Page 118 of I'm Not Your Pet

These fucking collars were nearly impossible to get off.

Mine had beenliterallywelded on.

I imagined there would be some pain when it came free. Heat, more than likely—from a welding iron of some sort—like the one that had been used to secure it in the first place.

I should’ve been more scared than I was.

But Roark was there.

And when Roark was there I knew things would be okay.

My ears were ringing the entire time I waited for the employee to get set up. And the entire time, Roark purred at me, petting me to keep me from full-on panicking.

“Huu-goh yesh?” he asked, as the heat of whatever tool was going to be used to free me moved in close. I couldn’t see him. Could only see the carpet.

“Yes,” I agreed, voice a little choked.

All the while, Roark’s hand was a heavy, comforting weight on my head.

I barely felt a pinch when the collar finally came off. One second it was sitting heavy around my neck—a symbol of everything I was and wasn’t—and the next it was gone.Gone. Like it had never been there at all.

Like I hadn’t been taken, sold, and bought.

Like for three entire years I hadn’t belonged to someone else.

I hadn’t expected the sheer force of emotion that hit me as a sob tore free of my chest. Tears spilled, hot and angry as Roark cooed, caressing my hair again.

He understood what was happening. The pain, the relief, the fear.

I hadn’t realized how heavy the collar was until I no longer had to carry its weight.

I launched myself off the bench and into his arms before I could think. Roark made a surprised sound as I latched onto him like a barnacle, arms and legs pulled around as much of him as I could. He continued to purr against my ear, holding me safe above the ground.

I didn’t look at the collar. Not as the employee picked it up. And not as he took it away—probably to throw it in the trash.

“Huu-goh,” Roark said, like a prayer.

My eyes were swimming with tears, ugly and hot, and awful.

When I’d been taken I hadn’t cried.

I hadn’t let myself.

There was no point mourning a life I’d never have again. That would’ve been pointless and exhausting. I’d made the best of a shitty situation. I’d tried to be positive. I’d looked for the good—despite all the bad. All because I’d never actually thought I’d be free again, not really.

But here I was.

And I was free—and happy and—and—Roark was right here with me, feeling my pain like it was his own, his body wrapped around mine.

“Is okay,” Roark cooed, nuzzling my ears as I blubbered, fingers digging into his chest and poking inside the sticky flesh. Tiny tendrils burst out, wrapping around them—encasing them so they were safe. “Is okay, little beast.”

I wanted to tell him it wasn’t.

That it wasn’t okay.

That none of this was.

But that wasn’t true. Not anymore.

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