Chapter Eight
The garage smelled like motor oil and antiseptic now. Caroline considered that an improvement.
Five days at the compound, and she'd transformed half of the maintenance bay into a functional veterinary clinic.
Not pretty—folding tables for exam surfaces, borrowed lamps for lighting, supplies organized in plastic bins she'd commandeered from Jessica's storage facility connections—but functional.
More importantly, it gave her something to do besides pace and worry.
"Easy, boy. Almost done."
The German Shepherd mix on her table whined but held still as she cleaned the infected wound on his paw. He'd wandered onto the compound two days ago, starving and limping, and one of the prospects had carried him straight to her makeshift setup like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Got a patient for you, Doc.
Just like that. No questions about whether she was qualified, whether she had proper equipment, whether treating a stray mutt was worth her time.
These men had adopted her as their veterinarian the same way they'd adopted her under their protection—completely, without hesitation.
"Whoever had you before didn't deserve you," she murmured, wrapping the paw in clean gauze. "We'll get you fixed up. Find you somewhere safe."
"He could stay here."
Caroline didn't startle. She'd learned to recognize Forge's footsteps—heavy boots, deliberate pace, the slight pause before he entered any space.
"You appear a lot for someone supposedly on security rotation."
"Security includes the garage." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her work. "Someone could sneak in through the back bay. Hide behind the equipment. Wait for an opportunity."
"And you need to personally verify that hasn't happened. Every two hours."
"Threats evolve."
She bit back a smile. Five days of this—Forge finding excuses to check on her, to position himself where he could watch her hands move over fur and flesh. He never interfered, never commented unless she asked. Just... observed. Like her competence was something worth studying.
"This one needs antibiotics for a week," she said, lifting the Shepherd mix down from the table. "And someone to keep him from chewing his bandage."
"I'll assign him to Static. Man needs a project."
"A dog isn't a project."
"For Static, everything's a project. He'll obsess over treatment protocols, build the dog a custom bed, probably teach it to detect explosives by accident." Forge's mouth quirked. "Trust me. Best home on the compound."
She wanted to argue—dogs needed stability, not military operatives with trauma responses—but she'd seen how the men here treated their animals.
Ranger rarely left Forge's side. Legion's retired working dog slept on a cushion that cost more than Caroline's first car.
These operators poured the gentleness they couldn't show elsewhere into creatures that asked nothing except loyalty.
"Fine. But I want weekly check-ins. That wound isn't fully healed."
"Done."
The Shepherd mix—she needed to stop naming them, but she was already thinking of him as Scout—limped toward Forge, tail wagging hesitantly. Forge crouched, letting the dog sniff his hand before scratching behind one torn ear.
"You're a survivor," he told the animal. "Good instincts. We'll make sure you don't need them anymore."
Caroline's chest tightened.
"You talk to dogs like they're soldiers."
"They understand more than people think." He straightened. "Had a Belgian Malinois on my team in Afghanistan. Saved six men, detected fourteen IEDs, never once complained about conditions. Better teammate than half the humans I served with."
"What happened to him?"
"Retired. Lives on a farm in Virginia with his handler's parents." Something soft crossed Forge's face. "Gets steak every Sunday and has three acres to patrol. Earned it."
Before she could respond, boots thundered in the corridor outside. Cargo appeared in the doorway, slightly out of breath.
"Doc. Need you."
Caroline grabbed her kit automatically. "What happened?"
"Trooper's dog got into something. Vomiting, won't stop shaking."
She was moving before he finished speaking. Forge fell into step beside her, hand finding its familiar place on her lower back—not guiding, just there. Present.
Trooper met them outside the residential building, a trembling Labrador in his arms. The dog was pale around the gums, drooling heavily, eyes unfocused.
"He got out this morning," Trooper said, voice tight with worry. "Found him near the east fence about an hour ago. Started throwing up twenty minutes after I brought him in."
"What's near the east fence?"
"Old equipment shed. Storage. Nothing he should have gotten into."
Caroline ran her hands over the dog's belly, checked his pupils, smelled his breath.
"Antifreeze," she said. "Or something similar. He's presenting classic ethylene glycol symptoms."
"Antifreeze?" Cargo looked alarmed. "We don't keep any—"
"Someone left it. Purposely or accidentally, doesn't matter right now." Caroline was already calculating. "I need activated charcoal if you have it, ethanol if you don't—actual alcohol, highest proof available. And IV fluids. The kit in the garage has saline."
"Ethanol?" Trooper looked confused.
"It binds to the same receptors as the toxin. Buys time for his kidneys to process the poison." She met his eyes. "Go. Now. Every minute matters."
Men scattered. Cargo sprinted for supplies. Static appeared with a bottle of vodka that had probably been intended for very different purposes. Forge lifted the Lab from Trooper's arms and carried him to the garage himself, moving fast but smooth, protecting the animal from jostling.
Caroline set up with the efficiency of someone who'd handled emergencies alone for years. IV line placed, activated charcoal administered, vodka measured with the precision of medication.
"You're giving him alcohol," Forge observed.
"Frat party medicine." She adjusted the drip rate. "Works better than it should. The ethanol competes with the toxin for metabolization—gives the kidneys time to clear the poison before it crystallizes."
"Will he make it?"
"If we caught it early enough." She glanced at Trooper, who stood rigid with fear in the doorway. "You found him quickly. That matters. Another hour and we'd be having a different conversation."
The Lab whined, then settled as the medications took effect. Caroline monitored his vitals, adjusting, observing, doing the work she'd been trained for.
The men watched her like she was performing surgery on royalty.
"You need to stop hovering," she said without looking up. "All of you. The stress isn't helping him."
"We're not stressed," Cargo protested.
"You've been holding your breath for three minutes. I can hear it." She finally lifted her eyes. "He's stable. The next two hours are critical, but his vitals are improving. Go do... whatever you do when you're not watching me work."
Trooper didn't move. "He's my dog."
"Then sit over there, out of my light, and talk to him. Calmly. Tell him about your day, your plans, whatever. The sound of your voice will help more than the pacing."
The Ranger—these men were all former military, she'd learned to identify branches by their tells—took a breath and settled onto a crate in the corner. His voice dropped to a low murmur, words too quiet to hear, meant only for the Lab slowly recovering on her table.
The others dispersed reluctantly. All except Forge.
"You too," Caroline said.
"I'm not stressed."
"You've checked the back bay door twice since we started."
"Threats—"
"Evolve, yes, I know." She pointed toward the corner opposite Trooper. "Sit. Be quiet. Let me work."
For a moment, she thought he'd argue. That Alpha-male protector instinct bristling at being ordered around.
Instead, he smiled.
Just slightly. Just enough to transform his face from vigilant guardian to something younger, warmer. The expression caught her off guard—she'd seen him serious, intense, deadly. This was different.
This was him finding her amusing. Finding her delightful.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and moved to the corner she'd indicated.
Caroline turned back to her patient, hiding her own smile behind professional focus. But she was aware of him there, watching. Could feel his attention like warmth on her skin.
Two hours passed. The Lab improved steadily—vitals stabilizing, color returning to his gums, the trembling fading to occasional shivers. By the time Caroline declared him out of immediate danger, Trooper looked ready to weep with relief.
"You saved him." The words came out rough. "I don't—I can't—"
"You can buy me coffee," she said. "And make sure that east fence gets checked for toxins. If someone left antifreeze out there, whether by accident or design, it needs to be found."
"It'll be found." Trooper's voice hardened. "And if it wasn't an accident..."
He didn't finish. Didn't need to.
These men had very specific ways of handling deliberate threats.
Trooper carried his dog toward the residential building, moving with the care of someone transporting precious cargo. Cargo and Static followed, already talking about perimeter sweeps and toxin protocols.
That left Caroline alone with Forge.
"You were impressive," he said, still in his corner. "The charcoal, the alcohol trick—I've never seen anything like it."
"You've never watched a rural vet improvise." She began cleaning up, exhaustion settling into her bones. "When you're the only option for fifty miles, you learn to work with what you have."
"You bullied Trooper into following your orders. He's a former Ranger battalion operations officer."
"And I've faced down charging bulls and stubborn ranchers. Military rank doesn't impress me." She glanced at him. "Neither do brooding bikers who think standing in corners counts as being helpful."
That smile again. Wider this time.
"You've been looking for that," Forge said.
"For what?"
"My smile." He pushed off from the wall, closing the distance between them. "You keep glancing over when you think I'm not watching. Checking to see if I'm amused, annoyed, impressed."
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I don't—"
"You do." He stopped a foot away, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "And I've been doing the same thing. Watching you work, waiting for you to laugh at something. Counting how many times you push your hair back when you're concentrating."
"That's—"
"Seven," he said. "You pushed it back seven times while you were saving Trooper's dog."
Her heart was pounding. From the emergency, she told herself. The adrenaline. Nothing to do with the way he was looking at her, like she was something extraordinary.
"I should finish cleaning up," she managed.
"You should." He didn't move. "But you're not going to. Because you're as curious about this as I am."
"About what?"
"About what happens when we stop circling and admit what's been building since you stitched your own arm in front of me."
Caroline opened her mouth. Closed it.
He was right. She'd been looking for his smile, craving his approval, arranging herself in spaces where he'd find reasons to check security. Playing a game neither of them had acknowledged.
Until now.
"I don't know how to do this," she admitted. "Whatever this is. I've never—men like you don't—"
"Men like me don't what?"
"Look at me like I matter."
Something cracked in his expression. Raw, vulnerable, completely at odds with the lethal competence she'd witnessed.
"You matter," he said quietly. "More than I know how to say. More than I have words for."
She believed him.
And she realized, standing in a garage that smelled like antiseptic and motor oil, that she'd been looking for his smile because it made her feel something she'd forgotten existed.
Hope.