I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
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Chapter 98: Milo's Checkup
Lucas's Perspective
A few days later, I was back behind the wheel of my car, Milo sitting in the passenger seat like he owned it. His head was sticking just far enough out of the open window that his tongue lolled in the wind, tail thumping happily against the leather seat. He looked nothing like the wary, half-starved dog we'd first brought home.
Living at the Lockwood estate had changed him. The wide gardens, the quiet halls, and maybe even Jenny's endless chatter had worked some magic. He was no longer just a dog that survived—he was a dog that lived.
I glanced at him as we drove. His fur caught the morning light, and his eyes, once dulled with fear, now sparkled with life.
Susan had been right, though. Jenny adored Milo, no question about that. But adoration didn't equal responsibility. If I left things entirely in her hands, Milo would be fat and spoiled in less than a month. She'd smuggle bacon off her plate for him at every meal, sneak him into her room past bedtime, and probably dress him in ridiculous sweaters. The staff already had enough complaints.
So the bulk of Milo's care had fallen to me. The feeding, the training, the walks. Not that I minded. He listened to me. Trusted me. Maybe even saw me as his pack.
We pulled into the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic, and I parked. Milo hopped down from the seat, stuck close to my leg, and together we walked inside.
The place was quieter than usual, just the one receptionist at the desk. A faint antiseptic smell lingered in the air. Deaton greeted us with his usual calm nod and led us into the exam room.
Milo was hesitant at first, ears twitching back, but one glance at me was all it took for him to steady. I rested my hand gently on his side while Deaton checked the healing wound on his leg.
After a moment, Deaton straightened with a small smile. "He's healed completely. No more infection. His leg is as good as new."
I nodded, running a hand through Milo's fur as he wagged his tail proudly, almost like he understood every word.
"But it's not just the wound," Deaton continued, studying Milo with something between curiosity and admiration. "When he came in last week, he was tense, terrified of everything around him. Now, aside from a bit of standard vet nerves, he's calm. Comfortable."
He gave me a knowing look. "That's a rare change, Lucas. A good one."
I shrugged lightly. "Perks of being a werewolf, I guess."
Deaton shook his head, smiling in that quiet, thoughtful way of his. "Honestly, after all these years working with animals, I've realized we really don't give them enough credit for how smart and aware they actually are. And they are better judges of character than we are. They can sense things we overlook. Milo didn't heal this quickly because you're a werewolf. He healed because he trusts you."
I blinked, glancing down at Milo, who looked up at me with those bright blue eyes, tail wagging like he agreed. I gave his head a small pat. "…If you say so, doc."
Deaton smirked. "I do say so. Now—one more thing. His fur is overgrown. Acceptable for now, but if it gets any longer, it'll start irritating him. A week ago, I wouldn't have suggested it—he would've been too anxious. But now? I think he's ready for a grooming visit."
I raised an eyebrow. "You sure he can handle that?"
Deaton nodded. "I think you'll be surprised."
Milo gave a happy little bark, as if he was already in on the conversation.
"Guess we'll find out," I said, scratching him behind the ear.
After leaving the clinic, I drove Milo straight to the nearest groomer Deaton had recommended. The place had the faint smell of shampoo and wet fur clinging to it, with posters of smiling dogs taped on the windows. Milo hopped out of the car, sniffing the air with cautious curiosity.
The moment we stepped inside, though, his ears twitched back. He spotted the tables, the sinks, the buzzing clippers, and his body stiffened. For a second, I thought he might bolt.
I crouched down, resting a hand on his neck. Easy. My Alpha side reached out—silent, instinctive. A pulse of reassurance, steady and calm, telling him he was safe. That nothing here would hurt him.
His body relaxed instantly. Milo's tail even gave a cautious wag, and he sniffed the floor before curiously eyeing one of the groomers who came over.
"Well, aren't you handsome," the woman said, kneeling slightly. Milo tilted his head and, instead of shying away, took a step toward her.
"He's… surprisingly calm," another groomer said, exchanging a glance with the first. "Most big dogs are a handful, especially on their first visit. He's very well-behaved."
I gave Milo a pat as they clipped on the grooming lead. "Guess he knows when to mind his manners."
One of them smiled. "You've done a good job with him. Don't worry—we'll take great care of him."
Milo looked back at me once, as if for confirmation. I nodded, and that was all he needed. He followed the groomers inside without so much as a whine.
I headed to the waiting area, a row of cushioned chairs lined up against the wall. It was quiet, the hum of dryers coming from behind a door, and the faint chatter of workers drifting through. I let out a breath and leaned back, already picturing how ridiculous Milo might look once they were done with him.
The bell above the door jingled.
I glanced up—and froze.
Lydia Martin walked in, leash in hand, her tiny designer dog trotting along beside her. She looked effortlessly put together, as if she'd walked out of a fashion ad. Her eyes scanned the room, then landed on me.
Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile.
Of all the people to run into here, it had to be her.