Chapter 2 - The Beast in the Tower
The elevator doors opened directly into a penthouse that felt less like a home and more like a cathedral made of glass and grey stone. Rain lashed against sixty-foot windows that looked out over the glittering, indifferent grid of Manhattan.
In the far corner of the living room, sprawled across a hand-woven rug worth more than Briar’s life, lay Titan.
He was massive—a hundred and fifty pounds of heavy, slate-grey muscle, his broad head resting flat against his paws. His breathing was so shallow that for a terrible second, Briar thought they were too late. Surrounding him were three silver bowls untouched: raw organic beef, fresh bone broth, specialized veterinary formula.
Damien stood in the center of the room, his black coat soaked at the shoulders, his face unreadable. "He hasn't eaten in thirty-one days. He drinks only when I force a syringe into his jaws. The vets say his organs are shutting down."
Briar didn't listen to the statistics. She dropped her small canvas bag onto the floor and took off her shoes.
"What are you doing?" Damien’s security chief, a hulking man named Viktor, stepped forward sharply. "He's unpredictable. He bit the chief of veterinary medicine at Cornell last week."
"Back off," Briar said. Her voice didn't shake. The fear that had gripped her in the car vanished, replaced by the quiet, fierce clarity that always took over when an animal was suffering.
She didn't approach Titan directly. She sat on the cold hardwood floor ten feet away, her legs crossed, her eyes lowered toward the floor. She made herself small. She breathed slowly, filling her lungs, exhaling in a soft, steady rhythm.
"Titan," she whispered softly.
The dog’s ears twitched. One heavy, dark eye opened slowly, staring at her with profound, crushing apathy.
"I know," Briar murmured, staring at the floorboards between them. "I know how heavy it is. You just want everyone to leave you alone. You want the noise to stop."
Damien watched from the shadows near the entrance, his jaw set, his arms crossed over his chest. In six years, he had never seen anyone sit on the floor of his penthouse. He had never seen anyone talk to the hound without pity or authority.
Briar slowly reached into her pocket. She pulled out a small piece of dried beef liver—a cheap treat she kept in her coat for the strays behind the Brooklyn clinic. She didn't hold it out. She placed it on the floor halfway between them and folded her hands in her lap.
"You don't have to eat it," she whispered. "You just have to know it's there."
For ten minutes, the room remained dead silent, save for the rain against the glass.
Then, Titan’s tail gave a single, microscopic thump against the rug.
Slowly, agonizingly, the massive grey head lifted. His front legs trembled with exhaustion as he pulled his heavy body forward an inch. Then another. He crept across the floor like a ghost, stopping right in front of the piece of liver. He didn't eat it immediately. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed his wet, cold nose directly against the side of Briar’s neck.
Briar didn't flinch. She turned her head slightly and rested her forehead against Titan’s broad, wrinkled brow.
"I've got you," she breathed, tears pricking her eyes. "You're not alone anymore."
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Titan let out a long, shuddering sigh—a sound that sounded like a chest finally letting go of years of pain. Then, he licked the liver off the floor and swallowed it whole.
Behind her, Damien let out a breath he had been holding for a month.
