But watching her kneel to pet the dog again, seeing the joy on her face, I realize I don't care about the money. I care about the way she looks right now—alive, excited, completely focused on something other than the rules and expectations that usually govern her life.
This morning, I was running away to avoid becoming that stupid fifteen-year-old boy again. The one whothought he could bridge the class divide just by wanting it badly enough.
But maybe this time is different. Maybe giving instead of taking changes the equation. Maybe a limping stray dog and a sheltered heiress and a reformed gladiator can build something new.
Or maybe I'm still that stupid kid, just two thousand years older.
Either way, I'm staying. At least for now. At least long enough to see Lucky settled and Charity smiling like that again.
Rich people's kindness might be a loan, but maybe… some gifts are free.
Chapter Seven
Charity
We’ve finished breakfast and washed the dishes and I still can’t stop staring at him.
Lucky lies sprawled across the cottage floor like he owns the place, one hind leg stretched out at that awkward angle, his newly clean fur catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Every few minutes, his tail gives a soft swish against the hardwood, and my heart does this ridiculous little flutter.
I have a dog. We have a dog.
Decades of begging, of carefully worded requests during family dinners, of subtle hints dropped around birthdays and Christmas. Twenty-five years of "pets are too messy," and "what if you get attached and something happens," and "you’re not ready for that kind of responsibility, sweetheart."
And now I’m sitting cross-legged on my cottage floor, watching a limping stray mutt drink water from oneof Mother’s good china bowls after feeding him cured breakfast ham. Nobody can take this away from me.
"He’s really ours?" I ask Draco for probably the tenth time in the past hour.
Draco looks up from where he’s examining Lucky’s injured leg with gentle fingers. "He’s really yours, Charity. I found him, but he’s your responsibility now, if you want him."
Your responsibility. The words should terrify me. I’ve never been responsible for anything more complicated than remembering to water the orchids in my room. But instead of fear, I feel this warm spreading sensation in my chest, like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Something alive needs me. Not my money, not my family’s connections, not what I can do for charity events. Me.
"He needs proper grooming," I say, standing and brushing dog hair off my jeans. "I mean, you did an amazing job cleaning him this morning, but look at his coat. We could make it really shine with the right brushes. Some of those mats need more careful attention."
"Do you have any brushes?" Draco asks. "I thought about buying some professional ones, but I was out of cash."
"I’ll get my hairbrushes. They should work."
I hurry to my bathroom and return with two silver-backed brushes—part of a vanity set my aunt gave me for my birthday. We settle on the living room floor with Lucky sprawled between us, each armed with a brush. The soft rasp of bristles and the steady tap…tap of his tail turn the room into a metronome.
What starts as practical grooming quickly becomes more intimate. Working on Lucky forces us close—our knees bumping as we work from opposite sides, my shoulder grazing his when we both lean in to tackle a difficult mat behind Lucky’s ear.
"Like this," Draco murmurs when I struggle with a tangle. His hand covers mine, guiding the brush through the fur with gentle care. His breath is warm against my cheek as he leans closer, and I catch his scent—leather and something outdoorsy that makes my pulse quicken. A shiver skips along my jaw; my next breath isn’t as steady as the last.
I steal a glance at him while he works, noting how his dark t-shirt pulls across his shoulders when he reaches for a difficult spot. There’s a lean strength to his movements that speaks of physical work, real work, nothing like the soft-handed men at Mother’s charity luncheons.
"You smell like the city," I say without thinking, then immediately flush. "I mean—"
"You smell like expensive flowers," he says quietly, not pulling away. "But underneath that, something else. Something that’s just you."
The air between us feels charged as we work, heads bent close together, hands occasionally touching as we navigate around Lucky’s patient form. When Draco reaches across me for a mat near Lucky’s tail, his forearm brushes mine, and electricity shoots through my system. I’m aware of everything—the way his voice drops when he murmurs encouragement to Lucky, how his fingers move with impossible precision, the small scar I notice along his knuckles.
"He’s been on his own for who knows how long," Draco says. "Finally having people who care about him… that’s probably new."
The weight in his voice suggests personal experience with being alone, with needing care but not knowing how to accept it.
"Tell me about your family," I say impulsively. "Before… whatever happened."
