Page 1 of My Protective Biker

Chapter 1 — Carina

The cicadas are so loud this afternoon that I almost don't hear the clinic door chime.

I'm elbow-deep in setting a splint on a stray tabby's broken leg, murmuring to him while the pain medication keeps him purring and pliant under my hands, when the bell above the entrance rings.

I glance up just long enough to register a young woman hovering near the doorway, dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, something wrapped in a faded beach towel cradled against her chest like she's afraid it might shatter.

"I'll be with you in just a minute," I tell her, keeping my voice low and steady the way I do with every frightened animal and every anxious owner who walks through my door.

She nods without speaking and stays where she is.

I can feel her watching while I check the alignment of the splint one more time, adjusting the padding where it sits against the tabby's foreleg, making sure the wrap is snug enough to stabilize the bone but not so tight it will cut off circulation.

The fracture is clean, which means if I can keep him still and medicated for the next six weeks, he should heal without surgery or complications.

He blinks up at me with golden eyes, still floating on the edge of pharmaceutical bliss, and I scratch behind his ears before I peel off my gloves and turn my attention to the girl waiting by the door.

"What do we have?"

She crosses to the exam table in three quick steps and sets the towel down with a care that borders on reverent.

When she unwraps it, another cat stares up at me with wide amber eyes, his orange fur matted with dirt and something darker that might be old blood, his whole body trembling with pain or fear or both.

"I found him on Route 9," the girl says, and the words tumble out so fast they nearly run together. "About a mile out from town, he was just dragging himself toward the shoulder and there were cars and I didn't know if I should move him but I couldn't just leave him there and I didn't even know if you'd be open but your sign says Tuesday through Saturday so—"

"Hey." I look up from the cat and meet her eyes, let her see that I'm calm, that this is manageable, that she did the right thing. "You did exactly what you should have done. What's your name?"

"Zoe."

"I'm Carina." I'm already running my hands over the cat with the kind of gentle precision that comes from seven years of veterinary practice, checking for the injuries I can see and the ones I can't. His left front leg is wrong, the angle too sharp where the bone has snapped clean through, and when I apply the lightest pressure just above the break, he flinches hard enough that I feel it in my chest. "Okay, broken leg for sure. Let me see what else we're dealing with."

I work methodically, talking Zoe through each step because anxious owners need the explanation as much as the injured animal needs the treatment.

The internal bruising along his left side is concerning but when I palpate his abdomen, checking for rigidity or swelling that would indicate bleeding, I don't find anything that screams emergency surgery.

No other fractures. Underweight, the kind of skinny that says he's been fending for himself for weeks, but his gums are a healthy pink when I check them and his eyes are bright despite the pain.

Young too, maybe four months old, still all paws and ears.

"Is he going to be okay?" Zoe's hands are knotted together in front of her stomach, knuckles gone white.

"He should be," I tell her, and I make sure she can see in my face that I mean it. "The leg is a clean break. I'll splint it, keep him here overnight so I can monitor him for any internal bleeding I might have missed, and if he's stable in the morning, you can take him home."

Her whole face transforms. "Really?"

"If you want him."

"I do. I really do."

The door opens again.

I don't look up right away because I'm checking the cat's respiratory rate, counting breaths with my fingers resting light against his ribcage, but I feel the change in the air.

The way the small clinic suddenly feels smaller, the way the space itself shifts to accommodate whoever just walked in.

"You okay?" The voice is low and even, directed at Zoe, and something in my stomach tightens at the sound of it.

"Yeah." Zoe doesn't look away from the cat. "I called you because I didn't know if I should just bring him here or call first or—"