Chapter One
My feet hurt.
That was the first coherent thought Sonny’s brain managed to produce after two days of running. Well, running was generous. More like stumbling through back alleys and side streets while trying not to hyperventilate loud enough to attract attention. His sneakers were falling apart at the seams, held together mostly by optimism and duct tape he’d stolen from a hardware store two towns back.
The dogs had kept pace better than he had, which was embarrassing considering one of them was missing half an ear and the other limped on her front left leg. Both were pit bulls, both scarred in ways that made Sonny’s stomach turn every time he looked at them. The hyenas had called them Brutus and Killer, names that didn’t fit the way they’d pressed against Sonny’s legs when he’d unlatched their cages. The way they’d followed him without question when he’d whispered that they were leaving.
Crimson Hollow appeared ahead like something from a postcard. Quaint storefronts with hanging flower baskets. Brick sidewalks that looked like someone actually maintained them. People walking dogs that weren’t covered in scars and stank of fear. Sonny’s bunny twitched under his skin, recognizing safety even as his human brain insisted nowhere was safe.
Not anymore.
Not after what he’d done.
The hyenas would be looking for him. Would be looking for their prize fighters, the dogs that had earned them thousands in illegal betting rings. Sonny had watched them force these animals to tear each other apart for three weeks while he stitched them back together afterward. Had listened to their howls of pain. Had held them while they shook from terror. Had finally decided that dying while helping them escape was better than living while watching them suffer.
Except now he was in Crimson Hollow with two traumatized dogs and approximately forty dollars in his pocket. Also, he was pretty sure he smelled like a dumpster. The last shower he’d managed had been at a truck stop bathroom two days ago, using hand soap that had left his hair feeling like straw.
The dogs needed water. Food. Medical attention beyond what Sonny could provide with the supplies he’d managed to grab.
His bunny had good instincts about healing and could sense infections before they took hold, but that only went so far when dealing with injuries this severe.
A house appeared on his right with a for-rent sign stuck in the overgrown front lawn. The yard had a fence, mostly intact. Trees provided cover from the street. Sonny’s feet carried him toward it before his brain finished processing the decision.
The gate opened with a rusty squeak that made him wince. The dogs followed him into the backyard, their nails clicking against the concrete patio.
“Stay here,” Sonny whispered. He crouched down and ran his hands over both dogs, checking their wounds. The male’s ribs were too prominent under his scarred hide. The female’s limp had gotten worse in the last hour. They needed help soon, or everything Sonny had risked would be for nothing.
He found a water spigot attached to the side of the house and turned it on.
Nothing happened for several seconds, and then brown water sputtered out before running clear. Cupping his hands under the stream, Sonny offered the cool liquid to the dogs. They drank eagerly, their tongues lapping at his palms. The sensation tickled, making him snicker.
These dogs weren’t dangerous. They were just scared and hurt and desperate for kindness.
“I’ll be back,” he said, scratching behind the male’s remaining ear, feeling the raised scars under his fingers. “I promise. I’m going to find help.”
The dogs settled onto the patio, pressing against each other for comfort. Sonny’s throat tightened. He’d promised them safety, and so far, all he’d delivered was more running. More fear. But Crimson Hollow should have resources. Probably had people who might help if he could just figure out how to ask without repelling them with his smell.
The street was busier than he’d expected for early evening. Sonny kept his head down as he walked, trying to look like just another resident.
Like he hadn’t stolen two dogs from a hyena-run fighting ring.
Like his hands weren’t shaking from exhaustion and terror and the crash that always followed his adrenaline highs.
A coffee shop appeared on his left. Cyril’s Café, according to the sign. The windows showed people inside, sitting at small tables with laptops or on sofas with books.
Normal people doing normal things.
His bunny recognized the scent before his human brain caught up. Shifters. Multiple kinds. The air practically vibrated with predator energy.
He should leave, should find somewhere else to ask for help. Predator shifters didn’t usually take kindly to prey shifters showing up in their territory, especially unannounced.
But Sonny’s feet had stopped moving. His eyes locked onto someone inside the café, someone massive and pale-haired and familiar in a way that made his bunny sit up and take notice.
The polar bear.
From the raid.
Sonny had been there that night three weeks ago, forced to watch from a locked room while the hyenas tried to defend their operation. He’d seen this shifter tear through the front door like it was made of paper and watched him move with a power that should have terrified Sonny but had, instead, made him feel something uncomfortably close to hope.
