I let go of Jesse’s hand and scanned the shadowed cages lining the wall. The door stood open on the last one, a cage large enough to hold a lion.
Roark was stretched out on the floor inside it, his arm hooked around a curled-up ball of fur and gauze.
“Darwin?” I breathed, my heartbeat ricocheting through my chest.
A shaggy head rose from beneath Roark’s arm, one ear flicking, and large dark eyes twinkling in the dim light.
I sucked in a series of ragged breaths, my fingers shaking as I set the carbine on the nearest counter. Jesse rested a hand on my lower back, his smile pressing against my shoulder.
Darwin pulled his legs beneath his body and clumsily pushed against Roark’s arm, trying to stand.
Roark jerked to his knees, grabbing Darwin’s neck. “Whoa whoa whoa, boy.”
There was something to be said about loyalty, adaptability, and sheer determination. I’d named him Darwin, after all, because he was the purest example of survival against nature.
I’d witnessed his survival when I met him in Missouri’s Ozark Mountains, when he pulled me from my solitude and made me his. And I witnessed it now as his nails scratched across the concrete floor, driven by one thing. Devotion.
Covered in bandages and stitches, he wrestled away from Roark and scrambled through the doorway of the cage. His legs gave out around the corner, sliding his rear across the floor.
My heart lurched, and I ran toward him. “Darwin. Nein. Nein.”
Ignoring my command, he wobbled, regaining his footing, and scrabbled toward me in a frantic slide of claws and shaky legs.
I skidded across the floor to reach him and slammed to my knees. My arms flew around his neck, fingers stroking through his patchy coat, careful not to disturb the dressings. “Oh Darwin, what happened to you, huh? Why did you follow us?”
His eyes found mine, communicating in a language I wished I understood. Then he pushed himself against me, flattening my back against cool concrete as he licked my face and rubbed his wet muzzle around my ears.
“Did you need a hug? Is that it?” I gripped his head, my attention falling on the maimed hole where his ear used to be, the cartilage red and ugly and covered in black stitches.
How had he lost the ear? A bear in the mountains? An aphid along his trek to find me? The thought made me want to hurt something. I slammed my molars together against the sudden rage, surprised my teeth didn't break in half.
Jesse knelt beside me, his hands following mine. My chest clenched as our fingers encountered more stitches, bumps, and protruding ribs.
Shea yanked the quilt from the window, and the light flooding the room illuminated Darwin’s sunken cheeks, mangy skin, and emaciated hip bones.
Crouched beside us, she cocked her head and smiled at Darwin, her voice a whisper. “You made it.”
So it had been touch and go then? My stomach sank. Good thing I hadn’t stayed the night in here. I would’ve been a fucking mess.
Overwhelmed and so fucking grateful, I pulled away from Darwin and tackled Shea in a hug. “Thank you. You have no idea what this dog means to me.”
She leaned back and flashed me a smile. “Oh, I think I do. Roark filled me in, and he might’ve threatened my life a few times during the night.” She narrowed her eyes at Roark. “Or more specifically, he threatened my…what was it? Oh yeah. My big filthy bum.”
“Roark,” I said in a scolding tone, matching Shea’s narrowed glare.
He really needed to do something about that mouth.
He sat with his back against the wall, one leg bent at the knee, his hands laced behind his head, and eyes fixed on me. “Ah sure. All judgey and faultfindy, like. But while ye were on the porch snogging this guy”—he thrust his chin at Jesse—“who do ye think spooned your pup all night? That's right. Muggins here.”
My face softened, and I climbed to my feet, leaving Darwin in Jesse’s embrace. I stepped into the cage and straddled the thigh of Roark’s outstretched leg.
With my hands on his whiskery cheeks, I looked into his emerald peepers. “Does Muggins need a snog?”
“Always, ye bleedin’ harpy.” He wrapped a hand in my hair, his other dragging my hips closer, as his mouth covered mine.
His tongue was absent of its usual whiskey flavor, his taste raw and male and all Roark. He kissed me slowly, exploring my mouth with lazy caresses, his breaths dragging across my lips.
It wasn’t a kiss fueled with urgency or arousal. With his tongue trailing along the inner side of my bottom lip and his thumb stroking gentle circles against my scalp, he was simply saying, Good Morning. I missed you. I love you.
Did he wonder what happened between Jesse and me last night? Was he concerned we’d had sex and tempted the prophecy? Or was he afraid a change in my relationship with Jesse would leave him out in the cold?