The girl slid off the dog’s back as if gravity finally claimed her. Bare feet hit concrete. Her knees buckled. She clung to the dog’s thick fur until her strength gave out, then staggered forward on sheer will.
I caught her without thinking.
She weighed almost nothing—just bones and shivers. Her T-shirt was torn, bruises lining her skin in patterns too neat to be accidents. When she spoke, it was barely a breath.
“They hurt my mom,” she whispered. “Please… Shadow brought me… she won’t wake up.”
Her head fell back.
The Shepherd lowered himself at my feet, sides heaving, eyes locked on the girl with frightening focus. A deep gash split his hind leg, blood dripping steadily onto the floor.
This wasn’t luck.
It was intent.
The clubhouse went dead silent. No jokes. No bravado. Just a heavy stillness, like an old rule had been invoked. Men who’d stared down gunfire stood frozen.
Ethan, our former army medic, moved first, swearing as he checked the girl’s pulse. Logan grabbed towels. Someone killed the music.
I couldn’t move.
Because hanging at the girl’s throat, catching the fluorescent light, was a small silver heart.
Cheap. Scratched.
And painfully familiar.
Always. — J.