Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Luna
The fox kit’s eyes watch me warily as I clean the infected wound on his hind leg.
His mother paces in her cage, emitting occasional sharp barks of concern.
The whole family was brought in this morning after a homeowner found them huddled under his deck—the mother limping badly, two kits showing signs of mange, and this little guy with what looks like an old bite wound.
“Easy, little one.” I apply antibiotic ointment with careful fingers. “This will make you feel better.”
The kit’s siblings watch from behind their mom, pressed together for comfort.
Wild foxes rarely tolerate human contact this well, but desperation and pain sometimes have a way of overriding natural instincts.
The mother’s leg was caught in an old snare, probably abandoned by some careless trapper years ago.
She’s been dragging it around long enough for the wire to embed itself into the muscle.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to amputate it this afternoon, but I hope we can save this little guy’s leg.
“Talking dirty to the patients again?” Maren appears beside me, arms crossed and grinning. “Ricky’s gonna get jealous.” She sets down a fresh bottle of saline solution. “Hey, I’m not judging. We all have our types, but a jealous raccoon ain’t no joke.”
Her words are light, but there’s something tense about her today.
I noticed it the minute she arrived this morning.
There’s something brittle in her smile, something forced about the way she’s trying too hard to be her usual crude, sarcastic self.
I’ve known Maren long enough to recognize when she’s putting on a show.
I finish bandaging the kit’s leg and place him back with his family. The mother grooms him, her rough tongue working over his fur in quick, anxious strokes.
I move to the sink to wash my hands. “Is something wrong?”
Maren shrugs, but her eyes don’t meet mine. “Wrong? What could be wrong? Just living the dream, baby.”
“Maren.”
She fidgets with the hem of her scrub top and lets out a heavy sigh. “JT and I are fighting. Or maybe not fighting exactly. More like existing in the same space without actually connecting.”
I dry my hands and turn to face her. “What’s going on?”
“He hasn’t been calling me as much when he’s on the road.
” Her voice is smaller now, vulnerable in a way that she doesn’t often let bleed through.
“Used to be, he’d call every night when he stopped.
We’d have phone sex or video sex before he crashed for the night.
Now, when he calls, it’s like he’s checking off a box, you know?
‘Hey, babe, still alive, talk to you later.’”
I lean against the counter, giving her my full attention. JT’s been driving long haul for as long as he and Maren have been together. The distance and uncertainty of that lifestyle are hard on relationships.
“Maybe he’s just tired? Those runs can be brutal.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.” Maren’s laugh comes out wrong, with sharp edges and no humor.
“But even when he’s home, he’s not really there.
He comes through the door, grabs a beer, and plants himself on the couch with the remote.
We don’t talk anymore. Last weekend, he watched football for two straight days.
I could’ve been giving the mailman a lap dance in the doorway, and he wouldn’t have noticed. ”
A snort escapes me before I can stop it. “The mailman would’ve appreciated it, though.”
“Right?” She tries for a smile, but it falls apart before it fully forms. What replaces it makes my stomach drop—a frown that looks wrong on Maren’s face.
“I don’t know what to do, Lu. Something’s not right with him, but every time I try to bring it up, he just says he’s fine and changes the subject. ”
I reach for her, pulling her into a hug. She sags against me. “When’s he due back?”
“Next Friday.” Her words come out muffled against my shoulder. “He’s hauling a load to Florida, then picking up something in New York on the way back.”
I pull back just enough to look at her face, hands still on her arms. “Talk to him then. Don’t let him brush you off with football and beer. You deserve better than that.”
Maren nods, but the doubt is plain in her eyes. The worry that maybe the conversation she’s dreading will confirm what she already suspects—that whatever they had is slipping away, mile by mile, highway by highway.
“Enough about my disaster of a love life.” Maren steps back, shoulders straightening. Her cocky grin slides back into place like armor. “Let’s talk about your hot date on Saturday.”
I don’t push. I know better than to press when she retreats behind that smile.
“It’s just a fundraising gala, Maren.”
“Who knows where it will lead?” She mock pouts. “I just want to be the maid of honor at a fancy billionaire wedding someday. That’s not too much to ask, is it? My picture in People magazine, my best friend swept off her feet by a guy who worships—”
“Okay, pump the brakes. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. It’s only our second date.”
“Don’t ruin my billionaire fantasy wedding, Lu. I’m living vicariously through you here. Let me have this.”
She shifts her attention to the foxes, and the playfulness drops from her expression.
“Now what are we doing about Mama?”
I study the injured fox inside the cage, where she’s still grooming her babies. “Prep the OR. That wire has to come out of her leg.”
“Think she’ll lose it?”
“Probably. But I won’t know for sure until I get her under and can assess the full extent of the damage.”
Maren grabs the cage, lifting it with care, and heads for the door.
“Can Tate watch the surgery? He’s been dying to observe.”
I follow her toward the surgical suite, my mind already running through the procedure.
“Yeah, that’s fine. Tell him to put the phones on voicemail and scrub up.”
She sets the cage down on the prep table and heads toward the lobby, a wicked grin spreading across her face.
“Hey, Tate! Guess what? You owe me that dinner!”
His enthusiastic reply makes me smile and chuckle. She knew I’d let him watch. She just conned him into betting on it first.
My thoughts drift to Saturday night as I prepare the anesthesia. If only I could just focus on Damien and the normal, uncomplicated relationship he’s offering.
As much as I’m looking forward to the gala, to wearing a beautiful dress and pretending to be someone sophisticated and put-together, there’s a part of me that’s already aching for what comes after. For the party to end. For the dress to come off. For my wolf to come to me.
I’m falling for a man who won’t let me see his face. A man who only comes to me in shadows. And I hate myself for wanting him more than the one who stands in the light.
Damien can offer me everything—dinners, dates, conversations over wine, the possibility of a real future.
He’s handsome and successful and kind, and he wants to be seen with me in public.
He wants to take me to fancy events and introduce me to his friends, but when I close my eyes, it’s not Damien’s hands I imagine on my body.
It’s not his voice that makes my skin tingle with anticipation.
If only I could choose between the man who could offer me everything and the one who offers me nothing but stolen moments in the dark.
But my heart, stubborn and foolish as it is, seems to have already made its choice. And I have no idea what to do about it.
I lean back in my chair, massaging my temples, unable to stare at the numbers on the computer screen for another minute.
Flower and Honey, two of our permanent resident rabbits, keep me company, hanging out in the wicker bed on the corner of my desk.
They twitch their noses at me as if sensing my frustration with the pile of invoices, payroll sheets, and new grant applications that never seems to shrink.
But my nonprofit sanctuary needs all the grant money I can get my hands on.
I look up at the knock on my door as it opens, and Jenny bursts through, bouncing on her toes with excitement. She’s carrying a long blue florist box tied with an elegant black ribbon.
“Special delivery!” She sets the box down on the only clear space left on my desk, jostling Honey, who thumps her hind leg in protest. “Sorry, lady.”
I eye the box. “I didn’t order anything.”
“It’s not from you, silly. Someone sent them to you.” Jenny can barely contain her grin as she sits in the chair opposite my desk. “I’m betting they’re from a certain handsome billionaire who’s taking you to that gala on Saturday.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Maren.”
Of course.
“He’s kinda old, but the man is seriously hot, Luna.” She fans herself, and it reminds me of my best friend, who can’t keep her mouth shut.
“He’s more than twice your age, Jenny.”
“When a man looks like that, age becomes irrelevant real quick.”
“You’ve been hanging around Maren too much.” I point at her, and she just shrugs.
“Come on, open it! I want to see what kind of flowers billionaires send.”
I pull the ribbon loose, my heart pounding with a thrill I can’t deny. Why would Damien do this? The lid comes off easily, revealing tissue paper. I fold it back and—
My stomach drops. The breath leaves my lungs in a sharp gasp.
Twelve long-stemmed black dahlias lie arranged in the box, but they’re not beautiful.
They’re horrific. Someone hacked each stem apart, severing the flowers at jagged angles.
Deep red fluid coats the shredded flowers, thick droplets clinging to the torn leaves, creating a small, dark puddle beneath the carnage.
It has a faint metallic scent and looks like blood.
Jenny scrambles out of her chair. “What the hell is that?”
My hands shake as I drop the lid back onto the box.
“I need to call the florist.” I grab my phone, searching for the number on the box.
The woman who answers sounds cheerful until I explain what arrived. Then her tone shifts to horror.