Dogs in the kennels, healthy, calm. Cats in a separate room with climbing shelves and window perches. A rabbit hutch through a doorway to the left.
Then a German Shepherd came barreling out of the nearest open kennel, tail going so hard his entire body swayed with it, and I knew him before I saw his face.
“Buddy?”
I dropped to my knees on the warm floor and he crashed into me, licking my face, pressing his head against my chest, whining like he’d been waiting months for exactly this. His coat was thick and shiny, he’d filled out completely, his ribs invisible under muscle and healthy weight. I buried my face in his fur, held on, and something in my chest cracked because the last time I’d seen this dog he was malnourished, flinching at loud noises.
“Hey buddy,” I whispered into his neck. “Hey, I missed you.”
He whined again, shoving his nose under my chin, and I laughed even though my eyes were wet because I was five months pregnant on the floor of a heated kennel hugging a dog and this was apparently my life now.
“You adopted him,” I said. My voice came out thick.
“And a few others. Mary helped pick them out.”
I lifted my head. “How many?”
“Six dogs, four cats, two rabbits.”
“Twelve animals, Finneas.”
“Thirteen if you count the hedgehog.”
“There’s a hedgehog?”
“Mary was persuasive.”
I looked around the wing again. The kennels were spacious, the outdoor run had actual grass, the medical room had proper equipment. This wasn’t a rich man’s pet corner. This was a facility. A real rescue facility built inside a mansion by a man who once glared at a foster dog for sitting too close to me on the couch.
“You don’t even like animals.”
He was leaning against the doorframe watching me on the floor with Buddy, his arms crossed, that expression on his face I still couldn’t name. “I was jealous of them. They got your attention and I didn’t. It was petty.”
“It was extremely petty.”
“I’m aware.”
“You were jealous of dogs.”
“And a cat, once. The orange one you fostered for a weekend. It slept on your chest and I almost lost my mind.”
I laughed. The image of Finneas Kingsley, Lycan King, CEO, seething with jealousy over a tabby cat was too much. He watched me laugh with Buddy in my lap and his face did something soft that made me look away.
“You built a shelter,” I said.
“I built you a shelter.”
He walked me through the rest of it. A supply room stocked with food, blankets, medications organized on labeled shelves. An office for the veterinarian he’d hired, a woman named Dr. Patel who started next week. A grooming station with a raised tub and a drying area. A laundry room for bedding with a washer big enough to handle the volume.
Every room was finished, stocked, ready. He hadn’t cut corners anywhere. The kennels had individual ventilation. The cat room had heated window perches. The outdoor run had a covered section for rain and a patch of soft dirt for the dogs to dig in. I touched things as I walked through, opening cabinets, checking supplies, running my hand along the exam table. Everything was right. Not just expensive, but right, the way my mother’s clinic had been right because she understood what animals actually needed.
“Mary consulted on the layout,” he said, reading my face. “She spent a week going back and forth with the contractor about kennel sizing and airflow.”
“You got Mary that involved?”
“She volunteered. I mentioned what I was building and she took over the entire design process. Peter helped with the outdoor run.”
“She never said a word to me. Not once, in all our phone calls.”
