My Husband’s Golden Retriever, My Second Life Chapter 03

My Husband’s Golden Retriever, My Second Life Chapter 03

Mason was even more brutal than I’d pictured.

He was a short, stout bald man with a thick gold chain looped around his neck and a loud floral shirt. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing cheap, faded tattoos covering his forearms.

He crouched down to inspect Wynn inside the travel crate, pried open her jaws to check her teeth, and flipped through her ears roughly.

“Good breed quality,” he stood up and kicked the crate lightly, “Just a bit old.”

“Can she still breed?”

“Sure can.” He grinned, baring a set of yellowed teeth, “As long as she’s not spayed, I can make it happen. You want twelve litters?”

“Yes.”

“Let me be clear. Twelve litters can’t be done all at once. It has to be one after another. If she recovers well, we breed her every two months, taking two years total. If her body breaks down, she might crash after the sixth or seventh litter.”

“What happens if she crashes?”

“Paralysis, organ failure, death.” He spoke casually, like he was talking about a worn-out piece of trash ready to be discarded.

I stared down at Wynn in the crate.

She lay trembling all over.

She’d understood every damn word.

You drained my life for seven years in my past life.

Making you birth twelve litters in two years is nothing compared to what you did.

“I’ll pay extra,” I said firmly, “Keep going until she can’t take it anymore.”

Mason laughed, “You’re straightforward. I like that.”

He called over two workers to drag Wynn out of the crate.

One pinned her head down while the other tugged her hind legs apart. Wynn thrashed desperately, her claws scraping faint white marks across the concrete ground.

She twisted her head around and fixed her gaze strictly on me.

That was no dog’s stare.

It was human.

It was Chloe.

Her jaw moved rapidly, not barking, but forming clear words.

I couldn’t hear the sound, yet I read her lips perfectly: You’re crazy.

I smiled coldly.

“I’m not insane,” I said, crouching to her eye level. “I’m just not a fool anymore.”

Wynn was dragged toward the rear breeding shed.

Mason offered me a cigarette, which I waved off.

“We’ll start the first litter tonight,” he said, “I’ve picked a top German Shepherd stud. The pups will have strong frames.”

“Don’t hold back on studs. Use as many as you want. I only care about quantity, not quality.”

Mason shot me a glance, slipped the cigarette between his lips, and smirked.

“Got it. I’ll go all out then.”

Zoe stood rigid behind me, her face drained of all color.

“Ms. Hayes… the way that dog looked at you just now…”

“What about it?”

“It didn’t look like a dog at all.”

I said nothing.

A sharp scream burst out from the shed.

It was no ordinary canine cry. High, shrill, and piercing, it sounded exactly like a woman weeping in agony.

Mason frowned slightly, “This female’s got quite the set of lungs.”

I ignored his comment and turned toward the car.

Zoe hurried after me, “Ms. Hayes, are we leaving?”

“No. We’re staying here.”

“Staying here?”

“I’m going to watch,” I said, pulling open the car door. “Every single litter. I’m going to see it all.”

Zoe hesitated briefly, then fell silent and slipped into the driver’s seat.

I leaned back against the seat, one hand resting gently on my belly.

My baby kicked softly inside me.

I smiled.

“Be patient,” I whispered tenderly, “Mommy’s getting justice for you.”

I was jolted awake in the middle of the night by Wynn’s cries.

No longer shrill screams, just low, endless whimpers, forced out from the deepest part of her throat.

I climbed out of the car and walked toward the breeding shed.

A dim yellow bulb flickered inside. Mason was gone, leaving only two workers smoking and chatting idly.

Inside a rusted cage, Wynn lay curled in the corner, her hind legs trembling nonstop.

Her belly was already slightly swollen.

The first breeding had taken.

The workers spotted me and stubbed out their cigarettes, “Ma’am, we’re finished. The German Shepherd stud bred her, first try success.”

I nodded and crouched in front of the cage.

Wynn lifted her head to look at me.

Her eyes were bloodshot, the fur at her damp tear-streaked corners matted. She was crying.

Dogs could cry.

Chloe was crying, trapped inside this dog’s body.

I extended a finger and tapped her swollen belly through the iron bars.

“Congratulations,” I murmured softly, “This is your first litter.”

Wynn shuddered violently and shrank further into the corner of the cage.

“Don’t be scared,” I stood up slowly, “This is only the beginning.”