Chapter 2 - The Unmasking of the Beast
Cyrus lunged one last time, hitting the chain-link with enough force to make the support posts groan. But then, a change. He froze. I could hear the transition—the frantic, erratic pounding of his heart slowing. He sniffed the air, a long, wet inhalation that seemed to draw in the very atmosphere of the room.
He smelled the truth. He smelled that I wasn't there to command, or break, or punish.
I felt the heavy thud of his body hitting the floor on the other side of the fence. He let out a whimper—a small, pathetic sound that shocked the crowd into dead silence.
"Open the gate," I said. My voice was small, but in the cavernous, hushed arena, it sounded like a thunderclap.
"He'll kill you," Liam shouted from the back.
Julian Hart walked toward the kennel, his boots clicking with deliberate speed. He was curious now, the boredom replaced by a calculated, dangerous fascination. He drew a heavy key from his coat and shoved it into the lock.
Click.
The door swung open.
A collective gasp went up from two hundred of the most dangerous people in Chicago. I stood perfectly still. Cyrus stepped out. I could hear his claws clicking on the concrete, then transitioning to the soft, shifting dirt. He was right in front of me. I could feel the heat radiating from his massive body, the smell of his matted fur, the sharp, jagged rhythm of his life.
He didn't strike. He lowered his head, pressing his cold, wet nose against my palm. I closed my fingers into his fur, finding the deep, hard scars that lined his neck. He leaned his entire weight against me, his body trembling, letting out a long, shuddering breath that felt like a release of a lifetime of agony.
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I sat down on the dirt floor, and the beast, the "slaughterer of men," curled into a ball, resting his massive head on my knee.
"Five minutes," I said, looking toward where I knew Julian was standing. "He's not a monster. He's just hurt."
