The syringe was already full when I walked into the kennel block. Pentobarbital, drawn up clean and capped, the plunger taped so it wouldn't shift in transit.

The private holding room beneath the glasshouse was cold, quiet, and far removed from the main estate quarters. It had thick stone walls, a single reinforced iron door, and a drain built into the center of the concrete floor. It was meant for quarantine, but to me, it felt like a bunker.

I spent the first three hours cleaning Bishop's wounds properly.

Without Rener standing over me with a gun, I was able to work the way I was trained. I sat on the cold floor, letting Bishop smell the iodine, the gauze, and the sterile saline before I touched him.

At first, every muscle in his seventy-pound frame was locked tight. His low, warning rumble vibrated through the floorboards. But I didn't push. I spoke to him in a low, rhythmic tone, applying a topical anesthetic to the ragged tear along his ear.

"I know," I murmured, carefully cleaning the dried blood from his coat. "They hurt you, didn't they? They used you to take the fall."

By the third hour, the low growl stopped. Bishop leaned his heavy, scarred head against my knee, letting out a long, ragged sigh that sounded like months of held tension finally leaving his body.

Animals know when someone is fighting for them. They read intent better than any human ever could.

The heavy door opened with a slow metallic click.

I didn't jump. I had already heard the distinctive, heavy tread of custom leather shoes coming down the stone stairs.

Alexander Voss stepped into the holding cell. He had removed his suit jacket, wearing only a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing thick wrists and another faint scar near his left pulse point. He carried a leather folder under his arm.

Bishop instantly stood up, his ears pinning back, his tail dropping low into a defensive curve. He didn't attack, but he placed himself directly between me and Voss.

Voss stopped three paces back. He looked down at the dog, then at me sitting on the floor surrounded by bloody cotton swabs and medical wraps.

"He doesn't like me," Voss observed neutrally.

"He doesn't like men who smell like gunpowder and authority," I replied, wiping my hands with a damp towel. "It reminds him of the handler who let him get hurt."

Voss's eyes flicked to the dog's ear, noticing the neat, white butterfly sutures I had placed along the rim of the cartilage. "You do clean work."

"I have to," I said, standing up and dusting off my scrub pants. "I don't have the luxury of making mistakes."

Voss tossed the leather folder onto a small metal prep table nearby. "That's your brother's complete medical file from Newark General. Dr. Vance reviewed it an hour ago. The specialized spinal surgery he needs can be scheduled for next Thursday at Saint Jude’s Private Clinic."

My chest tightened instantly. My breath caught in my throat. "You... you already spoke to Saint Jude's?"

"The retainer has been wired to their surgical board," Voss said, his tone casual, as if he had just bought a cup of coffee instead of securing a two-hundred-thousand-dollar neurological procedure. "Full private room, post-operative rehabilitation, and twenty-four-hour nursing care. It's fully covered."

I stared at him, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. "Why? I haven't proven anything yet."

"You proved you have backbone," Voss replied, taking a step closer. The dim light of the overhead halogen bulb caught the sharp angles of his face. "In my business, Ren, everybody lies. My lieutenants lie to protect their territory. My lawyers lie to cover their fees. My enemies lie to stay alive. But you sat on a cold floor with a syringe in your hand and told me I was being played."

"I told you the truth because the dog couldn't," I said softly.

"Regardless," Voss continued, leaning his hip against the edge of the metal table. "Eli's surgery is locked in. But that means your contract with me is locked in as well. You don't leave this estate until we find the man who cut that collar."

"And if it leads to someone high up?" I asked, looking at the folder. "Someone in your inner circle?"

Voss's hazel eyes went completely flat, dark, and ice-cold.

"Then I put them down," he said simply. "Nothing in this house gets put down without my explicit order. Not an animal. And certainly not a traitor."

Before I could answer, the glasshouse alarm chimed twice from the top of the stairs—a quiet, low-frequency ping that signaled an unauthorized approach to the perimeter.

Voss didn't flinch. His hand moved smoothly to the small of his back, drawing a dark compact pistol from his waistband with practiced ease. He didn't point it; he held it low, casual, ready.

"Stay behind me," Voss commanded quietly.

"I have the dog," I whispered, reaching down to grab Bishop's leather training harness.

The heavy iron door at the top of the stairs swung open, casting a long, trembling shadow down the stone staircase.

A man stepped into the light. It was Miller—the estate's chief logistics officer, a stocky man with thinning hair and a gold watch that gleamed under the halogen bulb. He was holding a heavy manila envelope, his face slick with sweat.

"Boss!" Miller gasped, stopping at the landing when he saw the drawn pistol in Voss's hand. "I... I saw the security override on the basement block. Rener said you moved the tech down here."

"What do you have, Miller?" Voss asked, his voice entirely devoid of warmth.

Miller swallowed hard, clutching the envelope to his chest. "The security footage from the night of the attack. The missing three minutes from the East Wing gallery. I found it archived on an offline backup server."

I looked down at Bishop. The moment Miller's voice echoed off the stone walls, the dog's fur stood up straight along his spine. A deep, chest-rattling growl began to vibrate in his throat.

Bishop didn't hate all handlers. He hated that voice.

I caught Voss's eye and gave him a single, subtle nod.