Page 49 of Dangerous King
"No, I mean—can I keep holding him?" I clarify. "Just for a bit."
Julio smirks and looks at Enrico, who gives a half-shrug, half-nod. "Fine. But if he pisses on your clothes, that's on you."
"I'll risk it." I adjust the pup in my arms. He's warm. He nuzzles against me like I'm his mother. My throat tightens.
Enrico's eyes are unreadable now. Guarded. "You want to keep him."
It's not a question. I shake my head anyway. "He's not mine."
"Doesn't mean he shouldn't be."
I don't know what he means. I don't want to ask. The puppy huffs softly and falls asleep against me. His little chest rises and falls, and I realize I'm matching my breathing to his.
Enrico turns and heads for the door. "Come on. Bring your mutt."
My mutt.
I glance down at the pup. My heart clenches.
I follow him out of the vet room and back into the barn. Puppies swarm around our feet again, yipping and tumbling.
Enrico stops walking and says over his shoulder, "You named him, didn't you?"
I hesitate.
"Yes," I admit quietly.
"Well?"
I look down at the pup. His fur is pitch black, but his eyes, now slightly open, are an eerie, soulful amber. There's something ancient about him. Fierce, despite his smallness.
"Shadow," I whisper. "His name is Shadow."
Enrico's lips curl in that slow, dangerous smile of his. "Fitting."
Then with an exasperated sigh, he asks, "Have you ever taken care of a dog before?"
I shake my head. "Not really. I mean, I had a goldfish once, but it died after a week."
Enrico snorts. "Poor bastard never stood a chance."
I glare at him and turn to Julio. "What do I need to do?"
Julio nods. "He's gonna need antibiotics for a few days, twice a day. I'll give you the liquid kind—it's easier with a syringe. Just squirt it in the side of his mouth."
I nod, determined. "Okay. Got it."
"Keep him separate from the rest of the litter until the wound closes up. He can't roughhouse like the others yet."
"So… like a playpen or something?"
Julio considers. "Yeah. I'll rig up a crate with some soft bedding. Don't let him jump too much. And no stairs."
"Got it," I repeat, mentally taking notes like I'm prepping for a final exam.
"He'll need food, wet stuff for now. Easy to digest. Small meals, three times a day. I'll give you some."
"Thank you," I say, and I mean it. My voice comes out soft.
