Inked Adonis: Chapter 42

Funny how different types of pain leave different kinds of scars.

The mauling I survived at seven left permanent marks on my hand and thigh. But watching Samuil walk away yesterday? That’s the kind of wound that bleeds on the inside, invisible but devastating. The kind that makes me drag myself to work even though every cell in my body wants to curl up in his sheets and breathe in what’s left of his scent.

Instead, I’m getting played by a Labradoodle.

“Berry’s more comfortable around her own neighborhood,” his owner said. “She does better without so much grass to distract her.”

Translation: Berry has never worn a leash in her privileged life, and now she’s my problem.

I wrap the lead tighter around my wrist as Berry lunges at another imaginary threat. My phone weighs heavy in my pocket, silent as a grave. No texts. No calls. Not even a perfunctory “Landed safely in Moscow” from the man who supposedly wanted to protect me.

Protect me. Right.

What Samuil actually meant was “you’re mine to control.” His voice echoes in my head, crueler and sharper with every reverberation.

Just like moving out and leaving your family behind didn’t change how completely fucked you are.

I halt in the middle of the sidewalk, forcing Berry to stop. Training dogs is the one thing in my life I can control right now. The one thing that makes sense. Everything else is a tornado of confusion and hurt, spinning faster every time I remember how Samuil looked at me before he left—like I was both everything he wanted and everything he couldn’t trust.

“At least you’re honest about being a pain in my ass,” I tell Berry as she strains against the leash.

My chest aches, a physical pain that makes it hard to breathe. I check my phone again, knowing nothing will be there. Knowing I’m becoming exactly the kind of woman I swore I’d never be—the kind who waits by the phone, desperate for crumbs of attention from a man who couldn’t give a fuck less.

“You know what?” I mutter to Berry, shoving my phone back in my pocket. “Screw him. And screw me for caring.”

I should be focusing on damage control at Hope’s Helpers. Dealing with the chaos Katerina unleashed. But Hope hired some PR wizard to handle the crisis while I was drowning in relationship hell. Even my best friend doesn’t need me anymore.

“I need to get this hellfire down to a campfire, at least,” Hope said. “It’s only a matter of time before the bags of dog shit people keep throwing at my front window shatter the glass. So, this PR lady is an investment.”

It probably makes me a bad friend and business partner that I was bummed to not have angry emails to respond to or doggy bags full of shit to scrape off the brick facade of Hope’s Helpers.

I’m even a little disappointed that Berry is my only client today. Without any other distractions, my full-time job becomes missing Samuil, being ashamed of missing Samuil, and then hating Samuil for the aforementioned emotions. Then the spiral begins anew.

We turn onto a broad street lined with imposing brownstones, their wrought-iron fences standing like sentries. No grass here to “distract” Berry. Just concrete and metal and the ghost of Samuil’s last kiss haunting my lips.

I think we’re safe until Berry spots a pigeon perched on top of one of the fence posts. She takes the bird’s existence as a personal insult and lunges with all of her strength.

“Berry, stop!” My command comes out sharper than intended, edged with all the frustration I can’t unleash on the person who really deserves it. “That’s enough!”

But it isn’t enough. Berry hasn’t even started yet.

She stretches her front paws into the air, pawing at the gate while I dig around in my fanny pack for some liver training treats. My hands shake. When did I become this person? This trembling, uncertain version of myself who second-guesses every decision?

Before I can get to my secret weapon, the bird flies towards the awning above the door. Not one to be deterred by physics or her own lack of wings, Berry hauls ass up the front stoop, dragging me with her. The concrete steps scrape against my shins—another set of scars to add to my collection.

I finally get the liver treats out, and Berry forgets all about the bird when she hears the bag crinkling.

“That’s right, you little menace. If you want some of these, you’re gonna have to chill out, huh?”

In response, Berry parks her rear end on the top step of some stranger’s porch, and I pop a treat in her mouth. “Good girl.”

It’s a blissful five seconds of silence. I should’ve known better than to hope it would last forever.

The growl hits me first. Low, guttural, primal. It vibrates through the soles of my feet and straight into that scared place in my soul where my oldest fears live.

A deep voice booms out, “Hannibal! No!”

The command itself is ominous enough. The dog’s name doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, either.

I turn just in time to see a huge German Shepherd arrowing towards us, eyes narrowed, teeth bared.

Not again.

Please, God, not again.

Even with all my years of dog training and exposure therapy, I’m suddenly seven years old again. I’m frozen on the step. My pulse is thunder in my ears.

There’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

Time slows down as the dog snarls closer, cornering us on the porch.

Berry barks, but the noise is high-pitched, terrified. Useless.

Leonid’s warning echoes in my head. And he’s right. This dog isn’t ferocious enough to protect me from what’s coming.

Hannibal pauses at the base of the stairs. I know that moment of stillness. I’ve survived it before. It’s not hesitation—it’s a hunter selecting the perfect angle of attack. He looks over my shoulder at poor, helpless Berry, and all he sees is red.

Then he moves.

The world narrows to teeth and terror as he launches himself up the steps. Without thinking, I hurl myself between the two canines.

Berry is safe.

I’m not.

Hannibal’s jaws lock around my forearm, crushing through leather jacket and flesh alike. The pain explodes white-hot through my body as he drags me down the stairs.

I lose Berry’s leash. Lose my footing. Lose everything except the relentless grip of teeth tearing into my arm, my leg, anywhere they can reach. Each bite feels like a punishment for thinking I could survive in Samuil’s world.

I hold out a bloody hand, and the dog tears into it again.

This time, there’s a sickening crunch.

I stop hearing anything else after that.

Distantly, beyond the fur and blood, I see people gathering on the sidewalk. I think they’re here to help, but that’s too little, too late.

With the last of my fading strength, I whip around to try to free myself. All I succeed in doing is cracking my head against the stone corner of the banister.

Pain detonates behind my eyes. For a split second, I think I see Samuil—tall and fierce and furious—striding toward me through the gathering crowd.

Then darkness swallows me whole, and I can’t tell if it’s a dream or a memory or just another lie I’m telling myself about being saved.