Chapter Four
"You're sure about this."
It wasn't a question. Forge had asked it three times since they'd left the compound, and each time it came out the same way—flat, certain, already knowing her answer.
"I have patients." Caroline kept her eyes on the familiar dirt road unwinding ahead. "Mrs. Hendricks is coming at ten to pick up her Lab. The Dawson farm needs their cattle vaccinations updated. I can't just vanish."
"You can. You're choosing not to."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
They'd been arguing variations of this conversation since dawn.
Caroline had woken in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by the smell of gun oil and pine, and immediately started making phone calls.
Her backup vet in Raeford could cover emergencies.
Her vet tech could handle the boarding animals with instructions.
But she needed supplies. Needed to close out appointments. Needed to do something besides hide in a biker compound while strangers handled her problems.
Forge had agreed to the clinic run with the resignation of a man who knew he'd lost the argument before it started.
But he'd also spent the entire morning on his phone, making calls in clipped sentences she couldn't quite hear. And when they'd finally left, two other motorcycles had pulled out behind them—riders she recognized from last night's introductions as Trooper and Static.
"You brought backup," she'd said.
"I brought insurance."
Now she watched Forge's hands on the wheel of the club's SUV, steady and deliberate. His eyes moved constantly—mirrors, road, treeline, mirrors again. Cataloging. Checking. The same behavior she'd noticed yesterday, amplified tenfold.
"There's a truck at the Hendersons' gate," he said. "Blue Ford. Wasn't there when we passed yesterday."
Caroline looked. The truck sat fifty yards off the main road, positioned where it could watch traffic in both directions.
"Could be a farmhand," she said.
"Could be."
But his foot eased off the gas, just slightly, and his right hand drifted toward the center console where she knew a weapon waited.
"Trooper, Static." His voice was calm, speaking into an earpiece she hadn't noticed him put in. "Blue Ford at the Henderson property. Hold position until we clear the next intersection."
A crackle of acknowledgment she couldn't hear.
They passed the truck without incident. No one emerged. No one followed.
Caroline's heart was pounding anyway.
"How do you do this?" she asked. "See threats everywhere without going crazy?"
"Who says I don't?"
She looked at him—really looked. The tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw stayed tight even when nothing was happening. This man lived in a state of constant vigilance that would have exhausted her in hours.
"The compound," she said. "You checked the door to my room three times before you left last night."
"Locks stick in humidity."
"And this morning you inspected every window in the residential wing before breakfast."
"Security protocol."
"And you've had your hand within six inches of a weapon since we got in this vehicle."
Forge was silent.
"I'm not criticizing," Caroline said quietly. "I'm trying to understand."
A long moment passed. Pine trees blurred past the windows, the sandhills rolling away in waves of red clay and summer green.
"I spent seventeen years making sure equipment worked when men's lives depended on it," he finally said. "Weapons, vehicles, communication gear—if it failed, people died. So I checked. And checked again. And kept checking until I was certain."
"And now?"
"Now I check other things." His eyes flicked to her, just for a second. "This isn't the Army. I'm not responsible for keeping a team armed in hostile territory anymore."
"But you're still checking."
"Some habits don't break." His voice dropped. "Some habits shouldn't."
Before she could respond, her clinic appeared around the curve—the converted farmhouse, the barn where Bella had died, the hand-lettered sign she'd painted herself five years ago.
And four men standing in the parking lot.
"Down." Forge's hand shot out, pushing her head below the dashboard. "Stay down."
Caroline's heart slammed against her ribs. Through the window, she caught a glimpse of Stroud's face—that mean smile she'd seen two days ago, right before he'd put his knife to her arm.
"They were waiting," she breathed.
"I know." Forge's voice had changed. Cold now. Operational. "Trooper, Static—we've got four hostiles at the clinic. Moving to contact positions. Wait for my signal."
The SUV kept rolling forward, not slowing, not speeding up. Casual. Normal.
"What are you—"
"Trust me." Two words. An order and a question wrapped together.
Caroline stayed down.
The vehicle stopped. She heard a door open, felt the suspension shift as Forge stepped out.
"Dr. Weston around?" Stroud's voice, close enough to make her skin crawl. "We've got unfinished business."
"She's not here." Forge, calm as still water. "Clinic's closed."
"That's funny, because her truck's in the barn and the lights are on." Footsteps on gravel, multiple sets. "Why don't you tell us where she really is, friend?"
"I'm not your friend."
A pause. Then laughter—ugly, confident.
"Well, shit. You're one of those bikers from Fayetteville, aren't you? Heard some club was sniffing around. Thought it was bullshit."
"You thought wrong."
"Buddy, he's got a gun—"
The world exploded.
Caroline stayed down, hands over her ears, as gunfire erupted above her. Not the wild spray of panic—controlled bursts, spaced and deliberate. Glass shattered somewhere. Men screamed. Tires squealed.
Then silence.
"Clear." Forge's voice, sharp in her ears. "Stay in the vehicle."
She ignored him.
By the time she scrambled out, it was over. One man lay groaning near the barn, clutching his shoulder. Another sprawled motionless by the fence—dead or unconscious, she couldn't tell. A truck was peeling down the dirt road, fishtailing through curves, two figures visible through the rear window.
Stroud was gone.
"I told you to stay down." Forge materialized at her side, scanning the treeline, weapon still raised.
"Where—"
"He ran. Him and one other." Disgust colored his voice. "Trooper and Static are pursuing."
"You let him go?"
"I prioritized." His free hand found her arm—not gentle, not rough. Possessive. "Getting you out matters more than getting him now."
Caroline's legs were shaking. The adrenaline dump hit all at once—her vision swimming, her stomach lurching.
"Hey." Forge was in front of her, weapon holstered, both hands on her shoulders. "Look at me. Caroline. Look at me."
She met his eyes. Found something solid there, something steady.
"Breathe," he said. "You're okay. Nobody touched you."
"The clinic—"
"Is just a building. It can be rebuilt." His grip tightened. "You can't."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that everything she'd built was in that farmhouse, five years of sacrifice and eighteen-hour days and putting down roots in soil that finally felt like home.
But his hands were warm on her shoulders, and his body was blocking the carnage behind him, and all she could think was that he'd known.
He'd known they'd be waiting. Had planned for it. Had positioned his brothers before they ever left the compound because he'd anticipated exactly this scenario.
The constant checking. The vigilance that never stopped.
It wasn't paranoia.
"You knew," she said.
"I suspected."
"You planned for this. Before we left. You had Trooper and Static ready because you expected—"
"I expect everything." His thumb brushed her collarbone, probably unconscious, definitely claiming. "Every possible failure point, every potential threat. That's what keeps people alive."
Caroline stared at him. This man who couldn't stop checking locks and windows and sight lines. Who'd spent seventeen years keeping weapons functional and now couldn't turn off the part of his brain that looked for points of failure.
Somewhere in the distance, motorcycle engines roared—Trooper and Static, giving chase.
But here, in the chaos of her violated clinic, Forge stood perfectly still. Blocking her view of the wounded man by the barn. Keeping himself between her and every direction danger could come from.
That's not anxiety, she realized with sudden, stunning clarity.
The checking. The vigilance. The way he positioned himself without thinking, always ready, always watching.
That's how he loves.
She didn't know when the thought had shifted from abstract to specific. Didn't know when "how he loves" had become "how he loves me."
But standing in the wreckage of an ambush he'd anticipated, protected by a man who couldn't stop protecting, Caroline understood something fundamental.
Forge didn't express care through words. Didn't offer comfort through soft reassurances. He showed love the only way his wired-for-threat brain knew how.
Through operational security. Through contingencies planned and positions prepared.
Through the simple, relentless act of keeping her alive.
"We need to move." His voice cut through her revelation. "Stroud will regroup. This location's compromised."
"My supplies—"
"We'll send someone later. Right now, you're my priority."
My priority. Not the priority. My.
She let him lead her back to the SUV, let him check the backseat and the undercarriage before allowing her inside. Let him radio his brothers with extraction coordinates she didn't understand.
And when they pulled away from the clinic—from everything she'd built, everything she'd worked for—Caroline didn't look back.
She looked at Forge instead.
At the man whose love language was contingency planning.
And she thought, for the first time since Stroud's knife had touched her skin, that maybe she wasn't as alone as she'd believed.