Chapter 9
Jason
If humiliating myself were an Olympic sport, I’d be standing on the gold-medal podium today.
The second we step into the pet store, every head swings in our direction, like we’re auditioning for a nature documentary.
And not the cute kind. The “does that thing belong behind reinforced glass?” kind.
My ears twitch with every comment.
“Is that a wolf-dog?”
“Mommy, look! It’s huge!”
“Is that… legal?”
“Oh my god, look at those shoulders.”
Okay, that one I’ll allow.
I walk beside Violet as if none of this is happening, trying not to look like a predator wandering the aisles in search of discount kibble.
She’s holding my leash like she trusts me not to cause an international incident. Like I’m something steady and safe. And God help me, I actually want to live up to it.
Which is insane, considering every cell in my body is itching to raise my head and remind these humans that I am, in fact, the most dangerous creature within a fifty-mile radius. A predator playing pet. A weapon pretending to be soft.
She taps her cane ahead of her, politely warning the universe she’s coming through, every sharp click radiating this quiet confidence that doesn’t match her size at all.
Then she starts muttering to her phone. “Siri, what do dogs need? Siri? Hello? Don’t ignore me. Siri, don’t sass me today. We’re in public. Behave.”
Her voice is a little loud, a little exasperated, and impossibly endearing.
A woman snorts behind us, trying and failing to hide her laugh. I get it, lady, she’s adorable. So fucking adorable.
My entire body turns into cooked spaghetti and goes completely stupid at the sound of her voice, at the way she tilts her head as she talks, at the tiny bounce in her step when she’s excited.
Every instinct in me is screaming to stand closer, to shield her from the aisle traffic, to herd the humans away like unruly sheep who don’t know how close they’re wandering to danger.
She’s so small. So fierce. A little storm wrapped in soft edges. And she’s attracting the attention of every male in this store.
I can see their eyes tracking her in lazy, curious appreciation. She can’t see any of them staring at her ass, but I can. Move along, pervs.
A woman steps closer, voice dipped in that syrupy tone humans use when they think otherwise abled comes with fragility.
“Sweetheart, can I help you find something?”
Violet straightens. Not much, just a subtle lift of her chin, a shift in her spine, but I feel it through the leash like a pulse. Her whole energy tightens, not afraid… determined.
“No thank you,” she says lightly. “I’ve got it.”
The woman lingers, pity radiating off her so thick my wolf wants to shake it off like water.
“Are you sure? It must be difficult.”
Violet taps her cane once, the sound cracking through the aisle like a teacher’s ruler.
“Yes, I’ve got it,” she repeats firmly, already stepping away.
The pity-scented woman retreats, chastened.
I blink after Violet, impressed. She didn’t snap. Didn’t wilt. Didn’t let pity stick to her for even a second. She just redirected it effortlessly, like she’s practiced this a thousand times and still refuses to shrink for anyone.
My wolf lets out a low, satisfied hum. Strength recognizes strength.
The more I think of it the more I recognize it. Yes, I’m proud of her.
And then she beams at me. Well… not at me. More like at the general vicinity of my existence, but her smile seems to be tethered to my chest.
“Okay, Jason, we need shampoo.”
Shampoo. Uhm…okay, sure.
Because I, a creature with fangs and violence in my bones, am absolutely qualified to assist with cleaning products. So why am I so happy she asked me?
My tail almost wags.
Almost.
Okay, enough sarcasm. I have a job to do, apparently. I don’t know shampoo from drywall, but I do know she’s about to march confidently down the wrong damn aisle.
She steps forward just as someone’s cart comes careening around the corner. I sigh in my head, because apparently this is my life now, and duck in front of the cart just as her cane reaches it. I nudge her calf gently.
“Oh! Sorry, boy, am I too close to the shelf?”
No, you almost got T-boned by a middle-aged man in a leopard-print leotard.
I nudge again—a little to the right this time—and walk in that direction.
She follows. She trusts me. Me. Just like that. It hits harder than the damn storm in the forest had.
She holds out a hand, reaches forward, and lands right on a bottle of dog shampoo. The volunteer on the app she uses confirms it’s shampoo. Slam dunk.
She gasps. “Oh! Good boy! Look at you!”
Do not preen, Jason. Do not—
My chest puffs. My tail wags. I am preening. Great. Fantastic. Perfect. I used to be an alpha wolf capable of ripping through armed hunters and outrunning border security, and now I’m melting like butter because a woman praised me for grocery navigation.
She keeps going, talking to her phone, talking to me, talking to the air. Nervous chatter, excited chatter, everything in between, while I direct her to items she needs that the app confirms.
And yeah. Yeah, it’s cute. Way too cute.
But then we head to the checkout without buying food. I blink at the cart. Treats. Toys. Shampoos. Weird dental stuff. But no actual food.
She’s blind, Jason. Be patient. She can’t see labels. She’s figuring it out.
But still.
A low growl bubbles in my stomach before I swallow it. How exactly do I say, “Hey, I’m starving, and if you don’t feed me kibble, I will commit a crime”?
I try tugging gently toward the food aisle. She thinks I’m excited about plush toys.
I try nudging the cart at the exit to make her rethink our items. She apologizes to it.
So, I stop trying.
She crouches down and strokes my face, her fingers sliding into my fur with this gentle, grounding pressure that melts every muscle I have.
“Are you overwhelmed?” she whispers. “I’m overwhelmed, so it makes sense that you would be.”
I lean into her palm and grumble low in my throat. Technically, it isn’t a lie. Her touch has me wanting to roll onto my damn back, tail in the air, begging for more. Overwhelmed is one word for it.
Her thumb grazes my jaw, and something in my chest goes hot and stupid. She has no idea what that small, sweet gesture does to a creature built for blood and war.
Then, a shift in the air. A scent. Sugar. Plastic. Something artificial and sticky as sin. Someone’s left a neon-pink drink cup right in the middle of the aisle. The tall, syrupy disaster is waiting to coat her cane, her shoes, her dress.
My ears snap forward and every instinct in me goes rigid.
Nope. Absolutely not. Not happening. Not on my watch.
I casually—okay, not casually—yank my foot back and kick the cup away with enough force that it skitters across the floor like a hockey puck. I scan the aisle, hoping no one saw me. Safe. Whew. I should maybe look first, act later.
“Jason?” Violet murmurs. “Did you bump something?”
I wag my tail. Fuck my life.
Then she pats my head. “Good boy for warning me.”
That’s right. I am a protector. A guardian. A badass alpha.
Who just kicked a plastic cup. If the guys ever find out about this, I’m never going to live it down.
When the Uber pulls up, I really start losing hope. Is this it? Are we really heading home? Am I going to end up scavenging for squirrels or raiding her neighbor’s bins like some feral raccoon? Maybe if I beg hard enough, the guys will take pity and bring me food.
God, they’ll love that. Showing up with kibble like it’s a care package for the world’s largest stray. Not fucking happening. Scavenging it is.
I try to be salty about it, I really do, but it’s kinda impossible when she strokes the spot between my ears in those slow, soothing circles that turn my spine into warm butter. Her fingers find that spot just behind my temple and… oh yeah. I’m useless.
Not once in the store did she doubt me. Not once did she hesitate or question the direction I nudged her in, or second-guess the subtle signals I gave her. She moved like we were connected. Like she trusted whatever instinct guided my paws. She put all her trust in me. Me.
A wolf pretending to be domesticated. And that felt… good. Too good.
Something in my chest quietly detonates, and it’s a little terrifying. It’s not pain, not fear. Something else entirely. Something I have no damn business feeling while wearing a leash. But then it hits me. She trusts me when all I’m doing is using her to hide in plain sight.
I don’t like this feeling, so I do what I do best when I don’t want to think or feel or…anything. I push it right down and cover it with all my other sins.
We pull up to a store, and hope lights up in me like the Vegas Strip, because this must be it.
God, I hope this is it. When the scent hits me, I damn near drool all over the seat.
The sharp metallic tang of warm fat, blood, and raw meat hits me through the closed windows of the car, and my wolf brain immediately misfires.
Every rational human thought just evaporates until all that’s left is meat. Meat now. Get meat. Take meat. Roll in meat.
Fuck me.
The instincts roar so loud I barely remember I’m supposed to be civilized.
We exit the Uber, and the scent slams into me again, stronger this time, thick enough to taste. My mouth waters embarrassingly fast. I swallow hard, which does nothing. I think I drool on the sidewalk a little.
With each step toward the butcher’s counter, I have to remind myself over and over that I’m leading Violet, and I should not take off like a greyhound hearing the starting gun.
But Christ, it’s not easy. Every muscle wants to sprint.
Every nerve is vibrating so hard, I’m certain Violet can feel it through the leash.
I force my steps to slow, to be controlled and polite. Yes, I am a respectable “service dog.”
But the closer we get, the harder it is to pretend I’m anything other than seconds away from licking the glass.