Page 32 of Love You To Pieces

Deacon’s voice is soft and patient, and definitely not the one I’ve heard used toward me. Finally getting the nerve to move, I bend just enough to see him from my hiding spot, and for a few seconds, all I can do is stare and try to figure out why he’s on the ground.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he soothes, his voice as kind as if he’s talking to a lost child. “You’re okay, I promise⁠—”

A yelp cuts him off, and my stomach twists when I see Pearl in front of him jerking back, though she can’t go far since he has a hold of her tether. Then she lunges in to bite him, but the setting sun’s light bounces off the shiny leather of the basket muzzle she’s wearing. My mouth opens to yell, and I look around me for a weapon, for anything to help me save my dog, only to hear another sound, a whine, that makes me look at them again.

She isn’t trying to end his life, though the Rottweiler mix certainly doesn’t seem thrilled about the situation. Her ears are low, her docked tail not wagging, and she crowds in to make herself smaller with little, jerky movements that make my heart hurt.

“I know you’re hurting,” Deacon tells her. “I know that asshole kicked you. But you have to let me bandage this up, girl.” There’s genuine kindness in his voice, the type that makes me want to let my guard down and creep out to cry on his shoulder after everything I’ve been dealing with. But this is Deacon Shaw, who taunted me over my friend’s corpse and carried me to a fucking dog kennel. I doubt there’s any kindness and understanding there to find.

Still, he’s between me and my dog, and I don’t have a weapon. If I’m going to get her untied and muzzle-free, then I need⁠—

“Instead of standing there like a fucking weirdo, why don’t you come hold your dog, Sadie-Rae.” His dry voice carries across the side yard, causing me to flinch in fear and surprise. There’s no way he should know I’m here. I’ve been quiet, barely breathing, and I haven’t really moved in minutes. Not since I came outside and heard his voice.

But Deacon sighs loudly and lifts a hand, though he doesn’t look at me. “You said she meant a lot to you,” he says impatiently. “And last I heard, she basically saved your life in that auto shop. Did you even stop to check if she was okay? Did you even really look at her?”

It’s the pang of guilt in my chest that has me pushing off the porch pillar and treading down the stairs to the soft, springy grass of the yard. I barely notice any of the rocks I step on, though one makes me jerk sideways with a small hiss before I get within reach of Deacon and Pearl.

My dog looks up at me and her stub of a tail wags, her eyes brightening as she pants in the muzzle, seemingly no longer worried about whatever Deacon’s been trying to do.

“I thought Fox said she was okay. That’s why you moved her out here,” I say quietly, unsure and wondering if I should try to knock him out and run. But when I look at Pearl, I see bandages half-wrapped around her front right leg, stretching from her shoulder to her elbow. They look chewed on and wet, and underneath I can just see the edges of a wound I didn’t know existed. Guilt stabs into me again, and I find myself kneeling in the grass near Deacon, my arms out for Pearl as she turns to crash into me happily.

“She chewed through the bandages,” Deacon grumps, not looking at me. Instead, he picks up the bandages on the ground, folds them, and sets aside a few butterfly clips and wipes. “Trying to lick her leg. It won’t heal if she does that, and I’m not about to get torn to bits constantly coming out here to check on it.” He rolls his eyes, but it looks distracted rather than actually pissed. “Hold her so I can do this. She doesn’t like it, but she needs to suck it up.”

It takes a few tries, but I finally wrap my arms around Pearl enough for Deacon to work on her front leg. She doesn’t try to bite, though she jerks toward him even with the muzzle on, and makes noises of clear protest that aren’t up for interpretation.

The silence is deafening, rather than comfortable. Fear prickles up my spine, and I find myself shivering as the sun continues to set. I don’t like this man. I don’t trust him, and I’d rather be stuck in a room with his adopted brother than out here with him, with or without a weapon.

But soon, the silence becomes too much, and I open my mouth, needing to fill it with literally anything at all. “How do you know how to do this?” I ask quickly and without second-guessing myself. It’s clear to me this isn’t his first rodeo, and there’s a practiced professionalism in the way he checks out the wounds on Pearl’s leg before wrapping them again.

Deacon doesn’t answer for a few seconds. The silence stretches into a minute, then two, until he sighs and snugs up the bandages enough that she whines in discomfort. “I’m a paramedic,” he says finally. “I have practice with this.”

The look on my face must be offensive, because he looks at me with a deadpan, unimpressed expression and rolls his eyes. “Why ask if you’re going to look like you just ate roadkill?”

“Because I didn’t expect that. I can’t help being surprised.”

“Why?” A smile touches the corner of his mouth, though he doesn’t look up again. “Am I not allowed to save lives? That’s what Fox does too, isn’t it? What is there to keep me from doing the same?” When he finally meets my eyes, the look there is goading and arrogant, like he’s not really asking when both of us know the answer to the question.

How can a monster like him take time out of his week to save the lives of anyone around here? Before seeing him bandage Pearl, I wouldn’t have thought he had a care in the world about anyone. But to hear that it’s his job to keep people from dying?

Well, there’s a kind of irony in that I almost want to cackle at, with how ridiculous this whole thing is.

My expression must betray my thoughts, because Deacon snorts and shakes his head as he works. His movements remain deft and experienced, like he’s also pretty well versed in bandaging up animals for a living. “Even guys like me can have unexpected skills. My brother, Jed? He’s the best chef you’d ever meet. And you’d never know he got his start here, with our mother, cooking—well…” His grin isn’t apologetic, but it is a little rueful.

“Cooking…?” I trail off, nonplussed, and I’m surprised when Deacon raises his brows like he’s shocked by the question.

“You haven’t figured it out.” That one isn’t a question, and his grin returns. “You really haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Figured what out?” Something in the words sends a shiver down my spine, and I unintentionally clench my arms around Pearl like I’m protecting her from some awful truth.

His laugh isn’t as sweet as Fox’s. The snicker has the hair on my arms standing up, and when he suddenly gets to his feet, I do as well, ready to bolt.

Not that Deacon gives me the option. Without warning, he grabs me by my borrowed flannel, holding me in place while he unclips the muzzle from around Pearl’s face. “Tell your dog good night. You’re going back inside.”

“I’m—”

“Or don’t.” He waits another second, giving me the choice, and almost instinctively I reach down to carefully scratch her uninjured ear, still being held by Deacon’s hand in my shirt.

“You fed her, right?” The mention of food has my stomach clenching around nothing, but I catch Deacon rolling his eyes when I glance his way.