140 Caine: A Rescue Mutt
140 Caine: A Rescue Mutt
CAINE
My family.
Two simple words, and they’ve sunk their way deep into my chest, leading me to stand a little straighter. And if my face seems to glow a little, well, sometimes kings glow.
I adjust Bun against my hip, her little body surprisingly heavy for such a small thing. and her screaming suddenly sounds like music instead of a tantrum.
“NOOOOO!” she screams directly into my car, her entire body rigid with want as she reaches both arms toward the golden retriever. Her shriek could shatter glass, but I just pat her little bottom with a smile.
GALDA
“DA DA GA! DA DA GA!”
The old couple laugh, delighted by her enthusiasm. I remain smiling faintly, still patting the young child, completely neutral to the assault on my eardrums.
Let them see a man unbothered by a toddler’s tantrum.
Let them see a father. 1
“She really loves dogs, I guess,” Grace explains, her face flushing pink. “I’m so sorry, she isn’t normally like this…”
Bun thrashes against my hold, her tiny little legs kicking my ribs hard enough to bruise a normal man. She’s too strong for a bunny shifter child. “DA DA GA!” she shrieks again.
I tighten my grip just enough. “No, Bun.”
My voice carries no heat, no anger–just absolute finality. Kings don’t negotiate with two–year–olds, especially in front of a strange old couple who considers me her father.
Bun’s face crumples like she’s been mortally wounded. Her screams intensify for exactly eight more seconds before she goes completely limp, draping herself across my forearm in theatrical defeat. Her bottom lip pushes out, and her thumb finds its way to her mouth. She fix
the retriever with a look of such profound longing that
almost–almost–feel bad.
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140 Calne: A Rescue Mult
But I don’t put her down.
Grace, on the other hand, looks at me like I’m the worst being on this planet for letting her get to this point.
She’s soft. It’s a good thing. Kids need a soft mother.
The old woman’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Looks like you’ve got your hands fuff:
I nod, allowing her the smallest smile. My hands are indeed full–with a soulspliced toddler and her chaotic shifting abilities. My arms cradle a child who, only half an hour ago, transformed into something feral and tried to tear her family apart. But beyond that, my chest swells with something dangerously close to pride.
Family.
Here I stand, holding a baby while a beautiful blonde woman entertains conversation beside me, and our three other children orbit around us.
My arms are full, and my ego is fuller.
Jer picks up a stick, waving it over his head. “Hey, dog! Wanna play fetch?”
Sara joins in, grabbing another stick off the ground. There are plenty. “Let me do it! I can throw farther than you.”
“Can not!”
“Can too! I’m bigger, so I can throw harder. It’s called psychics!”
“Physics, Sara. It’s physics.”
“Whatever, Ron. You know what I mean.”
The golden retriever watches their antics with mild interest, tail wagging lazily. When Jer launches his stick with surprising force for a seven–year–old, Sadie doesn’t move. When Sara’s stick sails even farther–I note with quiet approval she has excellent form -the dog still doesn’t budge.
Instead, Sadie stands, stretches with deliberate slowness, and then ambles over to Grace’s feet. The dog plops down directly onto them, looking up at her with naked adoration in her chocolate–brown eyes.
My jaw tightens. My eyes/narrow.
140 Caine: A Rescue Mutt
The dog’s strange, showing such affection to my mate. Between my presence, and Fenris, she should be hiding in their camper, unwilling to come out for fear of being hunted by the king of beasts.
And it isn’t as if my Grace is a dog whisperer–she’s just a woman. My woman. The same woman this stupid mutt is far too close to.
The dog presses harder against Grace’s legs, and I have to fight back the urge to snarl.
“She really likes you!” the old woman exclaims.
Grace smiles down at the retriever, reaching to scratch behind her ear. “I like her too.”
That’s when I catch it–the barest flicker of something in the dog’s eyes. Something intelligent. Something watchful.
Fuck this mutt.
A blur of black fur streaks past. Fenris plants himself in front of the retriever, lips pulled back to expose teeth the size of steak knives. His growl vibrates even the ground beneath our feet.
Grace stumbles backward. “Fenris!”
The golden dog flattens herself to the ground, belly scraping dirt as she scrambles behind Jer and Sara. Within seconds, the dog transforms from cheerful pet to terrified prey, wide, tail tucked.
eves
Fenris, smug bastard he is, settles onto his haunches directly in front of Grace. He licks his chops with deliberate slowness, curling his tongue around his own muzzle while staring directly at the cowering retriever.
Show–off.
My chest loosens as I inhale deeply. Blueberry muffins mix with the over–clean scent of the storm’s aftermath, and it’s back to calming me down. The chaotic energy building inside me recedes a bit.
I’m almost calm. Almost placid. Even with my suspicion bubbling over these old people and their strange dog.
That’s definitely not a normal dog, Fenris says in my head, his mental voice dripping with disdain. But it doesn’t seem to have any animosity toward us.
140 Calne: A Rescue Mutt
I stare at the retriever, now peeking from behind Sara’s legs with the most pathetic expression I’ve ever seen on a canine.
Even a kid could see there’s no animosity there, I reply dryly. What amazing observational skills you have, king of all wolves.
Fenris turns his massive head toward me, baring his teeth in a silent snarl. The old man notices, leaning in with sudden interest.
“Those are some impressive canines,” he says, his eyes widening as he leans in close. “Never seen a dog quite like that before.”
Grace freezes like a deer in headlights, even as my wolf preens, raising his head a little higher. “Oh, he’s, uh, a rescue. A mutt.”
I can physically feel the wolf’s outrage slam into me through our bond. A mutt? The ancestral wolf spirit of the Lycan Kings, a creature of legend and magic, reduced to a
common mutt?
I will eat her in her sleep, Fenris seethes, his mental voice practically vibrating with indignation.
You will not, I counter, fighting to keep my face neutral. Apparently his devotion to Grace ends where his immense pride begins.
How dare she. After all I… a mutt? She calls me a mutt?!
Jer snickers, not even trying to hide his amusement at Fenris’s obvious offense. The wolf’s ears flatten against his skull as he looks at Grace out of the corner of his eye.
Sara approaches cautiously, reaching out a trembling hand to pat his enormous head. Her movements are painfully slow, like she’s afraid he might snap her arm off–which, to be fair, he absolutely could. If he wanted to.
“Nice doggy,” she says, her voice unnaturally high. She’s determined to back Grace up. What a good kid.
I will eat this one too.
The laugh catches in my throat before it can escape. The mighty Fenrisúlfr, terror of the supernatural world, reduced to being awkwardly petted by a nine–year–old who’s calling him “doggy” while an old couple coos at the scene.
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140 Caine: A Rescue Mult
If the other alphas could see this, he’d never live it down. Or me, for that matter.
“What breed mix do you think he is?” the old woman asks, squinting at Fenris with clear curiosity.
“German shepherd and… Great Dane?” Grace offers weakly.
Dire wolf and ancient god, Fenris mutters in my head, snapping at the air. Sara jerks her hand back.
He huffs indignantly, sprawling across the dirt to make a point of how massive he is. His head is at Grace’s hip even lying down, and his paw is larger than her hand. No one with functioning eyeballs would believe he’s just an unusually large dog.
Though he was definitely smaller earlier. He’s purposely boosted his size.
“Must eat you out of house and home,” the old man comments.
Fenris once devoured an entire elk without sharing.
“He’s on a special diet,” I say, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly.
Yes, the souls of my enemies and stupid humans who call me a mutt, he grumbles.
This time I can’t hold back the short bark of laughter that escapes me. Everyone turns to stare–apparently the Lycan King doesn’t laugh often enough for it to go unnoticed. Grace raises an eyebrow at me, a silent question on her face.
“Sorry. I had something in my throat.”
Ron snorts. “Right.”
His disbelieving noise is a bit of a surprise; he usually tends to stay in the background. Bun has completely surrendered in my arms now, her head lolling against my shoulder as she watches the golden retriever with mournful eyes. Her thumb hasn’t left her mouth, and I can feel a wet spot forming on my shirt where she’s been drooling.
The old lady smacks at her husband’s back and motions toward the children, and he clears his throat. “So… y’all like barbecue?”
