What He Craves (Silent Sins: Agapov Bratva #1)

Maggie

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Elvis, the dachshund, making a beeline for me as I push through the intake room with a stack of folded blankets against my chest. He weaves between my feet like a furry torpedo with bad intentions, and my boot bumps the yellow mop bucket by the sink.

“Lord have mercy—”

Water splashes out, and the bucket rolls away. I swing one arm to catch my balance, fail completely, and end up sliding across the tile with about as much grace as a drunk bridesmaid at a wedding.

The blankets go airborne. I grab for the counter, miss it completely, and land on one knee in a shallow puddle while a damp towel hangs off my shoulder like a surrender flag.

Elvis barks once, high and smug.

From the doorway, Jules gasps like I’ve just committed a crime. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. It’s eight-thirteen in the mornin’, and you are not allowed to let that dog win.”

I push wet hair off my cheek and glare at Elvis as he trots away with one of my clean washcloths dangling from his mouth. “You saw him lunge.”

“I saw a twelve-pound sausage with ambition.” Jules leans against the doorframe, iced coffee in hand, perfectly dry and entirely too pleased with himself. “I also saw you lose a fight with a mop bucket.”

“It was a sneak attack,” I mutter, bracing one hand on the counter and hauling myself upright.

“Bless your heart. That bucket is bright yellow.”

I swipe the towel off my shoulder and point it at him. “You are hateful before 9 AM.”

“No, ma’am. I’m observant before 9 AM. There’s a difference.”

I shoot him a look, but there’s no real anger in it. There never is. Julian Mercer, or Jules as everyone calls him, has earned the right to say just about anything to me. It’s bad for my pride and excellent for his entertainment.

He leans against the doorframe, looking completely relaxed.

He’s tall and always put together, which doesn’t really fit a place full of fur and chaos.

His skin is dark, his hair is neat but not fussy, and his sleeves are rolled just enough to show his forearms. His watch sits perfectly in place, like he’s got his whole life organized down to the minute.

He always looks like he walked out of a magazine and just ended up here. And somehow, he makes it work.

Jules is my assistant manager, which really means he runs half the place, whether I admit it or not. He handles volunteers, paperwork, schedules, and all the things that would get missed if it were just me and my tendency to chase whatever animal needs help the fastest.

He’s also my best friend and my chosen family. And he’s very, very gay. Something he’ll remind you of within five minutes if you ever assume otherwise.

Elvis circles back like he’s considering a second round. I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t even look at me. I fed you, medicated you, and I complimented your ears. I’ve done my part.”

He sneezes on my boot.

Jules takes a slow sip of his iced coffee. “You ever consider startin’ your day like a normal person?”

I push a strand of wet hair off my cheek. “Define normal.”

“Feet on the ground. Pride intact. No witnesses.”

I snort and bend to scoop up the fallen blankets. “That sounds overrated.”

“No, what you’re doin’ is overrated.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He says it easily, like it’s already decided, and the truth of it sits warm somewhere behind my ribs before I can help it.

Second Chance Savannah is already awake around us, kennel doors clanking, nails tapping against concrete, the low hum of the old ceiling fan out front that sounds like it’s holding on out of spite.

The air smells like lemon cleaner, kibble, and that faint, clean edge of spring drifting in through the cracked front windows.

It’s not fancy or polished. Half the clipboards don’t match, and one of the front desk drawers only opens if you jiggle it just right. I love it anyway.

I didn’t start out owning it. I started here cleaning kennels for a woman named Miss Eleanor who ran this place like it was a calling and a full-time battle.

She was well into her seventies when I met her, stubborn as anything and twice as determined.

She knew every animal by name, every vet in the county, every donor who meant well, and every one who needed reminding twice.

I was nineteen, showing up after classes with more heart than sense, and she put a mop in my hand before I could finish telling her I just wanted to help.

“You can help by workin’,” she told me, ending the conversation.

I stayed through long days and longer nights, through the ones we saved and the ones we couldn’t, through leaky roofs and busted AC units, and months where we stretched every dollar until it nearly snapped.

I learned how to read a scared dog before it moved, how to bottle-feed kittens at two in the morning, how to stay calm when things went sideways, and there wasn’t time to think about it.

Miss Eleanor started letting me take on more before I even realized it was happening.

Paperwork, calls, adoptions, decisions, responsibility.

When she finally said she was ready to step back, she didn’t make a big speech about it.

Just handed me a set of keys one evening like she’d already decided weeks before.

“You’re not here for a job,” she said. “You’re here for them.”

I didn’t argue and didn’t hesitate either. I took the keys, and I never left.

I stack the blankets on the counter and grab a fresh towel to mop up the mess. “Did Mrs. Campbell confirm for noon?”

“Mm-hm.” Jules flips through the paperwork in his hand without even looking down, which is annoying and impressive at the same time. “Still interested in Buttercup.”

“She better be,” I say, pushing the water toward the drain with slow strokes. “Buttercup deserves a screened porch and a woman who talks to her like she’s people.”

“She is people,” Jules replies. “She just happens to shed.”

I huff a quiet laugh and toss the towel into the laundry bin. “What else?”

“Two owner surrenders this afternoon, one donor who will absolutely say the words ‘I just love what you’re doing here’ without writing a check, and—” he glances up, his eyes darting toward the front door “—a walk-in at eleven. Man called yesterday. Wants a dog for his daughter.”

I rinse my hands in the sink. “Any details?”

“Not many.” He tilts his head a touch to the left. “Said he was bringin’ his daughter. Asked if we had any dogs good with children. Sounded rich.”

“That’s not a detail.”

“It is in Savannah,” he answers, pursing his lips.

I roll my eyes, but a smile tugs at my mouth. “You decide that from a phone call?”

“Honey, I decide that from breathing patterns.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And gifted.”

I huff under my breath and reach for the treat jar out of habit. As soon as I twist the lid, three dogs down the kennel row jump to their feet.

“I hear y’all,” I murmur, already moving.

My voice gets softer and slower without me even thinking about it, like everything here deserves calm, even if the rest of the world doesn’t offer it.

Duke presses his graying muzzle into my palm. Rosie spins in a full circle before I even unlatch her kennel. Junebug whines until I crouch and touch two fingers to the top of her head.

“You’re so dramatic,” I tell her quietly.

“Pot, kettle,” Jules calls from behind me.

A volunteer slips in through the side door carrying bags of donated food. The phone rings up front. A cat starts yowling from the clinic room, as if it has just discovered betrayal for the first time in its life.

By ten-thirty, I’ve cleaned one accident, approved two foster pickups, talked a teenager out of adopting a dog based solely on “vibes,” and promised myself I’m going to eat lunch today.

I won’t. I know I won’t.

Jules is at the front desk, printing forms, when I come in from the back with a squeaky stuffed duck missing an eye.

“Found this under Baxter’s bed,” I say, dropping it onto the counter.

He takes one look at me, damp shirt, fur stuck to my jeans, hair escaping its braid, and sighs. “You look like a cautionary tale.”

“You look moisturized and smug.”

“Thank you, darlin’.”

I reach for the pen behind my ear. “What time’s the walk-in?”

“Any minute now,” he says.

The bell over the front door jingles before I can answer. I don’t think much of it at first. People come in all day with donations, questions, curiosity, and sometimes to stand in the doorway and decide they’re not ready. I wipe my hands on my jeans and turn toward the lobby.

And then I see the little girl. She stands just inside the doorway in lavender leggings and white sneakers with tiny stars on them, her warm brown curls a little rumpled like she’s been leaning against a car window. Her hand is wrapped around the fingers of the man beside her.

She looks around first, not rushing, just taking it all in. The mural, the kennels, the glass room where two puppies are tumbling over each other in a mess of paws and enthusiasm. Her hazel-green eyes go wide.

“Oh,” she breathes.

That one small sound hits me square in the chest.

The man beside her doesn’t move. He doesn’t take in the mural or the puppies first. His gaze moves through the room in one clean sweep, corners, exits, people, before coming back to her, and only then does he look up at me.

He looks like every warning label my mother ever handed me wrapped in six-foot-two of dark, dangerous male, all tailored edges and expensive everything.

Dark hair, neat like he’s got no patience for mess, a strong jaw that hasn’t seen a day off, and eyes so pale they almost don’t look real.

Ice-blue and sharp enough to make you feel like you’ve been sized up without a word.

There’s no flash to him, no show, just presence. Broad shoulders under his coat, a build that says strength without needing to prove it, a tattoo on his hand and one creeping out of his collar, but nothing out of place.

Definitely older than me, in his late thirties at least. The type of man my mama would take one look at and say, “Mm-mm, don’t you start.”