Page 22 of Filthy and the Beast

“You’re a good man,” I manage.

Startled, Damian blinks. “Oh. Thank you,” he tells me. “I appreciate that.”

The mat is cool beneath my feet. My chest hurts, and I feel a bit dizzy.

Damian stands across from me, smiling wide with one hand on his hip. He’s shiny. Happy even though I’m barking at him.

God help me, I smile back.

We finish up the exercises and give the dogs some attention. When Damian disappears to his part of the mansion again, I pace my bedroom, my emotions all worked up.

I need to breathe. Get my head on straight.

Figure out why he makes me feel like this.

With a grunt, I grab my binoculars and notebook from the dresser. I decide to leave the camera today. Don’t even shower. Just throw a jacket over my sweats, climb in the truck, and drive.

The lake’s about forty-five minutes further outside the city from my house, away from all the people. I park in the public lot and walk down the side path until I reach my bench.

Sit down. Breathe the crisp, cool air. Instantly feel better.

Common birds sing out. I recognize their song and identify each in my mind, but don’t bother to write anything down. Just enjoy the sun on the water and the shade of the towering trees, occasionally peering out through the binoculars.

Some kind of a sparrow lands on a fallen branch near the water. I train my binoculars on it.

Sooty Fox Sparrow.

Smiling to myself, I jot that down in the notebook. First of the season.

Satisfying. But the second I zone out with the pleasant silence of the lake, the thought rises up.

Kind of wish Damian were here.

CHAPTERTEN

DAMIAN

We’re nearingthe end of week two of life in the mansion, and I’m really finding the flow.

Enzo has silently acquiesced, accepting my assistance more often than not. In our quiet ballet, I’ve found the things he shouldn’t do himself—retrieving fresh bags of dog treats from the high shelves, loading and unloading the dishwasher, groceries. I even added some of my own tasks, like opening all the curtains in the morning so the house actually gets some light. He leaves me little notes on the kitchen counter, telling me anything special he needs done that day or any times he might certainly need me around, yet still keeps to himself in a lot of ways.

But unlike the first week, when the house felt massive and empty, I’m seeing him more and more. We catch a meal or two together, and I stand by while he works out every day, offering my arm.

Most of our time comes in the garden, playing with the dogs.

Slowly but surely, Enzo is teaching me to train them. Pit bulls love pleasing their people and their pack, and running them through routines of sit, stay, roll over, lay down, and all the rest makes them so happy. Goldie is the quickest, always completing the command instantly. Old Mirabelle prefers to take her time, often harumphing and plopping down as a first response. But Enzo has shown me that if I give her a little patience, she’ll get around to the trick eventually.

I love the dogs.

Potentially, my brain is inventing another distraction. My heart sings with joy whenever I see them. They’re just so goofy and lovable, and the more I learn about pit bulls and the ways they’re misunderstood, the deeper my love for the pooches grows.

Potentially, also, I’m getting some wires crossed. Because I love the dogs, and Enzo loves the dogs, and when I watch Enzo with the dogs, I feel like I’m going to burst. He’s so, so good and patient with them, and they’re so cuddly in response.

Most mornings, he sits on the stone bench, bag of treats by his side, running the happy dogs through their training. His beard is growing thick again, and he rubs it as he smiles at them, grumbling “good girl” over and over, a gentle giant. After enough time passes, he lowers himself onto the dirt and lets the dogs jump all over him, lying flat to protect his back.

Fuck, he’s hot.

I think about it as I walk around the front of the mansion. After coffee in the garden, Enzo has disappeared again, and I’m left in the silent home.

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