“I actually pity you too much to kill you,” I grumble.
He flicks his ears as though my threat is hollow and he knows it.
The worst part is, he’s right.
“What the fuck am I supposed to be doing?” I ask him.
I’ve been training like a madman for months. But I haven’t left the mountain. I could’ve gone at any time once my injuries healed. Just get in the Jeep and make for Los Angeles.
And if tonight hasn’t proved that I’m as good as ever—better, even—then I don’t know what will.
So what am I waiting for?
I should be retaking what’s mine. Hunting down Budimir and slaughtering him the way he deserves.
Instead, I’m freezing my ass off on this fucking mountain.
To prove some unknown point.
To some unknown person.
And I don’t even have an answer as to why.
The mutt nuzzles at my hand.
“Get away from me, you idiot,” I sigh. I push his nose away from me.
He doesn’t take it personally. His tail wags, thumping against the floor. Those eyes haven’t changed. No matter how much I shove him aside or curse at him, he still looks at me like his savior.
It makes me sick. I’m no one’s savior.
Not anymore.
I get up abruptly. The chair screeches back on the floor.
“I’m going to bed,” I announce. To the dog or the empty room or no one at all—I’m not entirely sure who the intended audience is.
Thump-thump-thump.
The mutt chases after me.
“No, you’re not coming,” I snap. I point back to the living room.
He doesn’t move.
Thump-thump-thump. His tail thwacking against the wooden floorboards. His tongue is lolling out now eagerly. And those eyes. Still liquid amber and hopeful.
With an angry growl, I charge back into the kitchen.
I fill a bowl with water and another with some leftover deer meat, then set both down on the floor where the mutt can get to them.
“Eat,” I instruct.
I point at the bowls.
He just stares at me.
“Eat, you fleabag.”
When he still doesn’t move, I growl and clench my fists.
“Fine!” I shout. “You don’t wanna eat? Then don’t eat! I don’t fucking care.”
I stomp into the bedroom and slam the door shut.
He watches me the whole way.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
19
Artem
The Next Evening
I’ve been running on the trail for almost three hours and I’m fucking exhausted. Sweat drips off my body despite the sunset chill. I stripped my shirt ages ago. It hangs over my shoulder, completely drenched.
The mutt won’t leave me alone.
He bounds way off in front, and then once he’s put enough distance between the two of us, he bounds right back, nipping at my heels affectionately.
“Next time you do that, I’m gonna fucking kick you.”
He gives me a look that clearly tells me he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.
Fuck, even I don’t believe a word I’m saying.
It’s my last loop of the trail for the morning. We climb the final rise and soon I can see the patchy cabin roof come into view.
A little higher and I can see that the front door is open.
That’s not right.
I’m a thousand percent sure I closed it before I left.
“Fuck,” I growl under my breath.
I circle around and retrieve a gun from the shed. Then I go back to the front and carefully, slowly mount the steps.
I crane my neck into the house to peer through the half-open door. I’m expecting Lobo to be back, seeking the vengeance he wasn’t man enough to claim yesterday.
And then I hear a sing-song voice that makes my stomach turn.
Before I can react, the mutt races through the door with his tail wagging. I sigh in disgust and follow him inside, gun dangling at my hip.
“Oh, hello!” Aracelia says, bending to pet the animal. “Where’ve you been?”
I step into the cabin and glare at her. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” I demand. “I was about to shoot you.”
She shrugs. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” she replies. “Sit down. I made dinner.”
“What?” I look at her with a dumbfounded expression.
“Dinner,” she replies pointedly, setting down a pot of something that smells pretty good. “Pozole. And fresh tortillas.”
“What I want right now is a nice, cold beer.”
Aracelia rolls her eyes. “Don’t you think you drink a little too much?”
“Fuck off, Aracelia,” I say, sitting down and reaching for a bowl despite myself.
She smirks a little as I spoon a generous heaping of pozole into my bowl. The mutt whines at my feet but I shake my head.
“Don’t you fucking look at me,” I curse at him.
“Venga, perrito,” Aracelia coos. She plucks a juicy piece of pork from the broth with her skinny fingers and feeds it to the dog.
I watch the steam rise off my bowl and my stomach churns with hunger. But before I pop the first spoonful into my mouth, I glance at Aracelia as she takes the seat in front of me.
“It’s not poisoned, is it?”
“Please,” she says, rolling her eyes. “If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”
I narrow my eyes at her, but mostly to cover up the fact that I’m actually starting to like the crazy old bat. I assume she’s old at least, she’s got the kind of face that keeps you guessing.
“So—”
“Piz-dets, can I at least eat in peace?”
“No,” she replies tersely. “You need to face certain things. The denial is not helping.”
“Not this again.”
“Esme—”
“Is gone,” I finish abruptly. “She doesn’t fucking need me.”
“I didn’t say she did,” Aracelia replies calmly. “But you need her.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
“We all need someone.”
“And who do you have, eh?”
“Oso,” she replies, without hesitation.
“Who the fuck is that?” I demand. “Boyfriend?”
“My cat,” she replies. As though it’s a serious fucking answer.
I just stare at her for a moment. “Your cat?” I repeat.
She smiles. “And you.”
I shake my head at that. “No. You do not have me. I am not your fucking friend.”
“So you keep telling me. But the truth is we’re bonded now, Artem,” she tells me. “Whether you like it or not.”
“We’re bonded? What the fuck have you been smoking?”
“I saved
