Chapter 10
The first dog Alma found was a pit bull with an ear infection so advanced she could smell it from ten feet away.
She'd been exploring the compound on her second morning, unable to sit still while Marmalade napped in her corner bed, when she'd wandered into one of the garage bays and discovered a makeshift kennel area tucked behind a row of motorcycles.
Four dogs and a cat, housed in decent enough conditions, but every single one of them showing signs of neglected medical care.
The pit bull's ears were crusty and swollen.
A German shepherd mix had overgrown nails curling into his paw pads.
A hound of indeterminate breed was scratching himself raw from what looked like a flea allergy, and a scraggly terrier was limping on a leg that had clearly healed wrong from an old injury.
The cat—a massive orange tabby who looked like he'd won and lost a thousand fights—had a torn ear that had never been properly cleaned.
Alma stood in the middle of the garage bay and felt something hot and furious rise in her chest.
"Who's been caring for these animals?"
The prospect working on a nearby bike—young, nervous, wearing a cut without patches—looked up with wide eyes. "Uh. Everyone? Kind of?"
"Kind of isn't good enough." She was already moving toward her truck, parked in the lot where Tempest had left it after the safehouse. "These dogs need veterinary attention. Today. Now."
Twenty minutes later, she'd commandeered a workbench, spread a clean tarp over it, and turned one corner of the garage bay into a field clinic. Her bag of supplies from the safehouse wasn't enough—she'd need medications, proper equipment, a dozen things she didn't have—but it was enough to start.
The pit bull went first. She muzzled him gently, cleaned his ears while he whined in discomfort, and applied medication that would start fighting the infection within hours.
The German shepherd held still while she trimmed his nails, patient and trusting despite the obvious pain.
The hound got a flea bath and a dose of antiparasitic that would clear his system within days.
The terrier was harder. His leg had healed crooked months ago, maybe longer, and there was nothing she could do about that without surgery. But she could manage his pain, ease his mobility, make his remaining years more comfortable.
"You should have seen someone about this a long time ago," she murmured, stroking his rough fur while he leaned into her touch. "But I've got you now."
"He belonged to a brother who died last year."
Alma looked up. Jolene was standing at the edge of the garage bay, watching her work with that sharp-eyed assessment that seemed to be her default expression. "We've been taking care of him since, but nobody really knew what he needed."
"He needs regular medication and gentle exercise. I'll write up a care plan."
"You'll write up a care plan." Jolene's mouth curved. "You've been here two days and you're already giving orders."
"Someone has to." Alma straightened, wiping her hands on a rag. "These animals have been neglected. Not intentionally, I can see that, but neglected nonetheless. Ear infections don't develop overnight. Neither do overgrown nails or untreated injuries."
"We're bikers, not vets."
"Then it's a good thing you've got one now."
The words were out before she could consider them. Jolene's eyebrows rose, and Alma felt heat creep up her neck—but she didn't take it back. The animals needed her. Whether she was here by choice or circumstance didn't change that.
"I'll spread the word," Jolene said. "Anyone with pets who need attention, they come to you."
By noon, Alma had treated seven animals. By evening, she'd lost count.
The old ladies brought them in waves.
Sierra arrived with a grumpy tabby who'd been scratching at his own face for weeks—ear mites, easily treated.
Wren appeared with a rescued dog she'd found near her flower shop, limping and underweight, needing vaccinations and a deworming protocol.
Daniela brought two cats from her garage, both with dental issues that would need professional cleaning but could be managed in the meantime.
"You're going to run out of supplies," Margot observed, watching Alma examine a barn cat who'd wandered onto the compound and never left. "The way you're going."
"I know." Alma cleaned the cat's wound—a scratch that had gotten infected—and applied antibiotic ointment. "I need to get into my clinic. Even if it's just for an hour, I need my equipment."
"That's not safe yet. The Jessups are still looking for you."
"I know that too." She set the cat down and watched it trot away, already looking better. "Doesn't change what I need."
Margot was quiet for a moment, her artist's eyes studying Alma with that particular intensity that seemed to see more than the surface. "You're not used to asking for help."
"No."
"Neither was I." Margot's fingers traced the ink on her own forearm—a design that looked like waves and shadows intertwined. "Took me a while to learn that these people don't help because they think you're weak. They help because that's what family does."
"I'm not family."
"Not yet." Margot smiled, and it transformed her whole face. "Give it time."
She left Alma alone in the garage bay, surrounded by animals who were already looking healthier and a pile of supplies that was rapidly dwindling.
Through the open bay door, Alma could see the compound yard—brothers moving between buildings, bikes being maintained, the organized chaos of a community that had learned to function as a unit.
And there, crossing the yard toward the clubhouse, was Tempest.
She watched him without meaning to. He'd been busy since they arrived—club business, he'd said, with an apologetic tone that suggested he wished he could explain more.
She saw him at meals, felt him check on her at odd hours, but they hadn't had another moment like the safehouse.
Another conversation that stripped away the surface.
He stopped to speak with a brother she didn't recognize—one of the younger ones, wearing a cut with fewer patches.
She couldn't hear what they said, but she saw the way Tempest leaned in, listening with his whole attention.
The way he clapped the younger man on the shoulder before moving on.
The way he paused to check in with another brother near the garage, then another near the clubhouse steps.
Taking attendance, she thought. That was exactly what it looked like. A man making sure everyone in his family was accounted for, present, okay.
A man who'd been gone for five years and wasn't going to let a single connection slip away again.
Her phone buzzed.
Carmen: Mrs. Patterson scared off two guys in suits today. Said they were "representatives" of the Jessup family. She told them to get off her property before she introduced them to her 12-gauge.
Alma smiled despite herself. Then the next message came through.
Carmen: But we lost three more clients. People are scared, Alma. They don't want to be associated with the clinic while this is happening.
The smile faded. She typed back: How many left?
Carmen: Down to maybe 40% of our regular appointments. Emergency calls are still coming in—people don't have a choice there—but routine stuff is going elsewhere.
Forty percent. She'd built that clinic from nothing, and now it was bleeding out while she hid in a biker compound and treated neglected dogs in a garage bay.
Keep it running, she sent back. I'll figure this out.
She didn't know how. But she'd figure it out anyway.
Evening came with a Low Country sunset that painted the compound in shades of gold and amber.
Alma finished her last patient of the day—a puppy belonging to one of the prospects, who'd been too nervous to ask for help until Jolene practically dragged him to the garage bay—and stepped outside to breathe air that didn't smell like antiseptic.
The compound was quieter now. Brothers were gathering near the clubhouse for dinner, the sound of voices and laughter drifting across the yard. The old ladies had gone inside an hour ago, leaving Alma alone with her thoughts and her dwindling supplies.
She should join them. Should eat something, sleep in an actual bed instead of the chair beside Marmalade's corner. Should try to be normal for five minutes instead of this constant state of high alert.
But she wasn't ready. Not yet.
She found a spot near the garage bay where she could lean against the wall and watch the sunset, letting the day's tension drain out of her shoulders.
The work had helped. It always did. When her hands were busy and her mind was focused on the next patient, she could forget about everything else—the Jessups, her clinic, the impossible situation she'd landed in.
Movement caught her eye.
Tempest was on the far side of the compound, near a communications tower she'd noticed but not really registered.
He was running cable—she could see the spools beside him, the careful way he secured each connection.
Installing something. Security cameras, probably, based on what she'd seen at the safehouse.
He was still earning his place.
The realization hit her with unexpected force.
He'd been back a week, maybe a little more, and he was still working.
Still proving himself. Still doing every job that needed doing, whether it was protecting her or upgrading the compound's security or checking in with brothers who might be struggling.
The quiet diligence of a man who understood that redemption wasn't a single act—it was a process. Day after day. Proof after proof.
Alma knew something about that.
She'd spent ten years proving she deserved her clinic.
Proving a farm girl from Hampton County could become a doctor.
Proving she was worth the loans, the sacrifices, the endless hours of work.
And even now, even with her name on the door and her degree on the wall, she still felt like she had to earn it every single day.
Tempest looked up, and their eyes met across the compound.
He raised a hand—a simple wave, nothing more—and something in her chest loosened. She waved back. Then she watched him return to his work, head bent over the cables, hands moving with careful precision.
She'd resented his help at first. Resented the assumption that she needed protecting, that she couldn't handle her own problems, that some motorcycle club had the right to insert themselves into her life.
But standing here, watching him work, she couldn't find the resentment anymore.
He wasn't protecting her because he thought she was weak. He was protecting her because that's what he did—for everyone. Every brother. Every animal on the compound. Every person who needed someone to stand between them and the darkness.
And maybe—just maybe—accepting that help didn't make her weak either.
Alma pushed off the wall and walked toward the clubhouse, where the sounds of dinner were growing louder. Tomorrow she'd figure out how to get supplies for her garage-bay clinic. Tomorrow she'd deal with the Jessups, the lost clients, the impossible math of keeping her practice alive.
But tonight, she was going to eat with the people who'd taken her in.
And she was going to stop fighting the fact that one of them had decided she was worth protecting.