Page 17 of Inked Adonis

Rufus cocks his head to the side as if to ask,Are you serious?Then, almost as if he feels sorry for me, he drops his giant ass onto my thrift store rug.

It’s honestly a little patronizing.

Gotta say: I don’t feel very much like the alpha.

“Good boy.” I scratch him behind the ears while he rumbles contentedly. “We’ve made some progress, haven’t we?”

Today is supposed to be my day off, but Rufus’s owner put in a last-minute walk request, and I couldn’t refuse. Part of it is thatI couldn’t turn down the cash. Most of it is that I’m in desperate need of distraction.

Rufus dips his wet nose under my palm, demanding my attention. His tail lashes back and forth, nearly upending the ceramic vase on my coffee table.

“Nothing says ‘distraction’ like the destruction of my shoebox-sized apartment,” I mutter. At the risk of another WMD-sized tail wag and the loss of my half-finished coffee, I walk to the door and grab his leash. “Walk?”

I chose Rogers Park purely because of Lake Michigan. Nothing beats a good, long run along the water first thing in the morning. Rufus seems to agree, because he pulls harder and harder the closer we get to the shoreline.

“Ease up, bud,” I grunt as the Great Dane strains against his leash. “Don’t go rogue on me now. We were just making some progress.”

I reach into my pocket for the training treats, but even that doesn’t calm him down. He’s whining and whimpering, his beefy tail thwacking me in the leg like Babe Ruth thinks I owe him money.

“Rufus!” I pull harder on his leash. “Calm down, boy.”

The words aren’t even out of my mouth before he rips free and takes off like someone launched him from a cannon.

“Rufus!” I shield my eyes against the glare off the water. Some poor squirrel is about to have the worst day of its life.

Then I see what—who—Rufus is running toward.

My heart stops.

“No.” The whispered word is less of a warning, more disbelief that this is my life.

This can’t be happening.

Not again.

Not now.

I manage a few feeble steps forward as Rufus closes the distance between him and the object of his affections. All I can think is one thing:

Samuil’s dry cleaning bill is going to be through the roof.

Rufus lets out a bark that amounts to a war cry as he closes in. Samuil turns, phone still pressed to his ear, but it’s too late.

With a gravity-defying jump that shouldn’t be possible for a creature of his size and density, Rufus launches himself at Samuil. There’s one horrifying, frozen-in-time moment that honestly belongs in the Renaissance wing at the Louvre: Rufus, suspended in air, limbs outstretched, tongue lolling, the literal incarnation of pure canine joy… and then Samuil—tall, dark, irresistible, raising a hand to do something, anything, but it’s too late. The Sistine Chapel ain’t got nothin’ on this.

Then time snaps back into motion.

Rufus’s gargantuan paws slam into Samuil’s chest, and I shriek as the two of them topple backward into the lake.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.” The useless string of curses spills from my mouth as I sprint toward the shoreline, already knowing it’s too late to salvage anything—my dignity, my job, or the thousand-dollar suit currently soaking up half of Lake Michigan.

Rufus is alternating between making rollicking circles in the muddy water and attacking Samuil with slobbery affection, lapping up the water dripping down Samuil’s face.

Again, I can’t blame him.

“No!” I cry out, both for my sake and Rufus’s. “Rufus, stop!”

Rufus peers back over his shoulder for a second as if to ask,And what the hell are you going to do about it?

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