He grunted, releasing a curse, turning his pistol on—

“Myrtle. Christ,” he hissed, the latter name a prayer to the God he’d not spoken with in years. “You nearly—”

“Val,” she whispered, cutting off his words.

And then, with no regard for the gun he still held in his hands, she launched herself into his arms.

Val immediately closed them around her, holding her close, running his hand over the small of her back, taking comfort in her small weight pressed reassuringly against his.

She was well.

She was safe.

“My god, I could have shot you,” he whispered furiously against her temple, the metal of the gun still clenched in his hand, reminding him of how very close he’d come to harming her.

“I thought you were them,” she said, her voice nearly inaudible, and then slipping out of his arms, leaving him cold and bereft, she darted across the room and pressed her ear against the panel.

“Them?”

“They are here. Those men are here to steal my father’s collection. I was right, you know.” She brought the fireplace poker shooting up, highlighting her point, and nearly knocking him for a second time. He ducked out of the way, avoiding that blow. “And I’ll have you know,” she went on, giving no indication that she was aware she’d almost hit him, “it gives me no satisfaction that I was right. But—”

“Myrtle, will you be silent?” he whispered. “Unless you want them to discover us.”

She blinked slowly several times. “Yes, I suppose you are correct. We should be quiet.”

“I am quiet,” he pointed out between gritted teeth. “If I may point out, you are the one talking?”

There was a beat of silence. And then—

“Yes, but you were speaking just now, and—”

“Myrtle,” he said, exasperated, alternately wanting to shake her and kiss her, and thoroughly confounded by the latter.

And this time, mercifully and blessedly, she complied.

With Myrtle at last quiet, Val picked his way back over to the door, turned the lock, and proceeded over to the two connecting doorways in the corner, seeing those ones were secured, as well.

When he turned back, he found Myrtle on her knees, with her arms flung around Horace, and the sight of the pair of them caused his lungs to constrict.

Even his brother, in the times he came to visit, eyed the dog warily.

Never had Val seen anyone bond as she had with the wolflike dog—that was, anyone other than his late wife and himself.

Even then, even when his wife had been alive, the dog had been a mere pup, not yet full grown.

And this, Myrtle’s clear love and adoration for the dog who’d become like the son Val had almost had, deepened the bond he’d forged with her these past days. For better or for worse. Whether he liked it or not.

Which he didn’t.