Page 35 of Allegiant

“Nugget is a sausage dog?”

“He is.” I turn so he can see him properly. “Don’t be fooled by his cuteness. He’s a little shit. And beware of your shoes. He will devour them.”

Even I can hear how fond my words are. Samson smirks, reaching out to tickle Nugget under his chin. “Yeah, he seems like real hard work.”

“That’s because he’s luring you in,” I say, pressing a kiss to Nugget’s head. “They’re irresistibly adorable, loyal, and loving…then they poop under your bookcase and put holes in all your socks.”

“Is he being mean to you?” Samson’s the one crooning now, plucking Nugget out of my arms and cradling him against his chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.”

Seeing Samson soften around my dog has the walls around my heart shaking all the way down to their foundations. A lump forms in my throat as he continues to talk to Nugget, stroking him the whole time.

Nugget, meanwhile, is staring at Samson like he’s the most captivating person he’s ever seen.

I know how he feels.

Eventually, Nugget’s usual propensity for trouble kicks in. He’s happy to be cuddled, but on his terms. He wriggles until Samson puts him down, then scampers off merrily in the direction of my bedroom, his little tail waving furiously.

“I thought sausage dogs were bigger,” Samson says.

“He’s a miniature,” I reply. “There’s not much difference between them though, apart from size. But both versions were originally bred to hunt. Badgers for the big ones and rats for the small ones. In World War I they were trained to hunt out land mines. They were small enough to wriggle under the barbed wire, and they’re super independent and loyal. Plus, their bark is fucking loud, which I guess is useful on a battlefield. My tiny apartment? Not so much.”

Samson frowns in the direction of my bedroom. “Really? How can something that tiny be loud?”

I roll my eyes. “Just you wait. I swear, half of him must be lungs alone.”

Unsure what to do with myself now, I head into my kitchen and fill my kettle. Most people I know seem to heat water for their tea in the microwave, but not me. My kettle is electric and everything.

I try to ignore how Samson is wandering through my apartment, looking at my things. He has no shame, taking books off my shelves, opening drawers, and even flicking through the calendar on my wall. It’s almost like he’s cataloging things, committing things to memory, but for some reason, I don’t mind it.

“Why’s this date got a star on it?”

I glance over to see he’s running a finger along my calendar.

My spine stiffens and I busy myself pulling cups out of a cupboard. A very important task indeed.

“Just because.”

“It’s in four days,” Samson says. “Do you have special plans or something?”

“Or something.” I throw him a breezy smile to cover up the fact my soul feels like it’s tearing in two. It’s very inconvenient, especially because I wanted to engage in relations. Very specific horizontal relations that include dicks. “Tea?”

Thankfully, Samson’s attention shifts away from the calendar. “Do I look like someone who drinks tea? Fucking leaves on branches. Hell no.”

I laugh lightly as I fill two mugs. Chamomile is calming. We could both use that after tonight. “You look like someone who isn’t afraid to try new things. Leaves and all.”

Samson grunts but accepts the cup from me. “It looks like old soil.”

“It’s good for you,” I say, my easy tone shifting to alarm as he lifts the mug to his lips. “But not immediately! Jesus, are you trying to burn yourself?”

He smirks as he lowers the cup. “You’re a bit protective, aren’t you?”

Memories hit me so fast they make me dizzy. A voice I’ve tried both to forget and remember.

“Something’s going on, Rowan.”

“I swear someone’s been following me.”

“I’m fucking scared, man.”