Fit to be Tied (Marshals 2)

“Yeah,” I agreed after a moment, glancing around the room, “but he would’ve done it for any of us.”

Kage was built strong and solid, a little scary, and a lot protective, which was why we’d all take a bullet for him, no questions asked.

“It’s what he does.”

No one could argue that fact with me.

ONCE WE were home, I wanted to talk to Ian, but he made me go upstairs and take a shower while he made us something to eat. Since he was finally talking to me, even though all he was doing was issuing orders, I didn’t stand there and debate but instead simply did as I was told.

It was difficult—no water on my cast, no water on either of the new wounds where the bullets grazed me—but I managed to wash all the important parts and even get my hair back to looking like I had a messy top cut and not like I’d just rolled out of bed in the morning. I hadn’t been using any product lately. I hadn’t cared about anything, but now I felt like me again because it was all finally over. I had kicked Hartley’s ass and the experience fixed what was broken. I’d been off balance, and I’d been knocked back into alignment. I felt like dancing. Or at least having dessert before dinner.

Everything had survived the chaos of the day, even the cupcakes, so I was surprised when I came back downstairs in flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt to see them shoved on top of the toaster while he fried the steaks.

“Why are the cupcakes ostracized?”

He glanced over at me, scowled, and then returned to his dinner prep.

“Hello?” I said, walking over to the counter and getting the container. The four cupcakes were all beautifully frosted, and I couldn’t wait to eat one.

“Aruna, as usual, is thrilled to have Chickie spend the night,” he muttered.

I shrugged, peeling the wrapper away from the sides of the confection. “She loves him, they all do. It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, so I was thinking that I really need to decide what’s best for him.”

“Uh-huh,” I said distractedly, the cupcake being the important thing. I deserved it after the day I’d had.

“I mean, it’s gotta be fair to him, not just what I want.”

“Sure,” I said as licked some of the frosting off.

“I don’t wanna be selfish.”

“Yeah, no, you… wait, what?” I asked, lost as to why we were talking about the dog.

“For Chickie.”

“Yeah, no, I got that we’re talking about Chickie. I just don’t know why we’re talking about Chickie.”

“Because I have to think about what’s best for him. Weren’t you listening?” he asked, turning his head for only a moment to glare at me before going back to cooking.

“I wasn’t really, no, but Ian, come on. You’re best for him,” I said, putting the cupcake down on the counter, realizing he was actually making a decision about his pet.

“How can you say that?” he asked, not pivoting to address me, instead keeping a visual on the steaks. I liked mine rare, so at least one of them wouldn’t be in the pan much longer. And while it was nice that he was being attentive to my food, I would rather have had his entire focus on me. “They take him camping, hiking; he has a huge backyard to run around in; he watches over the baby, he loves Liam and Aruna and—”

“Ian.” Why he was rambling I had no idea.

“—I know they’ll make him part of their family and—”

“Ian.”

“—he deserves to have the best person love him and maybe that’s not me and I should—”

“Please stop.”

He went silent.

It hit me then that my boy was having a panic attack and I hadn’t realized it. Of course, I had a really good excuse and all, but still. He needed all my attention now. “Ian, honey, is it at all possible that you’re talking about something other than the dog?”

“Oh, come on, Miro, gimme a break,” he snapped.

God, could he be any more obvious?

In the current scenario, I was the dog and Ian was deciding on the best home for me. It was ridiculously transparent, and what was funny was the timing. I’d gotten my life back, Ian too, and so now was the best time for him to rethink what was in my best interests. If I was stronger, I would have slammed him down onto the couch. As it was, I had to settle for being logical and nonchalant, which included eating the cupcake.

“I think it’s you,” I pronounced, picking the dessert back up.

“What?”

“I think you’re the very best thing for Chickie.”

“How?” he almost yelled, and I heard it then, the fear in his catch of breath, saw how tight and bunched his shoulders were, and how hard he was clutching the spatula.