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I shrug him off. “No.”
“He’s in pain,” he says, his voice low. “He’s too old to survive surgery. We should—”
“Don’t.” My eyes fill before I can stop them. “Don’t say it.”
Rafe steps in front of me and cups my face in both hands, making me look at him. “We don’t want him to suffer, right?”
“Please.” My voice breaks apart on the word. “Rafe, no.”
Behind him, the vet speaks to Saint. “This isn’t a simple colic. His heart rate is sky high, he’s not responding to pain relief, and I can’t hear gut sounds where I should. If he were mine, Saint, I wouldn’t let him suffer through the night.”
I pull away before anyone can touch me again and slip into the stable.
Fury stands with his head low, sweat darkening the pale silver of his neck, his sides drawn tight beneath his coat. When I reach him, he turns his head toward his flank, nostrils flaring, and lets out a low, broken sigh I’ve never heard from him before.
It burns through every argument I had left.
“Fury,” I whisper, laying my hand against him.
His flank quivers beneath my palm.
Then he tries to go down.
Not the slow, tired lowering of an old horse choosing rest, but a desperate buckle, his legs folding badly beneath all that weight, pain taking him from the inside out.
I grasp at his halter. “No, no, no. Stay with me, big guy.”
He drags himself upright because I ask him to.
Because he’s always tried for me.
His whole body trembles, and I know I’m keeping him in pain because I can’t imagine a life without him. Because he’s the last thing my father gave me, and I don’t know how to let another piece of him be taken.
Fury lowers his head and presses his muzzle against my chest.
I close my eyes.
My hand slides up between his ears, stroking the place he’s always loved.
The fight goes out of me.
“Do it,” I say, my voice barely there. “Let him rest.”
After this, I’ll make sure nothing hurts like this ever again.
Chapter 14
Sera
I finished my glass of vodka in three gulps, wishing it would numb the pain.
Eilish’s bedroom is pale linen, warm lamplight, glossy magazines, and a strong smell of roses from the candle burning on her dressing table.
She sits cross-legged on the bed beside me, one hand wrapped around a glass of vodka and cranberry.
“I led him out to the field,” I say, staring at the duvet. “He always liked that top corner with the pretty view. The grass grows thicker there.”
Eilish reaches over to the nightstand and plucks out a few tissues.
