Page 10 of When Hearts Surrender

More screeches and shouts, more flashes of blinding light.

The world swirls as more sweat gathers on my upper lip. I clutch my ring, letting the sharp edges of the gem dig and slice into my hands. I feel wetness but no pain.

Nothing can save me from this madness.

Blurred sounds echo in my ears, but they are muffled, like I’m underwater.

A dark shadow looms before me—the monster has me in its grasps. My veins turn to ice as my breathing quickens. It clasps me on the shoulder and I fist my hand and turn, ready to swing at it.

“That’s it. Mr. Anderson is feeling unwell today. I’ll answer your questions about the recent changes to the company.”

Another firm hand blocks my swing and pins my arm to the side of my body. He leans in and mutters in my ear, “Come, Maxwell. Your brother’s got this.”

The words are a gong to my panic, icy rain onto the blistering inferno, and I glance up, noticing the familiar blond hair and light eyes. My good friend, Charles Vaughn.

What the fuck happened?

My eyes widen as reality slowly shifts into focus and I finally take in the horde of reporters standing up, their cameras and microphonespointed in our direction, their eyes widening in shock, mouths agape, their pens flying across the notepads. They’re no doubt jotting down the top headline for the next month. How the illustrious eldest son of the Anderson family, the mysterious frigid king, turns out to be a quack, not right in the head.

My hand clenches in pain as the late sensations from my ring carving into my palm finally make an appearance. A warm, wet stickiness draws my attention to the wound.

Tiny streams of red seep out from the gaps between my fingers.

Blood.

I sliced my palm with my ring and didn’t feel a thing until now.

The bile that has receded makes its way back up my throat and Charles squeezes my arm in reassurance as he walks me down the steps of the stage.

I straighten and disentangle myself from my friend, clinging to the last shreds of my dignity, and turn back, finding the worried eyes of my youngest brother, Ethan, from where he stands behind the podium. He gives me a terse nod before turning to the crowd.

“Now, I’m sure you have questions…”

Charles and I walk through the double doors, the chaos rioting behind me.

Shit. Shit. Shit. What have I done?

Chapter 3

Oh God, how canI save him? I can’t let him die.

Sweat beads on my back as I stare at the adorable brown husky in front of me. Sure, most people probably won’t call him “adorable,” especially since he lost one eye due to significant abuse by his previous asshole owners, who I hope are rotting in jail or dying of a slow and painful death somewhere.

It also doesn’t help that the little guy is currently destroying a dog bed I snuck into his cage at the beginning of my volunteering shift here at the Bronx Shelter for Unwanted Animals, known to us as BSUA.

Ugh, I hate this name.It reminds me of the gothic orphanages I’ve read about in the early nineteen hundreds.

Technically, we’re forbidden to bring any toys or bedding to the shelter because they are “a mess to clean up” as some of the higher-ups have complained in the past.

He growls, attacking the bed with vengeance, spreading cotton stuffing all across his tiny, cold cell of cement walls and peeling plaster. He’s in solitary confinement today for attempting to nip the leg of the shelter manager, a sleazy balding guy named Bob. That has probably earned him a shortcut to the lethal drip this evening when the murder squad, as Cole and I like to call them, comes in later tonight.

Oblivious to his dire fate, he settles down on the ground, a cloud of stuffing floating in the air. He sticks out his tongue and lolls his head to the side, clearly satisfied with his handiwork.

“Oh, what am I going to do with you, little guy?” I groan.

But I already know the answer to this. I need to break him out of his cell and steal him. BSUA is a pound. A kill shelter. It’s the main reason I’ve volunteered here for the last three years as opposed to the fancy no-kill humane shelters in Manhattan. I figure if I hustle and get these poor animals adopted, that’ll be one less pup or kitten on the chopping block.

This little terror is now peeing in the corner, despite the fact I let him out half an hour ago.

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