The hope of it is a physical ache in my chest, a sudden, sharp panic that makes my heart hammer against my ribs. Wanting this, wanting her, is the most dangerous thing I’ve done since I took off the uniform.
Nobody should have to be afraid alone in the dark.
I reach for the brass whistle, my fingers closing around the cold metal. “We need to check the dogs before the temperature drops.”
“Okay.” Bella nods, her eyes dark, reading the sudden distance I’ve put between us.
She turns toward the waiting room stove, her hand reaching down to scratch Atlas behind the ears. The old dog is standing now, his tail giving a slow, hesitant wag as he prepares to follow her.
He takes one step.
His front legs buckle, his paws sliding uselessly on the smooth pine floorboards. He lets out a sharp, breathless grunt, his heavy body collapsing onto his side with a dull, sickening thud.
“Atlas.” Bella’s voice cracks, a sharp spike of panic in the quiet room.
I drop the whistle, my boots hitting the floor as I throw myself across the waiting room. I’m on my knees before the dust settles, my hands already moving over Atlas’s chest, my fingers searching for the femoral pulse.
Atlas lies rigid on his side, his eyes rolled back, the whites showing in the firelight. His chest is a tight, hard drum, his abdomen visibly distended and rock-hard under my palms. His breathing is a shallow, stuttering gasp, his tongue already turning a dangerous, pale lavender against his teeth.
“Wyatt?” Bella’s on the floor beside me, her hands hovering over Atlas’s head, her fingers shaking violently. “What’s wrong?”
“Torsion.” The word is a cold bullet in my throat. I find his pulse. Rapid, weak, a fluttering thread that’s already starting to fail. “Gastric torsion. His stomach is twisting. He’s going into shock.”
I look at his pale gums, my own chest freezing as the combat memory rushes back. The sand, the blood, the helpless panic of holding a dog that’s dying under your hands.
My voice carries down the empty corridor, loud and urgent. “We need the surgical tray. Jason. Get the cart. Now.”
Atlas lets out a long, shuddering gasp, his rib cage lifting in a desperate search for air that won’t come, his body going stiff against my knees.
FIFTEEN
Hold the Line
BELLA
The metal wheelsof the surgical cart screech against the linoleum, a sharp, violent sound that slices through the roaring in my ears.
Wyatt cuts through the tape on his emergency prep tray, his eyes fixed on the metal.
“IV line is open.” He doesn’t look at me. His face is a mask of hard, slate-grey angles, the gentle man who held me in the cabin replaced by the battlefield surgeon. “Bella. Get the clippers. Start on his abdomen. Midline. Now.”
My hands are shaking so hard the plastic housing of the clippers rattles against my nails, but the crisis-line training kicks in, a cold, automated calm sliding over my panic.
In for four, hold for four.
I drop to my knees beside Atlas’s rigid body, the hum of the blades vibrating up my forearm as I touch the metal to his shaved skin. Dark fur falls away in thick, static clumps, revealing the tight, drum-like swelling of his stomach.
Atlas doesn’t move. His chest rises in shallow, stuttering jerks, his tongue hanging dry and pale lavender from the side of his mouth.
“Jason.” Wyatt’s voice carries down the short hallway, loud and flat. “Laparotomy pack. Suction. The large-bore needle. Get it over here.”
Jason slides the tray onto the stainless-steel prep table. His movements are quick, silent, the economy of a man who has stood in blood before. “Tray’s sterile. Needle is ready.”
Wyatt takes the eighteen-gauge needle, the long shaft of steel glinting under the harsh overhead fluorescent lights. He looks at me once, his eyes dark, the storm in them completely still. “Hold his hip. Don’t let him roll.”
I lean my weight against Atlas’s flank, my palms flat against his coat.
“Jason, help me lift. Bella, scrub. You’re holding the retractors.” Wyatt sweeps the skin with brown betadine, his hands steady.
