“You’re afraid of dogs,” Max realizes. His tone is steeped in wonder. He carefully helps steady me, then turns me around to face him. “You have a fear.”
“The only thing I’m afraid of is your astoundingly poor name-choosing. Who the fuck calls a German shepherdGreg?”
“I was hungover.” Max traces my jaw. “What did Dagon do to make you afraid of dogs?”
“Nothing. I’m not afraid of anything.” I can’taffordto have fears. The only reason I slipped up is because I’m overstimulated, exhausted, and exceptionally close to crashing. The sedative-induced sleep didn’t seem to break my crashing cycle—only herald me closer. I can feel the telltale droopiness of my eyes and fogginess of my mind. I give myself a maximum of six hours before I pass out.
Max’s eyebrows rise. “Sure about that, Flame?”
I steady myself and affect the bored, empty persona that’s shielded me since I learned to adopt it. “Obviously,” I drawl.
“Well, then.” Max whistles, still holding my gaze. “Greg. Come here, boy.” A slightsnapsounds, and the ropes fall from around my wrist. Max cut them. I lift my hands, rubbing my wrists to return bloodflow to my fingers.
I force myself to keep a straight face as I hear the dog eagerly padding closer, as his scent and energy washes over me.
Dagon’s mutts barking in my face, tearing at my clothes, ripping into my skin—
I don’t blink, move, or flinch. I shove away the wave of memories, but even I can feel the color draining from my face, detect the way my breaths start to speed by the faintest margin.
Greg’s nose butts into my leg, and I gasp, unable to hold a wince.
“Not afraid, my ass,” Max says, studying me closely. “You’re human, Flame. You have fears. We all do.”
“I don’t.” Ican’t. Any fear will be weaponized against me. Fear is the chain that leads me to doom, over and over again. I’ve learned to avoid or ignore it.
But this curious fucking dogismaking me afraid. It’s making my pulse hammer, my skin dampen with sweat, and my hairs stand on end. It’s making me remember my mangled shoulder and the fear that I might need to get my arm amputated. It’s—
“Flame.” Max’s words are soft. “I can help you.”
“You might want to help yourself first. Your delusions are becoming severely problematic.”
Max exhales a frustrated breath. I almost smile. Grating on his nerves might become my favorite pastime while I plot my way out of here.
“Greg is extremely well-trained, and he likes you.”
I swallow. “How do you know?” my words come out weaker than intended.
“His posture and body language,” Max says. “The fact that he’s sniffing you and licking your leg. His eyes are alert, but not wide. His ears are at attention—not pinned back. His tail is thumping. If you looked at him, you’d see.”
I don’t remove my gaze from Max’s chest.
“Ember,” he says softly. “Look at him.” He gently grips my chin and guides my head toward the dog. My eyes fall on the bundle of fur, and I swallow hard again, caught between vague interest and debilitating terror. If this dog mauls me, it’ll hinder my escape plans. It’ll—
The dog drops to the ground. Not in a crouch but in a soft, lying down position. A low whine escapes him, and then he rolls to his back, proudly presenting his light-furred belly.
“He wants you to pet him,” Max says. “Give him some scratches.”
“No, thank you.”
“Don’t let fear rule you, Flame. Whatever happened to make you afraid of dogs won’t happen again. Give him some scratches. See for yourself that he won’t harm you.”
“Are you saying that a wild beast is harmless?”
“He’s not a wild beast, and I never said he’s harmless. I did say he’s well-trained, and seems to like you. He’s friendly, but not usuallythisfriendly. Go on, give him a stroke.”
Greg whines again, punctuating Max’s point. I steel myself, straightening my posture.It’s just a dog. I already showed fear; now I have to rectify it by following through. If Greg bites me, I’ll just snap his n—
No. On the tail of the thought is aviolentwave of guilt. I suspect I might’ve had a fondness for animals in my youth, because I always remember liking them… until the mutts and the cage.
