Page 47 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

Maybe he was speaking to himself. Maybe it was Kenny’s voice behind them, too. Always there in the corners of him now. Reminding him it was okay to feel too much. Want too much.Betoo much. That he didn’t have to be fixed to be worthy. Didn’t have to be finished to be wanted.

Didn’t have to come to be loved.

The lurcher didn’t move, but the growl sank into a quieter vibration.

Aaron made himself relax, let the tension bleed out of his shoulders—

Then a hand touched his neck.

Aaron recoiled as if he’d been tasered. He slammed back into the kennel wall. The lurcher flinched at the noise, giving a startled yelp, then bolted to the far corner, ribs quivering as if she’d been hit.

Aaron spun, already halfway into a swing. “What the fu—”

The curse died in his throat.

Hugo Blackwell.

The new CEO of Pawsitive Futures. Six weeks on the job, all charm and polish. His handshake rehearsed, his résumé so squeaky clean it probably had its own publicist. Confidence like his didn’t come from competence. It came from never hearing the wordno.

Aaron had met men like Blackwell before. Mostly in Inferno. Predators in suits, hunting for a twink they could ruin with or without consent. And he reminded Aaron ofhim. That foster carer. The one who figured out who Aaron really was and made him pay for it. Left him bruised. Broken. Fuckingviolated. Made him understand, in blood and violence, what it meant to be Roisin Howell’s son.

And one of her victims.

Blackwell raised his hands, all faux innocence. “Apologies. I called your name.”

That voice.

Syrup and scalpel. Smooth and slicing. It didn’t fill a room. Itcoiledaround it. Aaron’s stomach turned cold.

“Mr Blackwell.” He forced the name out like gravel. Politeness, polished into muscle memory. He didn’t owe this man anything, but he also couldn’t afford to losethe only place that made sense. The dogs. The routine. The leash he could hold.

“Call me Hugo.”

Yeah, not happening.

He always stood too close. Smiled too easily. Late fifties, well-cut coat, leather gloves folded in one hand like theatre props. His smile was mild, curated.

“You were very focused.” Blackwell gestured towards the cowering dog. “Quite impressive the way you manage the difficult ones.”

Aaron didn’t answer.

Instead, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, forcing them still. Better that than let them shake. Or worse, drive straight into the smug bastard who signed his payslips. He’d always known employment would be tricky, what with the oppositional defiance authority complex whatever diagnosis Kenny liked to pin on him.

But Blackwell was different. This wasn’t just authority grinding under his skin. It was something colder.

Hungrier.

So Aaron made his voice flat, hard enough to cut. “I don’t like being touched.”

He could’ve addedexcept by my boyfriend, but the glare said enough. The edge in his voice, the way he didn’t move an inch closer. Blackwell should get the message. If he had half a brain, he’d already be backing off.

“Of course.” Blackwell held up a hand. “My mistake.”

The new CEO had arrived suddenly at the charity, brought in by the board after the previous top-dog,excuse the pun, retired. His background was all polished service: former corporate fixer for floundering charities, degrees in finance and accounting, a reputation for quiet efficiency. Aaron had looked him up once, out of instinct more than interest, andfound pages scrubbed clean. A digital footprint that had beenmanaged. Like his own.

He’d chalked it up to ego. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

“I was hoping to catch you,” Blackwell said, that smile of his smooth as polished glass. “I’ve been invited to the St Joseph’s Homeless Centre. Bit of a dual-purpose visit. Meet with their counselling staff, talk potential funding. They’ve asked if we might bring one of our dogs along. Something calm, well-socialised. A demonstration piece, really. Makes for good PR. And good outreach.”