Chapter 7 - The Clinic on 4th Street
The private veterinary clinic on 4th Street looked more like a high-end medical research facility than a animal hospital. Its polished limestone floors gleamed under recessed white lighting, and the scent of antiseptic and clean linen replaced the harsh smells of the restaurant kitchen.
Inside the surgical suite, Dr. Evans—a tired-looking veterinarian with silver hair and wire-rimmed glasses—was already scrubbing his hands at the basin while two surgical technicians prepped the hydraulic examination table for Max.
Dylan stood just outside the glass partition of the operating room, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, watching intently as Max was gently transferred onto the padded table.
Molly sat on a leather chair in the corner of the observation lounge, holding a cup of hot chamomile tea that one of Dylan’s bodyguards had quietly fetched from an all-night pharmacy down the block. Her ribs still ached with every breath, but the sharp, panic-ridden adrenaline of the restaurant had faded into a dull, exhausted hum.
The door to the lounge opened quietly, and Dylan walked in, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt to his elbows. He looked tired—not the polished, untouchable billionaire who had walked into Blackwoods an hour ago, but a man who had been through a war and was finally sitting down to assess the damage.
He walked over, pulling up a sleek chrome stool and sitting down directly across from Molly.
"Dr. Evans says he’s stable," Dylan said, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the clinic staff. "Exhaustion, severe dehydration, a cracked rib from an old injury, and signs of deliberate neglect. But his heart is strong. He’s going to make it."
Molly let out a long, shuddering breath she felt like she’d been holding since she first heard the dog whimpering at the service door. "Thank God..."
"No," Dylan corrected, looking at her with an intensity that made her look down into her tea cup. "Thank you. If you hadn't stopped Henderson, if you hadn't carried him inside... Max wouldn't have lasted another hour in that alley."
"I couldn't just leave him there," Molly murmured, tracing the rim of the paper cup with her thumb. "People walk past things like that every day in this city. I've spent three years pretending I didn't see things, too. Tonight... I just got tired of looking away."
Dylan was silent for a long moment. He studied her—the quiet dignity in her posture, the cheap, grease-stained apron she was still wearing over her clothes, the stubborn set of her jaw despite the visible bruise darkening along her cheek.
"Three years at Blackwoods?" Dylan asked quietly.
Molly looked up, surprised. "How did you know?"
"I know everyone who works the floor in my city," Dylan said simply. "Or at least, I thought I did. How is it that someone with your presence was buried three shifts deep in the East Wing without anyone noticing?"
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"Being invisible is a survival skill in Blackwoods, Mr. Burroughs," Molly said softly, a faint, bitter smile touching her lips. "If you stand out, you get noticed. And getting noticed usually means trouble."
"Well," Dylan said, a ghost of a real smile touching his mouth. "I'd say you're about as far out of frame as you can possibly get right now."
