Chapter 6 - The Weight of Kindness
"Can you stand?"
Dylan’s voice was much softer now, stripped of the terrifying corporate ice he had used on Libby. He was looking directly at Molly, who was still pressing her hand against Max’s flank, trying to ignore the dull, throbbing ache in her ribs.
"I think so," Molly whispered, wincing as she tried to shift her weight.
Before she could push herself up from the flagstones, Dylan’s large, strong hands reached down. He didn't ask for permission; he slid one arm securely beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her effortlessly off the floor as if she weighed nothing at all.
Molly gasped softly, her hands instinctively grabbing the lapel of his expensive, dirt-stained wool coat to steady herself. A flush of heat warmed her cheeks. "Mr. Burroughs, please—I can walk—"
"Quiet, Molly," he said, carrying her a few feet away toward a clean bench near the pastry station, setting her down as gently as if she were made of glass. "You took a direct kick to the ribs for an animal that wasn't yours, in a room full of cowards who watched you bleed on the floor. The least I can do is make sure you don't collapse on my watch."
He turned back to Max, who let out a low, contented huff as Dylan stroked his graying muzzle.
"Marcus!" Dylan called toward the alley door, which swung open immediately as the bodyguard reappeared.
"Boss?"
"Call Dr. Evans. Tell him to meet us at the private veterinary clinic on 4th Street in twenty minutes. Wake the staff, open the surgical suite, and tell them if they aren't prepped by the time my wheels hit the curb, I'll buy the clinic and turn it into a parking lot."
"Already dialed, boss," Marcus nodded, holding his phone out before sliding it back into his jacket. "The van is backed up to the service door. We can load Max without walking him through the dining room."
"Good."
Dylan turned back to Molly, who was sitting on the wooden bench, pressing a damp towel—brought over by a trembling line cook who looked like he wanted to disappear—against her bruised jaw.
"Can you walk out to the van, or do I need to carry you too?" Dylan asked, a faint, ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth for the first time all evening.
Molly shook her head quickly, her cheeks burning red. "I can walk, Mr. Burroughs. Really. I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Dylan corrected gently. "But you're safer than you were ten minutes ago. Come on."
As Marcus and another bodyguard carefully constructed a padded sling to lift the massive mastiff toward the waiting van, Dylan offered his hand to Molly.
May you like
She looked down at his large, calloused palm—a hand that ruled the most powerful shipping and financial networks in Harrow Falls—and placed her small, trembling fingers inside it.
He didn't let go as they walked out into the cool night air.
