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The man tilts his head, and a slow, arrogant, maddeningly familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s a smirk that I’ve wanted to kiss and punch in equal measure for weeks.
“You have terrible situational awareness,” he says. “I followed you for five blocks.”
My eyes widen until they feel like they’re going to pop out of my skull.
“Jesus Christ.”
“No, I’m Malachi,” he drawls, the smirk widening into a grin that is all teeth and trouble.
The knife drops to the carpet as I scramble for the chain.
“You’re...” I choke, finally wrenching the metal free and yanking the door open. I stare up at him and drag a breath into my starving lungs. “You’re... you’re human.”
“Corporate shell,” he corrects smoothly, stepping over the threshold. “I got a promotion.”
My mind is going absolutely fucking bananas. A promotion? A corporate shell?
He breezes past me, the massive dog—who I’m assuming is Chain-Chewer—trotting happily at his heels, its tail whacking against the wall. The apartment is suddenly filled with the smell of bonfire, spice, wet dog, and the sheer, overwhelming gravity of him.
“Close your mouth, baby girl,” he calls over his shoulder. “You’ll catch flies.”
I spin around, slamming the door. “Malachi, what are you—”
He’s standing in the middle of my living room, the dog doing excited laps around the coffee table, and in his left hand, he’s holding a plastic crate.
My voice is a broken whisper. “Is that...”
He lifts the carrier slightly, peering through the grate. “She has been exceptionally vocal about the travel arrangements. She’s done a lot of it since you last saw her. She’s... missed you.”
A distinct, indignant meow echoes from inside the box, and it breaks me, snapping the last thread of composure I was holding onto.
I drop to the floor. I don’t care that it’s dramatic. I don’t care that I’m wearing my outside coat. I hit the carpet and scramble toward the carrier, my hands fumbling frantically with the latches.
“Vesper,” I sob.
The door swings open, and a blur of cream and black fur shoots out, headbutting my chest with enough force to bruise, her motor running so loud it rattles my ribcage.
I scoop her much heavier frame up, crying ugly, heaving tears into her fur. She’s real. He’s real. Chain-Chewer’s real. They’re all here, in my living room, and I am absolutely, completely losing it.
The springs of my cheap couch groan behind me.
“Oh, for the love of the fires below,” Malachi sighs, the sound dripping with long-suffering exhaustion. “We literally just walked through the door. Can we have five minutes of dry, non-hysterical reacquaintance before you start secreting fluids onto the carpet?”
I ignore him. I can’t help it. I’m a snot-nosed, sobbing mess of relief.
A massive, wet nose shoves itself into my ear, followed by a low, rumbling whine. Chain-Chewer. I reach out blindly with one hand, my fingers sinking deep into thick, silky fur. I pull back, blinking through the blur of tears to stare at the beast.
“He has a shell too?” I sniff, wiping my nose on my sleeve.
“It’s a Great Dane,” Malachi says, picking a piece of lint off his knee. “I picked it. He can still fit comfortably but the jowls give him a deceptive air of approachability. Great for ambushes.”
Chain-Chewer barks—a sound that‘s ninety percent dog and ten percent tectonic plate shifting—and licks the salt off my cheek with a tongue the size of a dinner plate.
I’m laughing, a wet, hiccuping sound that hurts my chest, scratching the soft spot behind the monster’s ears.
“I see how it is,” Malachi sighs, the sound heavy with theatrical neglect. “I tear through the fabric of reality, yet the creatures get the first base? Do I get any love from you? Or am I just the transportation service?”
“You’re jealous of them,” I chuckle wetly.
