Page 161 of Mission Shift

We were still wrapped up in each other when a scream broke through our tender moment.

A man’s voice, gruff and angry, rose above the noises of the street. I twisted just in time to catch a blur of black muscle barrel toward me—an enormous dog with cropped ears, its jaws clamped around a bloody hunk of meat. He sideswiped my hip before he tore down the sidewalk and into the alley we’d just come out of.

Behind him, a butcher in a blood-streaked apron came tearing down the sidewalk with a cleaver in one hand and a mouth full of curses. His face was red, his belly jiggling as he ran past us.

“Get back here, you mangy son of a bitch!” he roared.

I didn’t think. I bolted after them.

I hit the entrance of the alley just as the man was cornering the dog.

The dog had nowhere to go—the walls boxed him in—but he didn’t drop the meat. He growled low, crouched in a defensive posture. The butcher took a wild swing with his knife. Missed.

“Drop it!” he said. “That’s five hundred dollars of premium ribeye, you filthy rat!”

“Hey!” I shouted. “Back the hell off!”

He didn’t stop.

Another swipe.

I rushed forward. “I said, back off!”

He turned on me. “Mind your business, bitch. That’s my meat. Damn mutt’s as good as dead—” His eyes narrowed on me. “What are you, some dyke? What’s with the spiky short hair? You even eat, or do you just blow over in the wind?”

Wrong choice of words.

Within two seconds, I disarmed him. My heel snagged his wrist—yes, I was well-versed in fighting in dress shoes. The cleaver clattered to the ground and skidded under a dumpster. I followed with a palm to his nose, a knee to his groin, and a fist across his jaw. His feet were lifted off the ground with the impact.

He stumbled back, dazed.

I didn’t stop.

I punched him again. And again. I broke skin. Busted his nose. Sent teeth flying.

With blood smeared across his face, he fell, slumping against the wall.

“I’d demand an apology,” I said, breathless with fury, “but I don’t think you can speak with half your teeth down your throat.”

He moaned, curling in on himself.

I delivered one last kick, right to his ribs. He groaned but didn’t move again.

The dog still stood in the corner of the alley, his powerful body tense, the meat clamped between his jaws. He hadn’t run, hadn’t attacked, just watched.

Slowly, I crouched where I was, palms open. “Hey, big guy. It’s okay now. That steak? Yours. You earned it.”

His ears twitched.

“You could’ve eaten him, but you didn’t. That’s restraint. That’s discipline.” I smiled. “You’re a powerful boy, aren’t you? So strong. So smart.”

The dog whined.

I approached him cautiously, reaching out.

He sniffed my hand, then nudged it with his nose. In a blink, he closed the distance, brushing against my leg. Then he sat upright. Perfect posture. Every rib was visible beneath his black coat, but his eyes were bright, alert, and calculating.

Like a soldier waiting for orders.

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