“A Scythe,” he said, like it was a joke only he got. “Didn’t think you guys liked to play with strays.”
Dean ignored the bait, stepping between me and the desk, body loose but ready. “I suggest you take your hands off the counter and step back.”
The youngest Sultan snorted, glancing at his friends as if to say, “Really?” The leader didn’t move. Instead, he lethis hand slide along the Formica, fingers brushing closer to the edge of my clipboard.
Dean’s voice dropped to that near-whisper I’d heard in the back room of the shelter, the one that said he’d already planned three ways to win this and was now deciding which one would be the least messy for everyone involved.
“Now,” he said.
The leader shrugged, but he let go of the desk. “No harm, no foul. Just wanted a dog. Is that a crime?”
Dean smiled, all teeth. “Only if you lie on the application.”
The tension snapped. The three Sultans exchanged a look—no words, just a shift in weight, the briefest flicker of intent—and I knew it was about to go bad. The biggest one lunged, aiming not for Dean but for me, as if the only way to win was to cut out the middleman.
Dean moved faster. He caught the guy by the wrist, twisted, and drove him into the counter with enough force to shudder the whole desk. The second Sultan grabbed at Dean’s vest, but Dean pivoted, elbowed him in the solar plexus, and sent him sprawling against the cage gate behind us. The youngest pulled a knife—illegal in three states, but probably not the worst thing in his pockets—and flicked it open, the blade catching the ugly yellow of the overhead lights.
I froze, clipboard held like a shield. The first Sultan howled, clutching his arm; the second was already trying to get to his feet, but Dean planted a boot on his neck and kept him down. The one with the knife advanced, staying low, eyes glittering with the certainty that this was his moment.
Dean waited. He always waited, I realized, for the other person to make the real mistake.
When the knife came in, Dean stepped inside its arc, caught the kid’s forearm, and slammed it against the nearest kennel. The dog inside barked once, loud and sharp. The kid dropped the knife, more out of surprise than pain. Dean didn’t even bother to pick it up; he just kneed the Sultan in the gut and let him crumple.
The first guy tried to rush again, but Dean swept his legs and sent him face-first into the floor. This time, the nose broke for good, a crunch audible even over the chorus of dogs. Blood sheeted down the man’s chin and pooled on the tile, bright red against the gray.
Dean turned, breathing heavy but not winded. He checked on me—really checked, his hand squeezing my shoulder just enough to bring me back to the room.
“Are you okay?” he said, voice close now.
I nodded, throat thick.
Behind us, the Sultans scrambled, dragging each other up, leaving blood and pride on the ground as they staggered for the exit. The youngest scooped up his knife, but Dean just watched him, cold and impassive, until the door slammed shut behind them.
For a second, the only sound was the dogs, still barking, their bodies pressed to the mesh, eyes wide.
Then Dean exhaled and leaned against the counter.
I blinked, looking at the blood on the tile, the paperwork scattered, the takeout bag leaking green chile onto the surface.
“Jesus,” I said, voice tiny.
Dean managed a half-smile, the kind you use when you want to cry but know it would scare everyone worse. “Sorry about the mess.”
I put the clipboard down, hands trembling, and let myself sit on the cold tile. Sergeant barked again, but this time, it sounded like a cheer.
Dean crouched beside me, his voice back to soft. “They won’t be back. At least, not for you.”
I wanted to believe it, but all I could do was nod, the adrenaline bleeding out, leaving nothing but the memory of the knife and the way Dean had moved—so fast, so final, like it was the only thing in the world he’d ever been builtfor.
I grabbed the first-aid kit from the intake desk and tore it open, hands shaking so badly I dropped the scissors twice before managing to cut the gauze. I dabbed at the cut on his cheek, but it wouldn’t stop bleeding.
“Hold this,” I said, pressing a compress into his hand. He did, barely.
The sight of him—broken open, bleeding, not just the outlaw but the hurt animal under the skin—made something inside me twist. I wanted to touch his hair, to wipe the sweat off his face, to hold him the way I would one of the dogs after surgery. But I knew he’d hate that. So I kept it clinical, efficient.
“Where else are you hurt?” I asked, voice all business.
He flexed his hand, then let it drop to his thigh. “Ribs. Maybe the side. Not sure.”
