Page 75 of Don't Shoot Me Santa

He crouched, tied Chaos to the front post, rubbed her head. The retriever leaned into his palm with a sigh. “Good girl.”

The puppy went back easy, padding into her kennel with her tongue lolling, blanket and water waiting. Aaron lingered long enough to make sure she settled, then let the quiet pull him deeper into the darkened row. Toward Lucky’s pen.

The lurcher was curled in the corner like a wire coil wrapped in fur.

He crouched. Waited.

“Hey, girl.” He held out a few treats in his palm. Shesniffed, flinched, wouldn’t take them. So he placed them on the ground. Waited. She inched forward. Ate one. Shook the whole time. Then Aaron extended the back of his hand. Palm tucked in. Harmless. Open. Let her choose him. And after a moment of stillness, she did. A tiny nose rub to the back of Aaron’s hand.

Aaron smiled. “That’s it, girl. I’m here. You’re safe. I got you.”

“You’re good with her.”

That voice landed wrong in his spine. Made the hairs on the back of his neck lift. He looked up. Snapped up, actually. Instinct sharpening. Blackwell stood at the kennel bars. Arms folded. No jacket. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled and a glass of whisky dangling from his hand like some smug, off-duty country lord. His eyes weren’t on Lucky. They were on Aaron. And Lucky, sensing it too, slipped back into the shadows.

Aaron stood. Closed the kennel gate behind him. “I’ll lock up. Then head home.”

Blackwell leaned back, the wall behind him soaking up his shadow. “Or you could stay. Have a drink. Bit of Christmas cheer. Celebrate how we might’ve saved the place today.”

Aaron buzzed his ID card to the lock sensor. Clicked it into place. Took a step sideways.

“You do look rather cute in that jumper.” Blackwell took a sip of his drink. “Very…festive.”

Aaron tightened his hand around the keycard. “Heard of sexual harassment?”

Blackwell smiled through a tsk. “Compliments are not harassment.”

“Depends whose mouth they come out of.”

Blackwell chuckled, pushing away from the wall andtaking another lingering sip of whisky. “Got told you were a handful.”

“More than a handful.”

“Really?” Blackwell raised his brows as he leered his gaze southward.

“I am way more than you can handle.”

“I’ve handled boys like you before.” Blackwell hummed. Fuckinghummed. And as he dragged his gaze lazily down Aaron’s body, he crossed the space between them and laid a hand on Aaron’s back, trailing his fingertips down the length of his spine. “And you did so very good today. Pushed you straight to the top of the pile of those outreach applications. Let’s see if we can keep you there, shall we?”

Aaron wriggled away. “Fuck you.”

Blackwell chuckled. “Ah, I see.” Then he lowered his voice to a seductive baritone that did nothing but make Aaron shudder. “You need therighthand. A firm touch. A bit ofdiscipline.”

Everything slammed back then. All of it. All at once.

Eight years old, dragged from the cupboard he’d learned to be silent in. Handed over to a man who hated him for existing and never let him forget it.

Twelve, cornered behind the school kitchens, spat at, called queer like it was rot leaking from his skin.

Fifteen, thinking he’d finally grown teeth. Built armour. Flirted with danger because it gave him control. Only to wake up in someone else’s bed. Groggy. Undressed. Uncertain. The memory blurred, except for one: the locked door. The sound of it clicking shut.

Twenty, being drugged at a party to make himeasier.

His body knew before his mind caught up. And his muscles locked, pulse roaring in his ears, the scent of Blackwell’s aftershave clawing at the back of his throat like poison.

He slapped Blackwell’s arm away.

Hard.