Chapter 80

"If you bring one more stray animal into this house, I am officially converting the guest suite into a veterinary quarantine ward," Elias said, leaning against the doorframe of the mudroom with his arms crossed, watching Raphael kneel on the cold slate floor with a roll of sterile gauze and a bottle of iodine.

Raphael didn't look up, his fingers moving with practiced, delicate precision as he gently cleaned the ragged, gravel-embedded tear in the small dog's front paw pad. "The animal was bleeding onto our front porch, Elias. What was I supposed to do, step over it and ask it to find a clinic with better operating hours?"

"It's a mangy terrier mix with bad intentions and an even worse attitude," Elias countered, raising an eyebrow as the small, shivering ball of black-and-tan fur let out a low, defensive growl and tried to snap at Raphael’s wrist. "See? It’s trying to assassinate you. It fits right in with our former social circle."

"Stop antagonizing him, he’s terrified," Raphael snapped back, deftly slipping a loop of gauze around the dog's muzzle to keep it from biting while he applied antibiotic ointment to the wound. "And he is not an assassin. He’s a victim of circumstance, much like someone else I dragged out of a hospital trauma wing a few years ago."

Elias chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and walking over to crouch down beside Raphael on the slate floor. "Are you comparing me to a stray mutt found behind a dumpster?"

"The mutt has better manners and complains significantly less about minor physical discomforts," Raphael replied dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a reluctant, fond smile. "Hand me those surgical scissors from the metal tray."

Elias picked up the scissors and handed them over, his fingers brushing against Raphael's. He lingered for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes softening as he watched Raphael work with the same intense, unwavering focus he used to bring to complex neurovascular procedures in the city. "You really can't turn it off, can you? The compulsion to fix everything that’s broken."

"Only the things worth saving," Raphael murmured, snipping the excess gauze with a clean snap and securing the medical tape with a gentle pat on the dog's trembling head. "There. All done, you miserable little creature."

The terrier let out a pathetic whimper, its large, dark eyes blinking up at Raphael with immediate, total betrayal before burying its head into the crook of Raphael's knee.

"Traitor," Elias teased, reaching out to scratch the dog tentatively behind its floppy ears, earning a surprisingly docile tail wag in response. "Looks like you’ve been adopted. What are you going to call him? Stitches?"

"Please tell me you did not just make a medical pun," Raphael groaned, standing up and dusting off his knees while wincing slightly at a sudden pop in his lower back. "We are not naming him Stitches. We aren't naming him anything. He’s staying here until his paw heals, and then he’s a free agent."

"Right. Just like you were a free agent when you decided to smuggle me out of St. Jude's in an ambulance," Elias said smoothly, standing up to tower over Raphael by a full head. "He’ll be sleeping at the foot of our bed by midnight. You know it, and I know it."

"I know nothing of the sort," Raphael retorted, though there was zero conviction in his voice as he picked up the small dog in his arms, careful not to jostle the bandaged paw. "Go build it a proper kennel before the storm front rolls in off the water. The wind is already picking up."

"Yes, Doctor," Elias murmured, his lips curving into a slow, amused smile as he brushed his thumb gently across Raphael's cheekbone, leaving a faint smudge of iodine. "I'll get right on building a luxury estate for our new roommate."

As Elias walked out toward the detached workshop to fetch his tools, Raphael looked down at the shivering terrier nestled against his chest. The dog let out a soft sigh, finally relaxing its tense muscles in the warmth of the coastal estate. Raphael shook his head, a quiet, profound sense of peace washing over him as he carried the animal into the kitchen to find a bowl of water.

The heavy front door clicked shut behind Elias, but the sound didn't echo with the ominous finality it once had years ago. It was just another ordinary evening in a life they had carved out of the rough coastal stone. Raphael set the dog down on a soft kitchen rug and turned on the tap, washing the iodine from his hands with slow, rhythmic motions.

Ten minutes later, the back door banged open, and Elias stepped inside, tracking in a gust of cold sea air and holding a stack of freshly cut cedar boards under one arm.

"The weather’s turning ugly fast," Elias announced, tossing a handful of galvanized nails onto the wooden island counter with a metallic clatter. "If we’re going to have a dog, it needs shelter before the rain hits the cliffs."

"You're taking this very seriously for someone who called him a mangy mutt five minutes ago," Raphael observed, leaning against the counter and watching Elias sort through his tools with practiced efficiency.

"I take everything I own very seriously," Elias replied, pausing to look up from the workbench, his dark gaze locking onto Raphael's with an intensity that made the air between them suddenly feel a few degrees warmer. "Especially the things that wander onto my property and refuse to leave."

Raphael felt a familiar, pleasant warmth spread through his chest, pushing away the lingering chill of the coastal draft. "Is that right? And what category do I fall under?"

Elias picked up a hammer and gave Raphael a slow, dangerous smile. "You didn't wander, Raphael. You operated."

Before Raphael could think of a sufficiently sarcastic medical retort, the front doorbell chimed—a sharp, unexpected sound that cut cleanly through the quiet hum of the house.

Both men froze. Visitors after dark on the isolated northern coast were exceedingly rare, and unexpected visitors with formal intentions practically nonexistent.

Elias slowly set the hammer down on the counter, his body shifting instantly into the coiled, hyper-vigilant posture of a man who spent decades expecting ghosts from his past to come knocking. "Nobody knows we're here," Elias said quietly, his voice dropping an octave as his hand drifted instinctively toward his side.

"Except the town council, the mayor, and half the local fishermen," Raphael pointed out, though his own pulse spiked uncomfortably against his ribs as he crossed the kitchen toward the hallway. "It could just be someone looking for after-hours medical help."

"At nine o'clock on a Tuesday?" Elias asked, following closely behind him, his dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. "In this weather?"

The doorbell rang a second time, more insistently now, accompanied by a muffled thud against the heavy oak front door as if someone were leaning heavily against the wood.

Raphael reached the foyer first, placing a hand on the brass doorknob before pausing to look back at Elias, who stood ready in the dim shadows of the hallway. With a sharp breath, Raphael turned the handle and pulled the heavy door open into the howling coastal wind.

Standing on the porch, drenched in freezing rain and clutching a battered leather duffel bag to his chest, was a young man with dark, bruised eyes and a familiar, desperate expression that immediately made Raphael’s stomach drop.

"Elias?" the stranger gasped, his voice trembling from the biting cold as he collapsed against the doorframe. "You have to help me. They found the ledger."