“I know your name,” he said, taking a slow step toward me. “I know how long you’ve worked here. I want to know why my dog didn’t tear your throat out.”

Bishop let out a low, soft whine, stepping closer to my knees.

He rested his broad, scarred snout against the fabric of my apron.

I let my fingers brush the damp, coarse fur behind his ears, acting on an instinct I couldn’t explain.

Lucian watched my hand move.

His jaw tightened, a small muscle jumping in his cheek.

“He doesn’t let people touch him,” Lucian said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.

“He was just protective,” I said. “Vance was being loud. He was hurting me.”

“Vance is a fool, but Bishop is a trained killer,” Lucian countered. “He was bred to protect my family. Only my family.”

He walked closer, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the wet stone tiles.

The scent of cedarwood, expensive cologne, and damp wool drifted off him.

“Six years ago, my sister Elena was killed,” Lucian said.

The name seemed to hang in the cold air between us, heavy and still.