The physician leaned out of the SUV. He was a portly man with a thin, reedy voice, now drowned out by the torrential rain. His gaze, however, was flat, devoid of clinical concern. He carried a small, silver case, flicking it open with practiced ease to draw out an injector. The needle glinted under the weak spill of the SUV’s interior light. Catalina’s mouth curled in sharp satisfaction. This was not an intervention to save Bastian; it was meant to finish him. “Such a tragic accident,” Catalina purred, her voice carrying over the rain, a chilling counterpoint to the storm’s fury. “Collapsing right after a physical altercation. Who could have predicted?” The man knelt in the mire beside Bastian’s motionless frame. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost theatrical, as he locked a glass ampoule into the chamber. Delfina watched the vial seat into place, then looked down at Bastian’s blue-tinged lips. She knew with absolute certainty that whatever cleared the plastic barrel was no antidote. It was the final, toxic dose meant to ensure he never woke. Her muscles screamed, the burn on her forearm throbbed against the soaked sleeve of her uniform, and Bastian’s bulk pinned her knees to the silt. She could not let the needle touch him. Then, a flash of scruffy brown fur. A low growl, more rumble than bark, tore through the downpour. Churro, who had been cowering under a nearby hedge, suddenly launched himself through the air. He was a small dog, but his attack was pure, unadulterated fury. With a snarl that belied his size, he latched onto Dr. Armitage’s ankle, his teeth sinking deep. “Agh! You beast!” the doctor shrieked, pain stripping away his veneer. He stumbled backward, flailing. The loaded barrel arced through the storm, glinting once before sinking into a puddle of brown water. Delfina seized the opening. Lunging forward, she threw her good arm around the man's waist and drove her shoulder into his hip. Off balance from Churro’s bite, he went down hard into the mire with a wet thud, his tailored wool soaking through. Delfina scrambled over him, her glare fixing on Catalina in the cabin. Catalina’s triumphant smile had evaporated, replaced by a mask of pure, venomous rage. “You imbecile! Get off him, you little servant!” she spat, her voice shrill. Delfina crawled back to Bastian through the sludge. He was completely limp. Lifting him was impossible, but she could haul. Looping her hands under his armpits, she dug the heels of her work shoes into the gravel and heaved backward. Inch by inch, she hauled him away from the idling vehicle, toward the stone terrace of Villa Solace. Churro circled the fallen physician, snapping at his fingers whenever the man tried to push up from the silt. Armitage flinched and shielded his face with a mud-caked sleeve. “Get that wretched animal!” Catalina shrieked, her voice shaking with fury. She leaned out the SUV window, her elegant coiffure now plastered to her forehead by the rain. “I’ll have him put down! And you, Delfina Navarro, you’ll rot in a cell!” Delfina dragged him onto the paved ramp, her scalded arm burning with every strain of her shoulder. Bastian’s head lolled against her chest, inert and heavy, but she kept her boots digging into the flagstones. The portal of Villa Solace rose ahead—a monolith of dark composite stone. Slamming her shoulder into the reader beside the bronze jamb, she waited as the scanner blinked cyan, recognizing the domestic staff keycard Bastian had coded for his personal quarters. Pneumatics hissed, and the reinforced slab slid back to reveal the dim foyer. She hauled Bastian over the threshold just as Churro squeezed through behind them, yapping back toward the driveway. The heavy panel engaged its magnetic seals with a heavy click, locking out the wind and the downpour. “Bastian,” she muttered, dropping beside him on the damp marble. His skin felt like wet slate. Against his ribs, his pulse fluttered in erratic, thready bursts. Near the base of the open steel staircase sat the concealed security vault she had dusted on her first week. Catching him under the arms again, she dragged his heels across the polished floorboards, away from the exterior glass. At the flush mahogany panel, she found the recessed glass sensor. Her card held no rank here. Lifting Bastian’s right hand, she guided his limp thumb onto the glass. A chime hummed through the frame, gears engaged, and the seam parted into an unlit chamber. Summoning the last strength in her back, Delfina pulled Bastian over the metal lip. Churro followed at her heels, and the door sealed flush behind them, shutting off the ambient hall light. The room smelled of ozone and cold steel. Her hand swept the bare wall for a switch, finding only smooth sheet metal. Dropping down, her hands found his damp temples, tracing the sharp cut of his jawline and the rough stubble along his chin. Air rattled in his throat, faint and hitched. At the hollow of his neck, his artery skipped beats. “Bastian, stay here,” she murmured into the dark. “Stay with me.” She pressed her cheek to his sternum, listening to the broken rhythm underneath. Her grandmother’s voice returned to her from the cottage hearth, demonstrating the lung cadences used by fishermen caught in undertows: *Deep. Slow. Pull the tide down. Let the surge pass.* She filled her chest, forcing her ribcage to steady. “Match me, Bastian,” she whispered, setting her palm flat against his center. “In... two, three, four. Out... two, three, four.” She counted aloud, matching the count to the rise and fall of her own ribs against his shoulder. No shift came. His skin felt like pond ice. The room was climate-chilled, and his core temperature was plummeting. Delfina slid her knees under his hips, pulling his back against her chest. Tucking her arms beneath his coat, she pressed her torso flush to his spine, sharing the heat of her own skin. Churro curled tight against Bastian's boots, a warm knot of wet fur. The damp wool of Bastian's lapel smelled of rain and cedar. She kept whispering the cadence against the curve of his neck until her throat turned dry. Under her palms, the chaotic stammering beneath his ribs began to lengthen, adopting the measured pace of her count. His ribcage rose deeper against her forearm, shedding its jagged hitches. She held him closer against the chill. Suddenly, a harsh crackle tore through the silence. The panic room’s automated speakers, dormant until now, sputtered to life, their sound amplified and distorted in the confined space. A familiar, chillingly calm voice echoed, devoid of the earlier fury, now laced with cold, calculated triumph. “Delfina Navarro,” Catalina’s voice purred from the speakers, each word a venomous dart. “I’ve called the Sanmoran constabulary. They’ll be here shortly to arrest you for the attempted murder of Bastian Ferrero. And just to ensure you don’t escape justice…” A click, sharp and final, reverberated through the speakers. “I’m overriding the system. The oxygen supply to this room will be completely cut in five minutes.”

The Stray's Bite