Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I call Reeves and tell him I need a few days. He doesn't argue—just tells me to take care of Julian and myself.
The first morning, I burn the eggs. Julian laughs from the couch, his cast propped on a pillow, and tells me they're perfect anyway. He eats every bite.
We fall into a rhythm. Coffee at nine. Friends reruns until noon. Takeout for lunch. More TV. More talking. More just... being.
“I’m sorry I’m a crap cook,” I tell him.
He laughs. “You’re not a crap cook. You just need to learn,” he tells me. “And besides, you have many other lovely qualities.” He winks at me, and I blush a little.
I slap him for good measure. Not hard. Obviously. The man is injured.
“So your mom taught you to cook?" I ask, curled up beside him, my head on his good shoulder.
"Yeah. She worked two jobs, but when she was home, she’d make these elaborate meals. Said food was love." He smiles. "I'd sit at the table and watch her. She'd hum while she cooked. Always something by Celia Cruz."
"That's beautiful."
"She's beautiful." He kisses the top of my head. "You'd like her."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
I trace the edge of his cast with my fingertip. "Tell me about your dad."
His jaw tenses. "Not much to tell. He left. Never looked back."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I had everything I needed."
"Your mom sounds amazing."
"She is. Too bad she moved so far away,” he says. “But I promise you’ll meet her one day.”
I think about my own dad. How he'd take me for ice cream after school. How he'd let me paint his nails bright pink. How he died when I was still so young, and how I've been searching for him in every man since.
"My dad was a good man,” I say quietly, my voice catching on the words. "He died of pancreatic cancer when I was twelve. It was... it was fast. One day he was fine, and then three months later, he was gone," I explain. "Sorry, I know I've told you this before."
Julian's arm tightens around me. "That's so young… life is cruel sometimes."
"Yeah." My throat thickens. "I miss him every day."
"I'm sure he was proud of you."
"I hope so."
We watch three episodes of Seinfeld. Julian does all the voices, making me laugh until my sides ache—he's really talented—he must have the ear for it.
With his looks and talent, he could have been a movie star.
For a few hours, I forget about Daniel. Forget about the threats.
Forget about everything except this man and his stupid impressions and the way he makes me feel safe.
That night, we make love slowly, carefully. His injured hand rests on my hip while his mouth explores every inch of me as he fills me from behind. I cry when I come, overwhelmed by how much I feel for him.
Afterward, he holds me close, drawing me against his chest, our legs tangled together beneath the orange duvet. His breath comes warm and steady against the curve of my neck, and I can feel his heartbeat beginning to slow where my back presses against him.
His injured hand rests gently on my hip, careful even now, protective.
The darkness of his apartment wraps around us like a cocoon, broken only by the soft glow of streetlights filtering through the bay window.
I trace lazy patterns on his forearm, feeling utterly safe in a way I haven't felt in so long.
"I love you," he whispers.
My heart stops. Starts again. Races.
"I love you too."
And I do. God help me, I do.
But loving him terrifies me. Because everyone I've ever loved has either left or been taken.
And Daniel's still out there.
Watching. Waiting.
And I feel like this thing with Julian is too good to be true. I can't help but think that the other shoe's about to fall.
The truck's headlights fill our rearview mirror, blinding white, relentless. Julian's knuckles are bone-pale on the wheel, his jaw locked tight as he floors the gas pedal.
"He's not stopping," I scream, but my voice sounds underwater, distant.
The massive 18-wheeler bears down on us like something out of a nightmare—a metal monster from Maximum Overdrive, all chrome and fury and malicious intent.
Terror floods through me, ice-cold and paralyzing, turning my limbs to lead.
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I think it might crack through bone.
This can't be happening. This can't be real.
But the roar of the truck's engine is deafening, drowning out everything else, and I know with absolute certainty that Julian and I are about to die.
The truck slams into us—metal screeching, glass exploding. We spin, tires shrieking against asphalt. Then we're airborne, tumbling over the guardrail, falling, falling, the world a violent kaleidoscope of headlights and darkness and Julian's hand reaching for mine.
We hit bottom with a crunch that rattles my teeth. The car's upside down. My seatbelt cuts into my chest. Blood drips from somewhere I can't see.
"Julian?"
He's beside me, breathing hard, barely alive.
Relief crashes over me in such a powerful, overwhelming wave that I almost sob.
He's alive. He's breathing. He's here with me.
The terror that had gripped my heart just seconds ago begins to ebb, replaced by a desperate, trembling gratitude that makes my entire body shake. Thank God. Thank God he's alive.
Then footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.
Daniel emerges from the shadows, axe gleaming in his hands. His face is calm, almost serene. Like he's been waiting for this moment his entire life.
"No." The word barely leaves my lips.
He doesn't acknowledge me. Just walks to Julian's side of the car and rips the door clean off its hinges.
"Liza, run—"
The axe comes down.
I scream, but no sound comes. My body's frozen, ice spreading through my veins, turning my blood to slush. I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything except watch as Daniel swings again. And again.
Wolves howl in the distance, mournful and wild.
Julian's not moving anymore.
The devastation that crashes over me is unlike anything I've ever felt before—it's like my entire body has been hollowed out, scooped clean until nothing remains but this gaping, raw wound where my heart used to be.
I feel like I've died right alongside him, like some essential part of me has been severed and is bleeding out into the darkness.
My arm moves without conscious thought, trembling violently as I reach across the wreckage toward him, my fingers stretching desperately through the twisted metal and broken glass, aching to touch him one last time.
Daniel turns to me, axe dripping crimson. His blue eyes are empty. Dead.
He raises the weapon high above his head, and I finally find my voice, shrieking—
A wolf leaps from the darkness, all fangs and fury, clamping onto Daniel's throat, and he stumbles backward, gurgling, the axe falling from his grip.
The wolf's eyes meet mine. Golden. Knowing.
I wake in a sweat, gasping, my nightshirt moist with sweat, my heart slamming against my ribs hard. The sheets are twisted around my legs like ropes.
"Liza?" Julian's voice cuts through the panic, groggy but concerned. His good hand finds my back. "Hey, breathe. You're okay."
But I'm not okay. I'm drowning. Dying. Frozen solid from the inside out.
I press my face into his chest and sob.
An hour later, I'm deep in Google images, scrolling past adorable German Shepherd puppies with oversized ears and serious faces. My phone screen glows in the dim bedroom light.
Loyal. Protective. Intelligent.
The words leap out from breeder websites and training forums. I click through care requirements—daily exercise, mental stimulation, consistent training. My thumb hovers over an article titled "German Shepherds as Guard Dogs."
Perfect.
I navigate to another tab. Hip dysplasia in German Shepherds. Great. Vet bills I can't afford. I scroll through recommended health screenings, genetic testing, proper nutrition. The costs pile up in my head like a tower of ready to topple.
Julian shifts beside me, his cast bumping against my thigh. I glance at him—mouth slightly open, peaceful despite everything. My chest tightens.
Back to the laptop. I find a breeder two towns over with a litter ready in three weeks. The photos show a mama dog with intelligent dark eyes, standing alert in a fenced yard. Her pups wrestle in the grass, tiny balls of tan and black fur.
Eight hundred dollars.
I wince. My savings account laughs at me from somewhere in the digital void.
Another tab. Adopting adult German Shepherds. The shelter listings hit different—older dogs with scarred pasts, some returned multiple times. One catches my eye: "Thor, 3 years old, needs experienced owner, does not do well with men."
I screenshot it anyway.
Julian's breathing changes, and I lock my phone screen, plunging us into darkness. My nightmare still clings to the edges of my consciousness—Daniel's face twisted in rage, the axe glinting, Julian's blood spreading across pavement that somehow turned to dirt.
But that wolf. Dark and powerful, teeth bared.
I unlock my phone again, brightness on low. Search: Training protection dogs Cumberland. Results populate—professional trainers, personal protection courses, and aggressive dog rehabilitation specialists.
My finger hovers over a contact form.
Is this crazy?
Probably. But so is everything else about my life right now. Daniel's email burns in my memory: you've made your own bed.
I need something solid. Something with teeth.
I bookmark the breeder, the shelter, three training programs. Close the browser. Open Instagram to distract myself, but land on a reel of a German Shepherd catching a would-be intruder by the arm.
The comments overflow with praise.
Julian wakes, turns to me, sleepy but curious.
I save the video. “I just had the worst nightmare,” I tell him.
“Let me guess,” he says. “It was about Daniel.”
“The one and only. He killed you.”
“What the fuck, Liza?”
“What, I can’t help what my subconscious produces.”
“I know it’s hard, but you really need to try to stop thinking about him.”
“Look at this guy.” I shove the phone toward Julian. "His name's Thor. He's at a rescue in Bridgeton."
Julian squints at the screen, his casted hand resting on his chest. "Liza—"
I swipe to another photo. "Or maybe this girl. Freya. She's two years old, already trained."
"You're acting a little crazy."
I lower the phone, meeting his eyes. The nightmare still clings to me, sticky and suffocating.
"I had a German Shepherd when I was a kid. Milo." The memory surfaces, warm and bittersweet. "He was the best. Used to sleep at the foot of my bed every single night. Made me feel safe when Dad got sick, when everything felt like it was falling apart."
Julian's expression softens.
"I want that again," I press on. "Not just for companionship. But for protection. A guard dog. Someone who'll bark if Daniel shows up, who'll—"
"Daniel's not getting past the front door.”
Silence stretches between us. Julian shifts against the pillows, wincing slightly.
"I just think you're overreacting," he says carefully. "Getting a dog's a huge commitment. You work long shifts. I can't exactly walk one right now." He lifts his cast as evidence.
"I'll walk it. I'll do everything. I just—" My voice cracks. "I can't keep living like this. Jumping at every sound. Having nightmares where you die, and I can't do anything to stop it."
His good hand finds mine, threading our fingers together.
"The dream really shook you up."
“It wasn’t a dream,” I point out. “It was a nightmare. And it was also a sign."
"Or just your brain processing trauma."
I pull up another photo—a magnificent shepherd with intelligent eyes and a strong, alert stance. Everything about him screams protector.
"Just come look at them with me. Please?"