Page 8 of Subduing the Shark

Silence. Real silence, the kind that didn't exist on land. No music, no voices, no shiver, no club. Just the hum of the pool's filtration system and the muted percussion of his own heartbeat. At the bottom of the pool, with ten feet of water between him and the world, Jack could finally stop performing. He didn't have to control his face, slow his breathing, or pretend that nothing hurt. He could just be a shark. Drift, think, and float in the pressure of the water that held him from every direction equally, asking nothing.

He'd been coming here every day since the punishment started, killing the hours between the shiver house and his evening shift at KK. The routine had formed fast. Wake up at the shiver house, avoid whoever was awake, walk to the pool, swim until his time was up, walk to KK, put on the shorts, do his three hours, walk home, endure whatever challenge was waiting, sleep. Repeat.

The pool was the only part of the cycle that belonged to him.

He stayed at the bottom for an hour, barely moving. His shark body didn't need to surface for air. He could stay down there indefinitely if they let him, and the dolphins didn't seem to mind as long as he was out by the time his block ended. Sometimes he swam slow laps. Sometimes he just hovered near the drain and let the current push him in lazy circles. Mostly he rested on the concrete bottom with his belly flat against the cool surface and tried not to think about the bruise on his ribs.

Dresden had picked him the previous night. Not Rashe. Dresden, who was bigger, slower, meaner, and who didn't believe in getting it over with quickly. The challenge had gone the way it always went. Jack fought enough to show he was trying, lost, took what came. But Dresden had noticed the bruise from Rashe the night before and had pressed his thumb into it during the fight, grinding the heel of his hand against Jack's side until the pain layered on top of itself. After, Jack had lain on his bedroom floor instead of the bed because the floor was cold and the cold helped.

He didn't want to think about that. The pool was for silence.

When his time was up, the dolphin knocked on the glass and Jack surfaced, shifted, climbed out. He dressed in the bathroom, checked his reflection for visible marks. The bruise was below his shirt line. Good. He didn't need questions.

He got to KK at eight forty-five. Bethany barely looked at him anymore, which was an improvement over the death threats. He went downstairs, changed into the shorts, and came out onto the floor fifteen minutes early. Amani was behind the bar with Reza, prepping for the night. The club wasn't open yet but a few staff were moving around, setting up the rooms, testing the sound system.

Jack went to the supply closet, got his cleaning materials, and started on the tables.

He was four tables in when he noticed Harold.

The hound was leaning against the wall near the hallway entrance, the same spot he'd been in every night for the past week. Arms crossed, badge on his belt, watching the floor. But his attention kept drifting to Jack instead of scanning the room. Jack could feel it. Not the way he felt the club patrons looking at him, which was like being examined through glass. Harold's gaze felt like pressure. Like being leaned on.

Jack turned his back to him and kept cleaning.

By the time the club opened and the crowd rolled in, Jack had the tables done and was running drinks. The system had smoothed out over the past week. Amani loaded the trays, Jack picked them up, delivered them, came back. They didn't talk. They didn't need to. Jack could read Amani's nods. Left meant the booths along the wall. A chin lift meant the high tables near the dance floor. Fingers tapping the tray meant he'd overloaded it and Jack should take two trips.

It wasn't friendship. It wasn't even warmth. But it was functional, and after a lifetime of interactions that were built on hierarchy and threat, functional felt like progress.

Harold fell into step beside him as Jack carried a tray of beers toward a table near the back. The hound didn't say anything at first. Just walked alongside him, close enough that the drunk patrons gave them both a wider berth. Jack put the drinks down, collected a few empties, and started back toward the bar.

"How'd you get the bruise?" Harold asked.

Jack's hand tightened on the tray. "What bruise?"

"The one on your ribs that you're favoring your left side to protect. It wasn't there two nights ago. It was there yesterday. Worse tonight."

Jack kept walking. "I tripped."

Harold didn't laugh, which would have been easier to deal with. He just kept pace, matching Jack's stride. "You didn't trip. You're moving like someone hit you. I've seen enough assault victims to know the difference between a fall and a fist."

"I'm fine." Jack set the empties on the bar. Reza took them without comment, already reaching for the next order. "Can you stop following me?"

"I'm doing my job. Making sure nobody bothers you."

"You're the one bothering me."

Harold stopped walking. Jack went back to the tables with his cleaning supplies, hoping the conversation was over. It wasn't.

Harold found him again ten minutes later, this time near the far wall where the crowd thinned out. "Your scent gets stronger when you're afraid. Did you know that?"

Jack sprayed the table and wiped it down without looking up. "I'm not afraid."

"Right now you're not. But every night when you walk in here, the whole floor smells like the open ocean. It cuts through everything else. Fifty shifters packed into this club and I can pick you out before the elevator doors finish opening."

"Congratulations. You've got a nose. Go sniff someone else."

Harold leaned against the next table over. Not blocking Jack's path, not crowding him. Just present. "The scent spikes when someone touches you. It drops when you're alone with the cleaning. Spikes again when you head for the elevator at midnight. What's waiting for you when you leave here?"

Jack's hand stopped moving on the table. He forced it to start again. "Nothing that concerns you."