Chapter Six #2
The finished collar is simple but well-made. The guy in the leather shop was so impressed, he threw in a brass buckle for free. The finished product looks like something that came from a pet store, not something cobbled together by a guy who was planning to leave town this morning.
By the time I finish, the dog is dry and considerably more presentable. Still limping on that back leg, but moving well enough, his tripod gait steady and practiced. I tie a length of rope to the collar as a makeshift leash.
"Ready to meet your new family?" I ask him.
His tail wags.
The walk back to the estate takes longer than usual because he stops to investigate every interesting smell, but I don't mind. Gives me time to think about what I'm doing, what I'm offering.
I'm not just giving Charity a dog. I'm giving her something alive, something that will need her, depend on her, love her without conditions or contracts. Something that belongs to her and her alone.
Something her parents will probably hate.
The thought makes me grin. Maybe it's time someone learned what rebellion actually looks like.
The cottage is empty when we arrive, which means she's either at the main house or in that workshop she mentioned. I settle the dog in the living room with a bowl of water and some crackers I found in the kitchen, then pace around the small space, suddenly nervous.
What if she's afraid of dogs? What if she's allergic? What if her parents find out and throw both of us off the property?
What if she thinks this is too much, too fast, and decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth?
Running away this morning felt like the smart choice, but this feels like the right one. There's a difference, and I'm just starting to understand what it is.
Then I hear footsteps on the path outside, and the dog's ears perk up. He limps to the window, tail wagging, and determined, like he already knows who's coming.
The door opens, and Charity steps inside, carrying a basket that smells like fresh bread and expensive coffee. She's dressed casually today—jeans that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe and a soft blue sweater that brings out her eyes.
She sees me first, and her face lights up like sunrise. Relief and joy and something else I don't want to name.
"You stayed," she says, and there's so much hope in her voice it makes my chest tight.
"I said I would."
Then she notices the dog.
Her eyes go wide, and the basket nearly slips from her hands as she stares at the furry creature now limping toward her, his tail wagging like a flag.
"Oh my God," she whispers as she sets the basket on the table. "Is he—is he yours?"
"He’s ours," I say, and the second it’s out, my stomach drops.
Oh, shit. Did I really just say that?
But wanting him here—wanting them—is a truth I can’t untangle.
"…if you want him."
She sinks to her knees as the dog reaches her, and he immediately licks her face, his whole body wiggling despite the awkward hitch in his injured leg. Her laughter rings out, high and unrestrained, pure joy, and it's the sweetest damn sound I've ever heard.
"He's beautiful," she breathes, running her hands through his now-clean fur. "What's his name?"
"Hasn't got one yet. Found him this morning, figured maybe you'd want to pick."
She looks up at me, eyes shining with something that might be tears. "You found him?"
"He needed a home. You mentioned wanting a pet." I shrug, trying to play it casual, even though my heart's beating like I just ran a marathon. "Seemed like fate."
"Fate," she repeats softly, scratching behind the dog's ears. "Look at you, sweet boy. Look how lucky you are that Draco found you and brought you here, and we're going to take care of you."
The dog's tail wags harder at his new name.
"Lucky," Charity says, grinning up at me. "That's perfect. He's so lucky you found him and brought him here."
She looks up at me again, and the gratitude in her expression makes my throat tight.
"Thank you," she whispers. "This is… this is the most thoughtful gift anyone's ever given me."
"He's just a stray dog," I say roughly.
"He's perfect." She stands, brushing dog hair off her jeans, and for a moment I think she might hug me. Instead, she steps back, maintaining that careful distance we've both been keeping. "But we need to get him checked by a veterinarian. That leg…"
"Old injury, from the looks of it. He gets around fine on three, but yeah, a vet visit would be smart."
She nods, already mentally making lists. "I'll call Dr. Peterson—he handles all the horses at the stables. I'm sure he can recommend someone for dogs."
The casual mention of stables and private veterinarians reminds me again of the wealth gap between us. She can afford the best care for Lucky without thinking twice, while I've been stretching sixty dollars to last a week. It’s now all down the drain at the pet wash.
But watching her kneel to pet the dog again, seeing the joy on her face, I realize I don't care about the money. I care about the way she looks right now—alive, excited, completely focused on something other than the rules and expectations that usually govern her life.
This morning, I was running away to avoid becoming that stupid fifteen-year-old boy again. The one who thought he could bridge the class divide just by wanting it badly enough.
But maybe this time is different. Maybe giving instead of taking changes the equation. Maybe a limping stray dog and a sheltered heiress and a reformed gladiator can build something new.
Or maybe I'm still that stupid kid, just two thousand years older.
Either way, I'm staying. At least for now. At least long enough to see Lucky settled and Charity smiling like that again.
Rich people's kindness might be a loan, but maybe… some gifts are free.