Lucian stopped, his hand freezing inches from the brass buckle.

He looked genuinely surprised, his brow furrowing.

“He has never growled at me,” Lucian whispered.

“He is protective,” I said, reaching down to touch the dog’s head.

As soon as my fingers brushed his scarred ears, the growling stopped.

Bishop let out a soft whine, leaning his full weight into my shins.

Lucian watched my hand.

His gray eyes narrowed, analyzing every movement of my fingers.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I told you,” I said. “I am just a waitress.”

I reached into my collar, my fingers instinctively finding the small, cold shape of my mother’s silver locket.

I always held it when I was scared.

It was a habit I could not break, a cheap piece of metal with an engraved rose on the front.

“A waitress who commands a trained attack dog,” Lucian said.

“I don’t command him,” I replied, taking another step toward the gate.

“He is just choosing to walk with me.”

I pushed the heavy iron gate open.

It creaked loudly, the sound echoing in the narrow alley.