Her Broken Pet Bites Back

I was born with the kind of unnatural, freakish strength that makes diplomats shudder and barflies pray. Growing up, whenever a pack of neighborhood bullies tried cornering me behind the bleachers, I didn't cry or tell a teacher—I put all seven of them in the dirt. Years later, when an armed predator tried snatching a kid off my block, I snapped his femur with two bare hands like a dry piece of kindling. I became a local urban legend. The trouble with becoming a neighborhood folk hero for hand-to-hand violence is that your romantic prospects dry up overnight. By the time I hit thirty, not a single matchmaker within a fifty-mile radius would take my calls. In a fit of petty, stubborn spite, I booked out the entire VIP floor of an upscale club, surrounded myself with bottle service, drank top-shelf bourbon until my veins buzzed, and popped an aneurysm from pure, unadulterated adrenaline. When I opened my eyes, I had somehow woken up inside the battered skin of a doormat husband in some melodramatic soap opera. The good news? I had a gorgeous, impossibly wealthy heiress for a wife. The bad news? Anchored to her hip was a venomous little leech named Keegan—her self-proclaimed "gay best friend" and emotional lapdog. For three miserable years, Keegan had exploited her blind spot, chipping away at the original owner of this body until nothing was left but bruises, silence, and shame. Right this second, Keegan was crowded against Camille in the low, ambient red light of the private lounge, play-wrestling and gossiping, his linen-shirted elbow swinging back with unmistakable malice until it slammed dead into my sternum. I let out an involuntary grunt, the unfamiliar body reacting before my brain could stop it. Keegan’s eyes flickered with practiced disdain. He threw his hands up, grinning around the plush leather booth. "God, Dean, relax! We told you this was just drinks for the inner circle. You insisted on tagging along like a stubborn bodyguard, and now you’re pouting because somebody bumped your shoulder?" Camille Townsend barely glanced up from her smartphone, her sculptured eyebrows pinching together in cold irritation. "If you can't handle being here, Dean, take an Uber home," she said, her voice smooth and dismissive. "Stop embarrassing me in front of everyone." I felt the corners of my mouth pull back into a slow, unfamiliar grin. I didn't say a word. I simply stepped forward, planted my back foot, and delivered a short, explosive right hook straight into Keegan’s jaw. His head snapped back like a cracked whip, and he dropped like a sack of wet flour, utterly limp against the mahogany coffee table. I shook out my knuckles. "That it? I thought your girlfriends were supposed to be tough." 1 The lounge fell into a tomb-like silence. A woman across the table in an expensive silk slip dress froze, her cigarette tumbling from her lips and scorching a neat brown circle into the fabric of her skirt. "Holy shit—" someone whispered. Camille snapped out of her trance with a violent gasp, lunging across the velvet cushions to hoist Keegan up. The left side of his face had already ballooned into an ugly, mottled purple, dark blood trickling from the corner of his split lip. His eyes rolled around the ceiling, dazed and glassy. Camille whipped her head toward me, her gaze black enough to freeze water. "Dean! Have you lost your goddamn mind?" I ignored her, cutting straight through the frozen cluster of trust-fund socialites and dropping into the center of the plush leather banquette, kicking my boots up onto the marble table. "Didn't you tell me to blend in?" I asked, tilting my head toward the girl whose skirt was still smoldering. "I figured this was how your inner circle talks to each other. Right?" The girl managed a pathetic, strangled squeak, fumbling to jam the cigarette back between her trembling lips, eyes darting anywhere but at me. Keegan finally came to, clutching his jaw and pointing a manicured, trembling finger at my face. "Dean... you hit me? You actually hit me?!" I rolled my wrist in a lazy circle, testing the tendons. "You’re the one who’s always saying real sisters don't hold back. I’m just trying to build some sisterly solidarity with you, man." Camille’s jaw set so hard the tendons in her throat stood out like wire. "Dean. Apologize to him. Now." I looked her dead in the eyes. "He checked me first." "Keegan is clumsy," she snapped, her tone dripping with conditioned defense. "He didn't do it on purpose!" "Oh," I said easily. "Well, I’m clumsy too. Heavy hands. Terrible impulse control." Camille looked as though she might choke on her own breath, a vein pulsing sharply at her temple. Seeing her fury, Keegan slipped back into his favorite role: the gracious, long-suffering victim. He leaned weakly into Camille's shoulder, sniffling. "Look, it’s fine, Camille... Dean’s always been jealous of how close we are. You know how men get when they're small-minded." I turned my neck slowly, letting the cervical vertebrae pop like small caliber rounds. "Say one more syllable, Keegan, and I’ll stitch your lips together with whatever’s in my pocket." His mouth clicked shut instantly, his face alternating between chalk white and mottled green. A guy in an untucked designer shirt scrambled to cut the tension with a nervous laugh. "Hey, hey—come on, guys, it’s Dean’s first night out with us! Let’s just play King’s Cup. Clear the air. Fun and games, right?" A chorus of desperate murmurs broke out around the table. In the background, Keegan’s eyes narrowed, a greasy little spark of cunning flickering through the swelling. Camille shot me a look that was pure threat. "Sit there, keep your hands to yourself, and don't make another scene." I leaned back and let a quiet chuckle slip through my nose. Keegan practically scrambled for the deck of cards, shuffling with theatrical desperation. He drew first, holding the card close to his chest before whipping it into the air, his voice unnaturally shrill. "I’m King!" The lounge hushed. Keegan let his gaze settle on me, an oily malice dripping from his swollen smile. "Rule of the round," Keegan declared, trying to sound playful while his eyes drilled into mine. "Number One has to trade ten open-palm strikes across the back of the hand with me. Full force. No pulling away." Everyone hastily turned their cards over, exhaling audible sighs of relief as the numbers cleared. That left Camille and me. I flipped my card face up on the table. Ace of Hearts. Number One. Keegan’s grin widened until the split on his lip cracked open again. Around the circle, people started snickering, the nervous tension bleeding back into casual cruelty. "Watch out, Keegan," someone called out. "Dean looks pretty delicate. Don't hit him so hard Camille has to nurse him back to health." Keegan scoffed, shaking his head with fake pity. "Hey, it’s a fair game. He gets to hit me back ten times too. Unless... our house-husband can’t handle high stakes?" I looked at Camille. Her expression was completely hollow, her eyes daring me to complain. "If you agreed to play, you follow the rules, Dean. Give him your hand." I looked at Keegan’s smug, punchable face. My heart did a slow, steady roll in my chest. "Fair enough," I said, laying my left palm flat against the polished marble. Keegan’s eyes glittered with sadistic triumph. He stood up, rolled his shoulders, and came down with everything his wiry frame could muster. "Crack. Crack. Crack." Ten rapid, brutal slaps, each one aimed to split the skin over my knuckles. By the tenth strike, the back of my hand was inflamed, an angry, throbbing crimson. A few people winced, looking down into their drinks. Keegan blew on his own stinging palm, offering me a saccharine, venomous smile. "You aren't mad at me, are you, Dean? We always play rough like this. You just have to get used to it." I shook the numbness out of my fingers, resting my elbows on the table and beaming at him. "Mad? Never. I respect the spirit of the game." I reached out, my own knuckles popping in the quiet room. "My turn, Keegan." Something in my eyes must have finally registered, because the color drained straight out of his cheeks. But then he remembered the man I was supposed to be—a weak-willed shell who couldn't even loosen the lid on a pasta jar—and thrust his hand forward with false bravado. A second later, a sickening "crunch" echoed through the suite, followed immediately by an ungodly, high-pitched howl that didn't sound human. "Aaaaggghhh!" Keegan collapsed onto the floorboards, curling into a tight fetal ball, clutching his right wrist to his chest as snot and tears washed the expensive foundation right off his skin. I stood up, shaking out my fingers, and pointed down at his dislocated, crooked joint with a bright, innocent smile. "Must be all the deadlifts lately. Hard to gauge my own strength." I looked around at the room full of paralyzed, terrified faces. "None of you hold that against me, right?" 2 The trust-fund crowd didn't make a sound. You could hear the hum of the ice machine behind the private bar. Camille dropped to the floor beside Keegan, her manicured fingers hovering over his contorted wrist. Every time she brushed near it, he convulsed in agony. She threw her head back, looking up at me like I was a rabid dog that had slipped its leash. "Dean! Have you completely lost your mind?!" I rolled my shoulders, keeping my voice mild. "He set the rules. Equal trade. When did following the terms become crazy?" Keegan burrowed against her blazer, weeping softly, trembling like an abused puppy. "Camille... I just wanted him to feel included... I didn't know he hated me this much... It’s my fault, all my fault..." It was the classic script. The same routine he’d used to bleed my predecessor dry for three long years. And, right on cue, Camille’s last thread of rational thought snapped. She helped Keegan up, wrapping an arm around his waist. "You are disgusting, Dean. Utterly deranged. We will deal with this the second I get home." The girl in the silk dress edged toward the exit, smiling like she was facing a firing squad. "Hey, uh... Dean? We’re gonna take off, okay?" I gave her a curt chin-nod. She practically tripped over her own heels, dragging two other socialites out the door before the latch even clicked. I surveyed the wreckage of the booth, picked my leather jacket up off the banquette, and walked out into the cool evening air. By the time the cab dropped me off at the Townsend estate, the heavy wrought-iron gates were already shut. Standing dead center in the grand portico was Edgar, the Townsend family’s longtime head butler, his chin pointed up at the chandeliers like he was royalty and I was a stain on the rug. "So the master finally decided to come home?" Edgar sneered. He gestured with his chin toward the courtyard. Laid out on the wet, cold flagstones was a rough burlap sack. Next to it sat a battered stainless steel dog bowl containing an inch of murky, gray tap water. "Mrs. Townsend brought Mr. Pryor home to rest," Edgar said smoothly, crossing his hands behind his back. "She instructed that you are to kneel out here on the stones and reflect on your behavior. When you’ve cleared your head, you may enter. Mr. Pryor was kind enough to suggest the water, in case your throat gets dry while you think." I stared at that burlap sack, and a sudden, sharp ache ripped through the back of my skull—a ghost memory from the man who used to own this body. During his first week in this house, he had accidentally chipped an antique teacup Keegan had bought for Camille. Edgar had forced him to kneel on these exact stones in the freezing rain for two straight hours. The pneumonia that followed had kept him bedridden with a hundred-and-three fever for an entire week. Camille hadn't asked about him once. I narrowed my eyes, feeling that familiar, electric twitch in my fists. "Edgar," I murmured. "Say that again. What did she tell you to do?" Edgar assumed my quiet tone was the usual cowardice creeping back in. He puffed out his chest, stepping down the marble steps. "Mrs. Townsend said you are to kneel—" Before the word fully cleared his teeth, my boot connected with his solar plexus. The old man folded like a lawn chair, crashing face-first onto the burlap sack, sending the steel dog bowl clattering across the stone, dirty water splashing all over his starched collar. I walked over to the garden hose coiled near the hydrangeas, turned the brass spigot all the way to the left, and blasted him dead in the face with freezing well water. "Aaaagh! Stop! Security! Security!" Edgar flailed like a drowning rat, spitting muddy water onto his velvet slippers. Within seconds, half a dozen estate security guards came spilling out from the carriage house. Edgar rolled onto his knees, choking out screams through the spray: "He’s lost it! Five grand cash bonus to whoever pins him to the ground!" The guards’ eyes lit up with predatory greed. They lunged at me in an uncoordinated wave. I couldn't help but smile. In less than sixty seconds, five of them were groaning on the wet lawn with dislocated shoulders, bruised ribs, and cracked jaws. The last one backed away slowly with his hands raised, shaking his head. Edgar was pressed against the garden retaining wall, soaked to the bone, staring at the carnage around him with dead, terrified eyes. As I walked toward him, dragging the heavy brass nozzle of the hose along the pavement, he scrambled backward through the mud. "D-don't... stay away from me..." Heavy heels clicked rapidly on the marble steps behind me. Camille stood under the portico, her silk blouse rumpled, eyes widening in sheer disbelief as she took in the groaning guards and her trembling, mud-caked head butler. "What is the meaning of this?!" she gasped, marching toward me. Edgar saw his lifeline. He dragged himself across the gravel, clawing at the hem of her trousers. "Mrs. Townsend! Thank God! He’s gone completely feral! He attacked us the second he walked through the gate—you have to call the police!" Camille turned to me, her jaw clenched, her eyes ablaze with disgust. "Dean, you—" I reached casually into my jacket pocket, pulled out my smartphone, and tapped the screen. Edgar’s smug, arrogant voice drifted clearly through the courtyard speakers: "...Mrs. Townsend brought Mr. Pryor home to rest. She instructed that you are to kneel out here on the stones... Mr. Pryor was kind enough to suggest the water..." Camille’s face went through three distinct shades of pale before settling on ash gray. Edgar’s pathetic wailing died in his throat. I tucked the phone back into my pocket, meeting Camille's stricken eyes with an amused, steady gaze. "Tell me, Camille," I said, my voice cutting through the damp night air. "Is it standard operating procedure in the Townsend family for the hired help to treat the master of the house like a stray dog?" Her lips parted, but not a single sound came out. I turned around, stepped over a groaning guard, and walked up the front steps. Halfway to the landing, I paused and looked back down at the terrified cluster of maids and groundskeepers who had gathered near the hedges. "From this night forward," I said evenly, "anyone in this house who forgets their place can come find me. I’d love to show you what actually going crazy looks like." The courtyard was dead silent, save for a chorus of quiet, panicked murmurs: "Yes, sir. Understood, sir." I turned back toward the foyer. From now on, this house had a new owner. 3 The next morning, Camille sat across from me at the marble dining island, picking at an avocado toast with precise, icy movements. "My father’s birthday gala is tomorrow evening," she said, not looking at me. "You will be dressed properly, you will arrive on time, and you will not cause an incident." I took a slow sip of black coffee, letting the memories of Edward Townsend surface. Camille’s father was a man who hid his cruelty behind piety. He attended church every Sunday, but took immense pleasure in making my predecessor spend hours in the unheated basement library in mid-December, copying out family genealogies and legal trusts until his fingers were swollen with chilblains and he couldn't hold a fountain pen. Whenever he complained, Camille would merely say, "Father is only teaching you grace because he cares." Cares? If that was love, she was welcome to keep every drop of it. I set the mug down with a soft clink. "Sure. What’s the appearance fee?" Camille’s fork froze mid-air. "Excuse me?" I leaned back, resting my wrists on the counter. "Wiring my account five figures, or tomorrow night I show up to your family’s private country club in gym shorts and a stained tank top. Let the entire high-society board see how rustic the Townsend son-in-law really is." She glared at me, her chest heaving slightly, the muscles in her jaw working overtime until she finally hissed through her teeth: "...Fine." From the end of the breakfast bar, Keegan let out an exaggerated, airy snort, leaning forward with his good arm. His bad wrist was wrapped tight in an expensive gray splint. "What’s with the sudden attitude, Dean? You haven't been acting like yourself lately. You don't have someone else keeping you company on the side, do you?" The dining room went instantly arctic. Camille’s face darkened, her eyes narrowing into cold slits as she turned on me. "Dean. Let me make something abundantly clear. You do not disrespect this family with some cheap affair." I turned my head toward Keegan, my voice dropping an octave. "You like having a working tongue, Keegan? Because if you keep flapping it, I can pull it out through your neck." Keegan’s face drained of color. He shrank back into his chair, pressing his splinted wrist protectively against his chest, refusing to meet my gaze. I stood up, wiping my mouth with a linen napkin, and smiled down at Camille. "Transfer clears, I’m there in black tie. Transfer doesn't clear, I crash the party in flip-flops." Twenty minutes later, my phone chimed with an alert: "Deposit confirmed: $50,000." By two in the afternoon, I was stretched out on a leather massage table at an upscale sports rehabilitation clinic downtown. This body had spent three years absorbing physical neglect and chronic stress; if I was going to survive the circus tomorrow night, I needed the machine running at peak performance. I was half-asleep, listening to the ambient water sounds, when a sharp sting flared at the base of my neck. A cold, heavy liquid rushed into my bloodstream before I could even draw a breath. My eyes snapped open. I tried to swing my arm off the table, but my muscles felt like damp cotton wool. "Sedative. Fast-acting." When the fog finally lifted, I was sitting in a rusted steel chair in the center of an abandoned industrial warehouse, heavy-duty nylon cargo straps binding my forearms and ankles to the metal frame. "Look who’s finally awake," a voice sneered from the shadows. Keegan stepped into the yellow light of an overhead bulb, crouching down in front of me and patting my cheek with mocking familiarity. "Tough guy Dean," he whispered, his eyes bright with feverish excitement. "So you can throw a punch. What good does it do you now?" I flexed my forearms. The industrial ratchets didn't give an inch. "Keegan," I rasped, my throat raw. "Did you actually lose the last three brain cells you had left? You kidnapped Camille Townsend's husband." He threw his head back and barked a laugh. "Husband? You think you’re family to her? Camille believes whatever I tell her to believe. We’re soulmates. We’re blood." Before the echo of his voice faded, he raised his heavy leather boot and brought the heel down hard onto the back of my hand. Pain shot up my arm like liquid fire, grinding bone against the steel armrest. I bit the inside of my cheek until copper filled my mouth, but I didn't give him a sound. Keegan’s lip curled. He walked over to an overturned wooden crate, picking up a heavy aluminum baseball bat. "Let’s see how long that stoic routine lasts." The metal whistled through the air and slammed straight into my floating ribs. A low, involuntary grunt tore out of my throat, and blood bubbled up behind my teeth. I lost track of time after that. The metallic thud of the bat against bone, the dull ache in my side, the relentless drone of his voice. Eventually, Keegan lowered the bat, panting heavily, his eyes dilated with manic glee. "I’ve already written the headlines for tomorrow morning," he chuckled, tracing the cold tip of the bat along my jawline. "'Townsend Son-in-Law Caught in Seven-Woman Penthouse Orgy.' 'Violent Ex-Con Husband Assaults Innocent Socialite in VIP Lounge.'" He tilted my head up. "The whole world is going to know you’re a manic, violent freak who can’t keep his hands to himself. The Townsends won't have a choice. To protect the brand, they’ll have you committed to an offshore psychiatric ward." He laughed until he was practically choking on his own spit. "And I’ll finally step into the spot you stole from me." I drew a long, rattling breath through my broken nose, spat a mouthful of dark blood onto his designer sneakers, and smiled. "Keegan," I whispered. "The second I get out of this chair, you’re a dead man." Keegan froze, the grin twitching on his face. Then he let out another shrill, nervous laugh. "Get out? With what, Dean? With what?" He backed away, clapping his hands twice toward the loading dock. From the shadows, five heavily built women in cheap leather jackets stepped forward, their expressions cold and predatory. "Have fun with him, ladies," Keegan said, turning toward the corrugated metal exit. "Make sure the camera gets every angle." I let my head drop forward, letting the blood drip silently onto the concrete floor. Behind the curtain of my hair, I licked the copper from my lips. "My turn." 4 The grand ballroom of the Townsend country club was bathed in gold light. Thirty minutes had passed since the official reception began, but the seat to Camille Townsend’s left remained glaringly vacant. Edward Townsend, draped in an impeccably tailored navy three-piece suit, slowly turned a string of polished sandalwood prayer beads between his age-spotted fingers, his brow drawn into a thunderous scowl. "Where is he, Camille? It is my seventy-fifth birthday, and that ungrateful wretch can’t even be bothered to show his face?" Before Camille could answer, a collective murmur rippled through the hundreds of guests lining the banquet tables. Phones began buzzing in sequence across the room. "Look at the trending feed!" someone whispered. "#TownsendScandal" "#DeanCooperUnmasked" Two videos were tearing through local social media feeds like wildfire. The first was heavily edited security footage from the lounge two nights ago—it cut straight to me breaking Keegan’s wrist, omitting the King's Cup game entirely, accompanied by audio of Keegan sobbing about domestic abuse. The second was even more salacious: security footage from the hallway of a boutique downtown hotel, showing a man with my exact build and haircut stumbling drunkenly into a suite, followed by five women in skimpy evening dresses filing in one after another. The room erupted into frantic, gleeful whispering. "Good God, what kind of animal did the Townsends let into their house?" "Five at once? He’s completely out of his mind." Keegan stood near the head table, his arm encased in a clean white medical sling, waving his good hand with an expression of pained, noble martyrdom. "Please, everyone, don't judge Dean too harshly. He’s... under a lot of stress lately. My wrist will heal. It’s fine, really!" Edward Townsend’s knuckles turned bone-white. With a violent jerk of his wrist, his prayer beads slammed against the linen tablecloth, scattering polished wooden spheres across the floor. "Disgraceful!" the old man hissed, his voice shaking with fury. "Camille! Find him! Bring him here right now! No man drags the Townsend name through the gutter and walks away!" Camille stared at the screen of her phone, her fingers gripping the metal casing so tightly the edges bit into her skin. Her jaw was rigid, her eyes wide with shock and humiliation. Keegan leaned down, whispering into her ear with venomous concern. "Camille... what if he’s actually in trouble? Maybe we should send security to look for him before the press catches him..." Camille raised her phone to dial— "BAM." The heavy double doors of the ballroom were kicked open so hard they bounced off the paneled walls. The room went dead. I stood in the arched entryway. My tuxedo shirt was shredded, dark purple contusions blooming across my collarbone, dried blood caked at the corner of my lips. Circling both of my wrists were deep, raw ligature burns where the nylon straps had bitten into the flesh. Three seconds passed in absolute silence before the ballroom detonated. "Look at his clothes... the bruises..." "The hotel video was real! He actually came straight here from the orgy!" "Shameless... absolutely disgusting!" Edward Townsend gripped the edge of the head table, trembling with rage, pointing a frail, spotted finger at me. "Get him out! Security, throw this degenerate out on the street!" Keegan looked at me like he’d seen a ghost rising from an open grave, the blood instantly draining from his face. But within a fraction of a second, he smoothed his features into an expression of frantic, loving concern and rushed toward me. "Dean! Where have you been? We’ve been looking for you all night!" I caught his eye, my voice quiet, carrying effortlessly through the quiet hall. "Did you enjoy playing kidnapper, Keegan?" The room went instantly cold. Keegan’s hand froze inches from my chest. His eyes welled with tears, his voice breaking with theatrical devastation. "Dean... what are you talking about? What did I do?" He turned toward the crowd, appealing to them. "I know I can be loud sometimes, but... accusing me of a felony?" Camille marched across the parquet floor, stepping squarely between us and shoving Keegan behind her back. "Dean, stop this," she said, her voice trembling with barely suppressed fury. "You humiliated yourself, and now you want to drag Keegan into your filth? He was with me all day yesterday. How could he possibly kidnap you?" I looked at her, and for the first time, I felt genuine pity for the man who died in this skin. He had given three years of his life to a woman who was blind, deaf, and profoundly stupid. I took a half-step forward, the temperature in my voice dropping below freezing. "Are you certain, Camille? You’re testifying that he didn't leave your sight for a single second?" Camille flinched, an uncomfortable flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But she doubled down, her chin jutting out in stubborn defense. "Even if he played some stupid prank on you, it was between friends! Did you have to bring your childish drama to my father's birthday?!" Keegan tugged gently on her sleeve, his voice dripping with sinister faux-concern. "Camille... he looks unstable. His eyes... I think he’s having a violent manic episode. For everyone's safety, shouldn't we have him restrained?" I checked the brass grandfather clock against the ballroom wall. Right on time. I looked down at Keegan’s triumphant, smirking face, and a slow, dry laugh escaped my chest. "You’re right," I said softly. "Someone in this room definitely needs to be locked away." I leaned in, meeting his gaze. "Too bad for you, it’s not going to be me."