Chapter 2
“Clean as a whistle,” Cyrus murmured, shifting the bell to the right hemithorax.
As he worked, Cyrus tilted his head back. From this low angle, Jarek towered over him, framed by the white cabinetry and jars of cotton swabs. Jarek was looking down, his features stripped of their customary military stoicism. For a split second, there was such naked, aching tenderness in the man’s expression that Cyrus’s breath caught in his throat.
Jarek wasn't looking at the dog. He was looking at Cyrus’s hands—at the way Cyrus’s long, scarred fingers stroked Brutus’s flank with unhurried assurance, at the easy warmth of Cyrus’s posture on the floor.
*He’s falling for me,* Cyrus thought, a wave of liquid warmth rolling through his stomach. *The stubborn bastard is falling just as hard as I am.*
“You’re good with him,” Jarek said, his voice dropping into that rough, private register again. “Most people see the scars on his muzzle and step back. They see a weapon.”
“He’s not a weapon. He’s a partner,” Cyrus replied, slipping the earpieces off. He remained on one knee, looking up into Jarek’s face. “You take care of him. It shows in every line of him. But you look exhausted, Jarek. When was the last time you slept more than four hours?”
Jarek blinked, the wall snapping back into place with defensive precision. “I sleep fine.”
“Liar.” Cyrus stood up, using the edge of the steel table to lever himself upright. In the process, his knuckles brushed Jarek’s forearm.
Underneath the canvas sleeve, Jarek’s arm felt shockingly lean. There was a faint tremor in the muscle—a minute, microscopic vibration that Jarek instantly suppressed by shifting his weight.
Cyrus frowned slightly. “Have you been eating properly up on that mountain? It’s not just dried venison and black coffee, is it?”
“I can take care of myself, Doc.”
“I’m sure you can survive on pine needles and pure stubbornness,” Cyrus said, keeping his tone light and flirtatious to cover the sudden prickle of concern. “Doesn’t mean you should. You’ve lost weight since November.”
“Winter chores,” Jarek said dismissively, though his eyes darted away, fixing on the diploma framed on the wall. “Splitting wood burns calories.”
Before Cyrus could press further, Jarek shifted the conversation with the deliberate tactical redirection he always employed when things got too personal.
“You still living out on the Old Creek Road?” Jarek asked, casually running a hand down Brutus’s spine.
Cyrus paused, leaning back against the prep counter and crossing his arms over his scrub top. “I am. The old farmhouse with the wrap-around porch. Why? Thinking of dropping by without an imaginary veterinary emergency?”
A ghost of a smile touched the corner of Jarek’s mouth, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Just wondering about the setup. How much land do you have fenced in?”
“About three acres behind the barn,” Cyrus answered, amused by the domestic nature of the question. He wondered if Jarek was trying to gauge whether they could ever blend their lives, or if the veteran was simply trying to picture Cyrus outside the clinical sterility of this room. “Six-foot cedar split-rail, reinforced with heavy wire mesh at the bottom because my old rescue hound used to be a digger. Why?”
“Good,” Jarek said, almost to himself. “Six feet is standard. Malinois can clear five from a standstill if they get spooked by lightning.”
“Brutus isn't clearing my fence,” Cyrus laughed softly. “Unless you’re planning on boarding him with me during your next hunting trip.”
“No,” Jarek said quickly. Too quickly. “No hunting trips.” He cleared his throat, the sound catching slightly in his chest. Cyrus noticed a momentary tightness around Jarek’s mouth, a sharp, shallow intake of air before he continued. “What about the winters out there? If the power grid goes down during an ice storm, do you have a secondary heat source?”
Cyrus tilted his head, studying him with affectionate curiosity. “Jarek, are you conducting a safety audit of my personal residence?”
“I’m asking a question.”
“I have a cast-iron woodstove in the kitchen and an automatic Kohler generator hooked to the propane tank,” Cyrus answered, step by step, letting the amusement dance openly in his hazel eyes. “The roof was reshingled two summers ago. The water comes from an artesian well that never freezes. It’s warm, it’s secure, and there’s an entire orchard out back for a dog to run until his tongue hangs out. Does that pass your inspection, Sergeant?”
Jarek didn't laugh. He stared at Cyrus, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. In the silence that stretched between them, the fluorescent lights hummed, and the winter wind gave a low rattle against the clinic’s double-paned front windows.
“Yeah,” Jarek whispered, his voice thick with an emotion Cyrus couldn't entirely parse. “That passes.”
Cyrus’s heart did a strange, heavy flutter. The air in the small exam room felt suddenly charged, almost suffocatingly intimate. Jarek’s gaze was so heavy, so fiercely protective and desperate, that Cyrus felt an instinctual urge to reach out and pull the man into his arms—to smooth away the permanent, haunted crease between his dark brows and tell him he didn't have to carry whatever ghosts he had brought back from overseas all by himself.
Brutus broke the spell.
The Malinois suddenly lunged forward, ignoring all his military discipline, and wedged his head directly between Cyrus’s hip and Jarek’s leg. The dog whined again, high and shrill, and shoved his wet nose violently against Jarek’s ribcage, right over his left lung. Then, in the same frantic motion, the dog swung his head around and pressed his brow against Cyrus’s palm, licking Cyrus’s wrist with frantic, sandpaper licks.
“Hey, hey,” Cyrus crooned, instantly dropping his hand to cup the dog’s broad muzzle. “What is it, boy? What are you trying to tell us?”
Brutus looked up at Cyrus. The dog’s amber eyes were wide, wet, and possessed by an intelligence so sharp it sent a cold prickle across Cyrus’s scalp. The dog wasn't begging for treats. He was panting, his ribs heaving, alternating his frantic focus: nose against Jarek’s chest, chin against Cyrus’s hand. Over and over, an urgent, frantic circuit.
“Brutus, knock it off,” Jarek snapped, though there was no anger in it—only a desperate, threadbare edge of panic.
Jarek yanked the lead, pulling the dog back a step. For the first time, Cyrus saw Jarek’s fingers tremble violently. It wasn't the tremor of cold or muscular fatigue; it was the tremor of a man fighting to keep an iron gate closed against a flood.
“He’s getting clingy,” Jarek muttered, avoiding Cyrus’s eyes. He reached into his field jacket, pulling out a faded leather wallet. “What do I owe you for the office call?”
“Jarek, stop,” Cyrus said, stepping forward and laying a firm, warm hand directly over Jarek’s knuckles, halting the wallet mid-air.
Jarek froze. Beneath Cyrus’s palm, Jarek’s skin was ice-cold.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Cyrus said softly, refusing to let go. He let his thumb brush gently across the back of Jarek’s hand, feeling the hard ridges of old scars. “You know I don’t charge you for these phantom visits. If you want an excuse to come into town, you don’t need to invent a fake limp for Brutus. You don’t need an excuse at all.”
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