Page 87 of Vetted for Vengeance
And poor Noah was working for meals and a mattress.
But now the payments have stopped. Whittle must have connected his cash-cow to the news; the payment isn't even overdue yet.
If Whittle sent someone to collect…
Why call Noah directly?
Why not take what he wants?
This isn’t clean.
The room feels smaller now.
Not physically but tighter.
Like something unseen has stepped inside with me and is standing just out of sight.
I don’t miss things.
That’s what makes me effective.
Every movement. Every pattern. Every inconsistency.
I see it.
I catalogue it.
I act on it.
My gaze drifts to the door.
Closed.
Locked.
Noah is somewhere in the building.
Probably with his hands full of puppies again, breaking every rule I’ve ever set and somehow making it work anyway.
He trusts this place.
Trusts me.
That trust settles low in my chest.
Heavy and dangerous.
Because if I’ve missed something. If I’ve let something get close enough to reach him…
That’s not a mistake.
That’s a failure.
And I don’t fail.
I’ll get my answers. I'll protect what's mine.
Peter Whittle is traceable; it doesn't take much to connect him to the dogs he uses for fighting. Not the cute dogs Noah breeds, but thick-necked, heavy-jawed fighters bred to win or die. All teeth and dead eyes.
