The Wrong Man (Alpha Men 3)

To say that he’d been a hit would be understating it.

He had a definite bounce in his step when they walked back to the car and grinned at her once they were both buckled up and she had the engine running again.

“You thought I was going to hate that, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice challenging. She watched him contemplatively, tilting her head slightly as a thought occurred to her.

“I did, and you knew that. Is that why you laid it on so thick? Did you pretend to enjoy yourself just to prove me wrong? Because they all genuinely liked you, Brand. I would hate to have them disappointed if you start breaking promises.”

“What promises?”

“Bertie’s poker night, for one.”

“About that . . .” Lia braced herself, waiting for the inevitable excuse, knowing she would be the one who would have to break the news to Bertie. “I’m going to need a ride on Sunday night.”

“What?” she asked blankly.

“To the poker thing. I can’t drive myself, you’re going to have to bring me.”

“You’re actually going?”

“Lia, I can be a prick . . . but you don’t know me well enough to assume I make promises I won’t keep.” His voice was like ice, and Lia chewed the inside of her cheek while she looked at him for another long moment, trying to gauge how much of what she’d presumed about this man was accurate.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. Thank you for making sure they all had a good time.”

“Not my usual scene, but I enjoyed it. Where to next?”

For a small town, Riversend had way too many homeless creatures in its animal shelter—dogs, cats, a couple of parrots, a pony, two donkeys, countless chickens, an African rock python, and a freaking porcupine. Lia spent time grooming the long-haired cats and dogs, talking to them soothingly while she gently combed the knots from their coats. The animals, clearly starved for affection, loved it, and Sam could see it broke a piece of her heart every time she had to return one to its cage. While she was busy with that, one of the animal minders, Siphiso, introduced Sam to a few of the rehab dogs. They were all potential adoptees with abusive backgrounds who had to be rehabilitated before they could be cleared for adoption. Siphiso explained that less than half of the rehab dogs wound up in loving homes even after being cleared. People were too reticent to take a large dog with a violent past into their homes.

“This is Trevor,” Siphiso said as they came up to yet another large pen. A huge chocolate-and-white boxer crouched in the farthest corner of the cage. His body language was hostile—tail down, ears and hackles up, and teeth bared. He looked both terrifying and terrified, and Sam felt something inside him break at the sight of the thin, cowering, angry animal. His white muzzle was covered in scars; there were thick ridges of scar tissue all over his torso and back.

“What happened to you, my boy?” Sam asked beneath his breath, hearing the hitch in his voice.

“He was a fighting dog. Somebody found him on the side of the road—he was stabbed many times. Possibly by his owner because he’s a bad fighter. Or by a competitor because he’s too good. He’s very angry. Doesn’t trust anybody. Dr. Gunnerson-Smythe wanted to give him a chance and said we should try rehab, but he’s been with us for nearly four months now and still trusts no one.”

“Christ,” Sam swore shakily, sinking to his haunches in front of the pen. “Hey, boy. Trevor? That’s a shitty name. We’ll pick a new one, okay? New name for a new life.”

“Trevor is his new name.” Lia’s voice sounded quietly behind him. She nodded at Siphiso with a smile, and the man waved and walked off, leaving them alone. Lia crouched down beside Sam, uncaring of the fact that her white hem was touching the dirty floor.

“No wonder he’s given up on life,” Sam said, but he couldn’t summon up enough cheer to make the words humorous. Instead they sounded dull and despairing. He continued to look at the dog, who didn’t even have enough interest in his surroundings to maintain his hostility. He just huffed a sigh and sank to the floor, huddling on his thin blanket and cushion and watching them with wary eyes. Stabbed, for fuck’s sake. What kind of motherfucker stabbed an animal? Sam felt an affinity with the dog. It sucked balls to be stabbed.

“We have to go,” Lia whispered after a few long, silent moments. Sam wrested his gaze from the wretched creature in the corner of the pen and gratefully pinned them on her lovely face.

“How do you do this every week?”

“Every day,” she corrected, and he swore shakily.

“How?”

“How can I not?” she asked simply, and he shook his head before one last, quick look at Trevor. He pushed himself up, ignoring the twinges in his leg and back, and strode out without a backward glance.