Page 1 of Blade’s Protection

CHAPTER 1

TIFFANY

The syringe trembled in my grip as I prepared Mrs. Hunter’s B12 injection. Third attempt this morning, and I still couldn't draw the vitamin steadily. My hands hadn't stopped shaking since finding that note shoved under my apartment door.

Time's running out, nurse. Those pills better start walking out of that clinic, or you will know about it.

"Everything alright, Tiffany?"

Dr. Tad's voice sent the syringe clattering onto the metal tray.

"Fine." The lie tasted bitter after two weeks of repetition. "Just tired."

Dr. Tad Shuman's sharp gaze missed nothing—sixty-something years in Pike Creek had taught him to read what patients wouldn't say. He stepped closer, voice dropping below Grace Henry's hearing at reception.

"You've been jumpy all week. Those bags under your eyes aren't from overtime. And that's the fourth time you've checked the back door since we opened." Concern creased his weathered face. "Whatever's happening, you need to tell someone."

The words lodged in my throat like glass. Three months in Pike Creek, fresh from nursing school, trying to prove I belonged in this small Montana town. Admitting defeat meant failing before I'd started.

But last night changed everything. Footsteps matching mine from the Quick Stop to my building. That car crawling behind me down Maple Street, headlights washing over me like searchlights. My apartment door standing open when I'd triple-checked the lock.

"Someone wants me to steal drugs." The confession tumbled out, unstoppable now. "OxyContin, fentanyl, anything controlled. They call constantly, leave notes, follow me home. Last night someone was inside my apartment while I was at work."

Dr. Tad's expression shifted from concerned to volcanic. "How long?"

"Two weeks."

"Jesus Christ, Tiffany. Why stay silent?"

"I thought they'd give up. Find an easier target." The syringe rattled as I set it aside. "But they're escalating. Calls at three AM. They know my schedule, where I shop, which parking spot I use."

"The sheriff⁠—"

"Would need evidence I don't have. Different voices, probably burners. I threw away the first notes thinking ignoring them would make it stop."

Dr. Tad's phone appeared, thumb already scrolling. "The law can't touch this, but I know people who can."

"Please don't make this bigger than⁠—"

"Non-negotiable." His tone killed any argument. "These men handle problems that exist in shadows. Protection, security, resolution." The phone rang twice before a gravelly voice answered. "Viper? It's Tad. Got a situation at the clinic. One of my nurses is being threatened... Yeah, serious enough... Twenty minutes works."

The call ended with finality. "Pike Creek Riders are coming."

My stomach plummeted. The motorcycle club—leather and danger, the kind of men nursing school friends would have called walking red flags. Sure, Bea at the diner sang their praises after they'd handled Tara's ex-husband situation, but standing in the clinic's fluorescent brightness, the idea of bikers as saviors seemed insane.

"I don't think⁠—"

"They're good men beneath the leather." Dr. Tad's voice gentled. "They understand threats that exist outside normal channels. Trust me."

Twenty minutes stretched like hours. I attempted normalcy—inventory counts, chart updates, anything to occupy my hands while my mind spiraled. Grace's curious glances said she sensed something brewing. The front door's chime announced heavy boots on linoleum.

The man in the doorway stole all the oxygen from my lungs.

Six-three minimum, built like violence had been his profession and he'd excelled at it. Military-short dark hair revealed a face carved from stone and scarred from surviving whatever had tried to break him. A jagged line crossed his jaw, another disappeared into his hairline—stories written in damaged tissue. The black thermal stretched across shoulders that blocked light, fighting to contain arms that had clearly seen gym time and real-world application. His leather cut declared him Pike Creek Riders, Sergeant at Arms, the patches worn with pride.

He studied me with laser focus, cataloging every detail with military precision. The assessment should have felt clinical, but something in his expression made my stomach flip with anticipation rather than anxiety.

My pulse stuttered, then raced. Not from fear—something else entirely. My body recognized him before my brain caught up, every nerve ending suddenly awake and aware. My scrubs felt too thin, too revealing, like he could see straight through the fabric to skin that flushed under his assessment.