A wolf leaps from the darkness, all fangs and fury, clamping onto Daniel's throat, and he stumbles backward, gurgling, the axe falling from his grip.
The wolf's eyes meet mine. Golden. Knowing.
I wake in a sweat, gasping, my nightshirt moist with sweat, my heart slamming against my ribs hard. The sheets are twisted around my legs like ropes.
"Liza?" Julian's voice cuts through the panic, groggy but concerned. His good hand finds my back. "Hey, breathe. You're okay."
But I'm not okay. I'm drowning. Dying. Frozen solid from the inside out.
I press my face into his chest and sob.
An hour later, I'm deep in Google images, scrolling past adorable German Shepherd puppies with oversized ears and serious faces. My phone screen glows in the dim bedroom light.
Loyal. Protective. Intelligent.
The words leap out from breeder websites and training forums. I click through care requirements—daily exercise, mental stimulation, consistent training. My thumb hovers over an article titled "German Shepherds as Guard Dogs."
Perfect.
I navigate to another tab.Hip dysplasia in German Shepherds.Great. Vet bills I can't afford. I scroll through recommended health screenings, genetic testing, proper nutrition. The costs pile up in my head like a tower of ready to topple.
Julian shifts beside me, his cast bumping against my thigh. I glance at him—mouth slightly open, peaceful despite everything. My chest tightens.
Back to the laptop. I find a breeder two towns over with a litter ready in three weeks. The photos show a mama dog with intelligent dark eyes, standing alert in a fenced yard. Her pups wrestle in the grass, tiny balls of tan and black fur.
Eight hundred dollars.
I wince. My savings account laughs at me from somewhere in the digital void.
Another tab.Adopting adult German Shepherds.The shelter listings hit different—older dogs with scarred pasts, somereturned multiple times. One catches my eye: "Thor, 3 years old, needs experienced owner, does not do well with men."
I screenshot it anyway.
Julian's breathing changes, and I lock my phone screen, plunging us into darkness. My nightmare still clings to the edges of my consciousness—Daniel's face twisted in rage, the axe glinting, Julian's blood spreading across pavement that somehow turned to dirt.
But that wolf. Dark and powerful, teeth bared.
I unlock my phone again, brightness on low. Search:Training protection dogs Cumberland.Results populate—professional trainers, personal protection courses, and aggressive dog rehabilitation specialists.
My finger hovers over a contact form.
Is this crazy?
Probably. But so is everything else about my life right now. Daniel's email burns in my memory:you've made your own bed.
I need something solid. Something with teeth.
I bookmark the breeder, the shelter, three training programs. Close the browser. Open Instagram to distract myself, but land on a reel of a German Shepherd catching a would-be intruder by the arm.
The comments overflow with praise.
Julian wakes, turns to me, sleepy but curious.
I save the video. “I just had the worst nightmare,” I tell him.
“Let me guess,” he says. “It was about Daniel.”
“The one and only. He killed you.”
