Chapter 7

The wolf pup was so light in my arms, almost as if the fear and desperation clinging to its tiny frame weighed more than its physical body.

I cradled it close as I pushed open the door to the shelter, my heart pounding with a mix of relief and fear. The warmth of the place was comforting, but the skeptical stares from the staff made my stomach tighten.

"Hey," I began softly, stepping up to the front desk where a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and a weary smile sat. She glanced at the pup and immediately frowned.

"You can't bring animals in here," she said curtly, not even giving me a chance to explain.

"It's not just an animal," I protested, my voice trembling. "It's injured and scared. It needs help."

She shook her head, folding her arms over her chest. "This is a shelter for people, not strays. I'm sorry, but we can't take it in."

"But I can take care of it!" My desperation bled into my voice. "Please, just let me keep him with me until he's better."

Her expression softened for a moment before hardening again. "We have rules, Tyla. If we make an exception for you, then everyone will start bringing animals in. We just can't do it."

The little hope I had felt when I ran down here disappeared completely at her words. The little pup whimpered softly in my arms, as if it understood.

I turned and left the shelter, my throat tightening as tears stung my eyes. Back on the streets, I held the pup closer.

"Don't worry," I whispered to him. "I'll figure something out. I promise. I won't let them hurt you."

I found an abandoned storage shed near the shelter where I could sneak the pup in without anyone noticing. It wasn't much—just a dark, musty space with a leaky roof—but it was better than leaving him out in the open.

That evening, Garrick's condition took a turn for the worse.

When I entered our small, shared corner of the shelter, he was sitting on the edge of his cot, his face pale and sweat beading on his forehead. His breathing was labored, and his usually sharp eyes looked dull.

"Garrick?" I whispered, dropping down beside him.

He forced a weak smile. "Hey, Ty. You look like you've had a rough day."

"I'm fine," I lied, panic clawing at my chest. "But you're not. What's going on? You've been getting worse."

He reached out his hand, trembling as he touched my arm. "Don't worry about me too much," he said softly. "This is life, you know. People die here every day. If I'm meant to be one of them, I've already made my peace with it."

"No," I snapped, louder than I intended. The pup stirred in my bag, letting out a soft whine. "Don't talk like that. You're not just anyone, Garrick. You're like family. I can't lose you."

He chuckled weakly, but it quickly turned into a cough. "You're too kind, Tyla, but you need to worry about yourself more than me. This place isn't kind to people like you. You have so much to live for."

I shook my head, tears burning in my eyes. Garrick had done more for me than my pack had done in years. He taught me how to survive, how to find joy in the little things, and how to believe in myself. I wasn't about to give up on him.

"I'll find a way to help you," I whispered, determination hardening my voice.

The next morning, I remembered the old remedies I had learned from my pack—herbs that had saved countless lives back then. Maybe they could save Garrick now. I gathered leaves and roots from the woods, careful to avoid being seen by the shelter staff. I used the mix to treat the pup, whom I had started calling Jake, and to make a poultice for Garrick.

But as the days passed, Garrick only grew weaker. His skin was pale, his lips cracked, and every breath he took sounded like it might be his last.

A week later, I decided I couldn't just sit by. Leaving Jake safe in the shed, I set out early in the morning to scrounge for food and medicine. I did odd jobs wherever I could—cleaning windows, washing dishes at a diner, and even helping an old man carry groceries. Every coin I earned felt like a tiny victory.

By late afternoon, I'd scraped together enough to visit a pharmacy.

The pharmacist, a kind woman with gray hair, listened intently as I described Garrick's symptoms. "He needs these," she said, placing a few packets of pills on the counter. "But he should really be in a hospital. This medicine will only help so much."

I nodded, clutching the medicine tightly. "Thank you."

Deep down, I knew we couldn't afford a hospital, but I couldn't let her see the despair on my face.

At 7:00 p.m., I stopped by Mr. Martin's restaurant. As always, he handed me a small bag of leftovers with a gruff but kind, "Take care, kid."

With Jake trotting beside me, I started back toward the shelter. But before I could make it far, a group of homeless men rushed past, snatching the bag of food and the medicine from my hands.

"Hey, stop!" I screamed, but they disappeared into the shadows as quickly as they'd come.

Jake barked furiously, his tiny frame trembling with the effort.

"It's okay, boy," I whispered, sinking to the ground in defeat. Tears streamed down my face as I sat on the cold pavement, Jake curling up in my lap. Passersby glanced at me but said nothing, their faces devoid of sympathy.

"What am I going to do now?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "I failed Garrick. I failed myself."

Jake whimpered, nudging his nose against my hand as if to comfort me. I don't know how long I sat there, but the sound of a car pulling up beside me made me jump.

I scrambled to my feet, clutching Jake protectively. A sleek, black car gleamed under the streetlights, its tinted windows impossible to see through. My heart raced as the door opened and a man stepped out.

He stood tall and imposing, his broad shoulders commanding attention with an effortless confidence. His blonde hair was perfectly swept back, catching the faint glow of the streetlights. A single earring glimmered in his left ear, subtle yet striking, while the hint of a tattoo curled out from beneath the open collar of his crisp white shirt, hinting at the story it might tell. He looked like he'd stepped straight out of one of those gritty crime movies Garrick and I used to sneak into the cinema to watch at night—a mafia boss straight out of a thriller.

"Are you all right?" His voice was smooth but commanding, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine.

I backed away instinctively, holding Jake closer. "I'm fine," I lied.

He raised an eyebrow, his sharp gaze darting to the pup squirming in my arms, his jaw tightening. "Doesn't look like it."

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my efforts to sound strong.

"The pup," he said, his tone calm yet firm as he stepped closer.

I glanced around, noting the eerily quiet street. My pulse quickened, panic stirring in my chest, but there was something about him—a strange mix of curiosity and an unspoken softness in his expression—that kept me from running.

"What do you want with him? Look at him, he's tiny and harmless! Why can't you people leave him alone?" I demanded, my voice stronger than I felt, though my heart pounded against my ribs like it was trying to escape its cage.

He smirked, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "You're terrible at this tough act. Try widening your stance a little, maybe square your shoulders. It might make you look intimidating—though, honestly, I doubt it'll work."

Jake whimpered, his tiny body squirming in my arms, desperate to break free. I tightened my hold, confused by his reaction, but unwilling to let him go.

"What's your name?" the man asked suddenly, his voice softening, catching me off guard.

I hesitated. "Tyla."

"Well, Tyla," he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, "your little friend here happens to be mine. And judging by the state of you, I'd say you've had a rough day. Let me help."

I stiffened, shaking my head. "I don't need your help! Do you even have proof he's yours? How do I know you're not one of those men who hurt him?"

My eyes darted around, searching frantically for an escape, but Jake's restless movements made it impossible to think straight.

The man chuckled, a low, rich sound that made my fear burn with embarrassment. He didn't reply immediately. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone. With a few swipes, he held it out to me. The screen lit up, showing a picture of him cradling Jake and kissing the pup's head.

My cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment as Jake finally broke free from my arms, scampering over to the man, who scooped him up effortlessly and held him close.

"Traitor," I muttered under my breath, glaring at Jake.

The man's expression softened, though his tone turned more commanding. "These streets aren't safe at this hour, Tyla. You shouldn't be out here, especially like this. Come with me. I'll take you back home."

Home. The word sounded strange to my ears. "I don't even know you," I retorted, my arms crossing defensively.

"Fair," he said, his voice steady but kind. "But Jake knows me, and he seems to trust me more than you right now." He gave the pup a quick scratch behind the ears. "Besides, do you really think staying out here is a better option?"

I hesitated, my mind racing. Jake wasn't growling or trying to escape; if anything, he looked content.

"What's your name?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

"Zane," he replied, his voice steady. "Now, are you getting in the car, or do I have to carry both of you?"

I glared at him, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile. "Against my better judgment, I found myself nodding. But if you try anything, I'll scream loud enough to wake the dead. And I'm sitting by the door."

He smirked, opening the car door. "Noted."