Page 19 of Enforcer Daddy
That was the problem.
Somehow, in the space of a few hours, this feral girl with her desperate bravery and her soft spot for broken puppies had gotten under my skin in a way I didn't like and couldn't seem to stop.
"Why?" she asked finally. "Why keep me if not for the money?"
Because you're magnificent in your rage. Because you'd rather die than submit. Because something about you makes me want things I shouldn't want and can't afford to feel.
"Because I fix broken things," I said instead. "And you, little one, are very broken. Now, speaking of broken things, I need to know what to call the dog." I pulled out my phone to text my veterinarian contact. Dr. Yankov was one of the few people in my contacts who didn't deal in violence or vice. He ran a clinicin Brighton Beach, treated the pets of connected families, and knew when not to ask questions about unusual house calls.
Eva looked at me like I'd completely lost my mind. "You're worried about the dog's name? Now?"
"He needs medical attention," I said, already typing out the message. "The vet will want a name for the chart. It's how normal people do things."
"Normal," she repeated, gesturing at herself tied to the chair, at my bleeding arm, at the general destruction we'd caused in the last hour. "Right. Because this is all very normal."
The puppy whimpered from his spot by her feet, and her whole demeanor shifted. That hardness she wore like armor cracked just enough to show something softer underneath. She looked down at him—this tiny, broken thing that had attached himself to her like she was his only hope in the world. Maybe she was.
"Bear," she said quietly, so quietly I almost missed it.
"Bear," I repeated, adding it to the text. "Is he a brown bear or polar bear?"
She actually looked at me then, really looked at me, and for a second I saw past all that rage to something else. Something young and hurt and desperate for any kindness, even stupid kindness about a dying puppy's name.
"Teddy bear," she said, and her voice cracked on it. "Because someone threw him away like a broken toy."
The words hit somewhere I didn't know could still feel things. I focused on my phone, typing out the rest of the message to Yankov. Malnourished puppy, approximately eight weeks old, eye trauma, possible respiratory issues, needs immediate attention. Can you come to the Queens safe house tonight?
Petrov responded within seconds: On my way. 45 minutes.
"You're really going to help him?" Eva asked, and the suspicion in her voice was mixed with something that might have been hope.
"I said I would."
"People say a lot of things." She shifted in the chair, the zip ties leaving red marks on her wrists. "Doesn't mean they follow through."
"I'm not people," I said, pocketing my phone. "When I say something, it happens."
She studied me with those impossible eyes, looking for the lie, the angle, the moment when I'd reveal this was all some elaborate game. But it wasn't a game. The dog needed help. She needed help, though she'd never admit it. And for some fucked up reason, I seemed to be providing both.
"Why do you care about the dog?" she asked.
"I don't," I lied. "But you do. And you're marginally less likely to try escaping through another window if the dog is here getting medical attention."
"So it's manipulation."
"Everything's manipulation, little one."
Bear made a sound that was trying to be a bark but came out as more of a squeaky wheeze. He was trying to climb into Eva's lap, his little legs too weak to make it up the chair, but he kept trying. Over and over, falling back each time, determined to get to her.
"Let me hold him," she said, and there was no fight in it this time, just exhaustion. "Please. He's scared."
That 'please' again. The word she hated saying but kept saying anyway when it came to this dog. I pulled out the knife I’d taken from her and cut the zip ties on her wrists. Not the ankles, I wasn't that stupid, but enough that she could reach down and pick up Bear.
She gathered him into her arms like he was made of spun glass, careful of his eye, his prominent ribs, all the places where life had already hurt him. He immediately calmed, pressing his face into her neck, his whole tiny body relaxing like he'd finally found where he belonged.
"The vet will fix him," I said, watching them together. "He's good at what he does."
"What about me?" She looked up suddenly, those mismatched eyes bright with something that might have been tears. "Will I be fine? Or are you just saying that too?"
