go,” he said softly. “That’s going to make you feel better.”
Dr. Sullivan examined the wounds, probing gently. “These are going to need sutures. And I want to get X-rays. Ryan, start her on antibiotics and pain management. Standard doses for her weight.”
Ryan was already reaching for the medication cabinet. He drew up the injections, double-checked the dosages, and administered them through the IV port. The dog's breathing started to slow, the pain medication working its way through her system.
“The other two are in worse shape,” the tall man said. His voice was lower than Ryan had expected. Rougher. “One of them can barely stand.”
Dr. Sullivan looked up. “How many total did you pull from the site?”
“Seven. Four went to the emergency clinic across town. These three we brought here.”
“All right. Let’s get them all assessed. Ryan, you take the lead on stabilization. I’ll handle the surgical cases.”
The minutes of the next hour blurred together. Ryan moved between exam rooms, starting IV lines, cleaning wounds, administering medications. The second dog—a mastiff mix with a torn ear and multiple bite wounds—growled when Ryan approached but settled once the pain medication took hold. The third dog, the one who could barely stand, required two people to lift from the crate.
The tall man helped without being asked. He moved carefully around the animals, spoke to them in low tones, held them steady while Ryan worked. Their arms brushed once when they were repositioning the mastiff, and Ryan felt the brief contact like electricity.
