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“Do I really get dogs?” I ask. I love dogs so much. Troy is terrified of them.

“You do. Want to meet them?” Ryan asks.

“Are they here?!” I ask happily.

“Yeah, Erica is downstairs,” Calder says as he helps me step into loose-knit shorts. Julian helps me into an equally loose-fitting shirt before kissing me.

“What are their names?”

“Jack and Jill,” Julian laughs. “When you are feeling better, Erica will help you work with them. Until then, they will just acclimate to us.”

“Okay,” I say, smiling brightly.

Julian and Calder help me walk down the stairs to the living room, and I gasp when I see two massive Rottweilers laying on the floor in front of Erica. They pop up, and Erica smiles when they happily trot over to sniff my feet.

“They are massive,” I say, carefully sitting on the couch so I can pet them.

“Jack is 170 pounds. Jill is 150 pounds,” Erica says. “They were the only two in their litter.”

“They’re healthy?” I ask.

“Very,” she says. “How are you?”

“Better,” I sigh and focus on the dogs. Their entire existence brings me peace, and it suddenly makes sense. These dogs are more than just for protection. They are peace of mind and something for me to focus on. Everyone knows I’m going to spoil these dogs rotten. I notice their collars and look up at Erica. Ryan sits on the coffee table in front of me and pets the dogs as he talks.

“The psychiatrist recommended you get a service dog for PTSD. After you finally opened up and discussed everything, they diagnosed you with PTSD. Obviously, it’s more complicated than just one time talking to you, but we would be happy to set up an appointment next week,” Ryan explains.

“They give service animals for PTSD?” I ask. “I thought they were guard dogs?”

“They are,” Erica says. “My mother specifically trains guard dogs who can act as service animals for PTSD. They are meant for situations like this. It’s unfortunately common.”

“So, they can go everywhere with me?” I ask.

“Yes. You’ll just have to work with them so they can get comfortable taking commands from you. They are already very comfortable with you,” she says. “It’s a process.”

“But they will protect me?” I ask.

“Yes, from others and yourself,” she says bluntly. “Believe me when I say that I understand. PTSD eats away at your soul. It’s going to get so much worse before it gets better.”

Over the next few months, I heal and start training with the dogs. We get moved into our new home, and I find peace with knowing he is out there. It will be a long time before I am able to be alone again, but my men have the patience of a saint. My nightmares grow to the point that I start waking up screaming, just like I did when Troy whipped me, but within seconds one or both of my dogs lies on me. The weight of them on top of me calms me to the point that I can talk to the guys. Once the dogs sense that I have calmed down, they return to their beds on the floor by the door. They have free roam of the house, but they choose to lay at the foot of the bed between me and the door.

It took me two months to do anything more than kiss and an extra month to fully have sex. They were gentle and mindful of not only my new triggers but also my new limits. Impact playwas a no-go for a long time, but I was determined to find that peace again. We did have to work with Erica in the beginning so that the dogs did not maul anyone. The first time one of the guys smacked my ass, they were instantly ready to eat Julian. I had to give them reassurance so that they knew the difference between me being in trouble or not. This led to teaching them new commands. They’re brilliantly cute weapons who seem to thoroughly enjoy squishing me into a calmer state. I also taught them to take the guys down and lay on top of them too, which I find hilarious.

Troy wanted to break me. And for a while, he did. Not just my skin, not just my body, but the pieces of me I thought no one could touch. He shattered who I was and called it love. What he never understood and could never control was that I didn’t stay broken. I was bent, bruised, and torn apart in places I didn’t even know existed. I found the kind of love that doesn’t demand silence. I found men who didn’t just pick up the pieces; they taught me how to hold them. They gave me the confidence to know that when I rise, I am not rising alone.

Part 2

Twenty One

Cassidy

Eighteen Months Later

I hate tourists. Ifone more drunk frat boy asks for my number, I’m going to throw myself into the ocean. I am in a shit mood, and I just want to go home. Incessant texts from Trey aren’t helping. This fucking psychotic loser has been blowing up my phone all goddamn day. We went on a total of three dates, and somehow, he managed to talk me into crashing at my apartment. My fucking sanctuary. Now it’s been a year, and I can’t get rid of him. He is needy and verbally abusive. I workevery single shift I can just to avoid seeing him because when I do, he just fucks me with zero regard for my feelings or pleasure. If I say no, he talks my goddamn ear off until I give in. By talking, I mean he just begs. The last few nights, he has gotten angry when I stay firm. It’s easier just to let him get off so he will drink himself into a stupor and pass out. How did I fall so far?

“Cassidy, you’re done. Clock out,” Gwen says.

“I’ll work for free,” I suggest, only half joking.