Farley’s laughter filled the silence Keon’s would have, advancing to clap him on the shoulder. He winced under the contact, but the Meskli didn’t notice. “Damned good job.”
“Thanks.” Keon lifted Farley’s hand off his shoulder. “No touching, please. Every nerve is on fire,” he confessed, the Meskli’s laughter ringing loud and clear. When he walked away, Keon sagged and eyed the steps. “Fuck it.” He made his way to the top step and used the remnants of the flagpole as a crutch.
The pack celebrated, as Keon walked slowly, hands helping him descend three steps. On solid ground, nausea rose in a wave and it took every ounce of will and effort to resist. Every step to his house was pain shrouded by cheers and clasped hands.
Weston held open the front door.
“Welcome home, Alpha.”
Keon dragged his knackered ass inside, closed the door, grabbed the bucket from the corner of the living room, and cradled it. He made it as far as the sofa, then revisited breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He counted it as a bonus when his organs stayed in place, having wondered if they would. Hunched over the bucket, he hissed as freezing cold pressed to his neck.
Cocking his head, he found Weston hovering. “You have a massive bruise at the base of your neck, spreading down your spine. The ice will help. I hope,” he explained, the doubtful tone not helping to convince him.
“A horse tranquilliser would be better,” Keon argued, though he doubted Simeon or Grier would have brought one into Vihaan. No telling who’d get their hands on it, or what they’d do with it.
“We don’t have those,” Weston replied breezily. “I’m not sure what they are, but they sound awful.” A clunk brought a glass of water to the coffee table, into Keon’s line of sight. “Drink to take the taste away, and I’ll see what painkillers we have. You’d be better shifting,” he advised, his footsteps growing distant.
Yeah, shifting. It took mental mathematics to calculate where his injuries would transfer. Would he make the pain better or worse? He wouldn’t risk it. His stomach was empty, and he was sitting comfortably. Broken and beaten bloody, but alive.
With one hand steadying the bucket in his lap, the other grasped the ice pack and held it to his neck as he leaned against the sofa cushions. Yup, better. Maybe he’d close his eyes, one minute, to let the world stop moving.
A sharp crack across his cheek woke his senses. Keon blinked at Weston, standing over him, a tablet in hand, nibbling his bottom lip with guilty eyes. “Shit, West.” He rubbed his cheek and cracked a smile. “I never knew you had it in you.”
Weston took a shaky breath and shoved the painkillers at him. “Please don’t make me do it again.”
“Promise.” Once was bad enough.
Chapter Fourteen
Milo
MILO HUDDLED INTOclose-set bushes in the Alpha’s garden, at the side of the house, waiting for the challenge to end. It took longer than he’d expected, perhaps because he was frozen to the bone, tired and aching in places he shouldn’t after the painkillers he’d taken.
He faded into a half doze, until voices and cheering roused him. When he could discern words, he heard the news he’d been waiting, dreading, and hoping for: Alpha Keon had won the challenge!
Thatcher would be furious.
Milo nibbled his bottom lip, hoping Usher was safe. He waited, lingering to gauge the mood, and noticed the Alpha limping into his home while his Beta fussed and sent the following crowd home to rest. When the Beta touched a man’s arm, Milo risked tapping into his m’weko senses to hear the Beta requesting that someone offer medical aid to Usher.
Which meant he was alive.
Sagging with relief, Milo realised this was the worst time to ask for help. With the sky having cleared of ominous pink streaks, he hoped he’d been wrong about the connection between the vision and the storm. It was possible the three images from his last vision were unconnected.
Tired, stressed, and aware Alpha Keon wouldn’t want to see another of Thatcher’s sons, after being injured by one, Milo decided retreat was prudent. If the crowds had dispersed, he could head to the bunker under the podium and rest for the night. No one would know where he’d gone, and it might be morning before anyone thought to search for him.
Overly cautious, Milo waited another hour before he left his hiding spot. It didn’t take long to walk to the podium. Relieved the village appeared empty, he could hear celebrations taking place nearby. He tried opening the door and breathed a sigh of relief to find it unlocked. Escaping inside, he shut it securely behind him. Sadly, the matches he’d packed into his bag were gone, but he was used to working without one of his senses.
Tapping into heightened m’weko senses of sight and sound, Milo grabbed onto the handrail and began descending the stairs. He counted twenty steps, unevenly cut and of varying depths, suggesting they were natural stone or worn with use. Milo searched the shapes in the dark: a sofa, a metal bookcase, and small boxes on shelves. As he explored the shelves, he found a lamp and a box of matches.
A thorough search of the supplies gave him a small collection of water bottles, food bars, and snacks he then assembled into a corner where he could find them easily, if or when the light faded or the matches ran out.
Hoping to rest, recover his energies, wait out the fallout of his father’s anger, and give Alpha Keon time to heal, Milo shifted into his m’weko. Smaller, but somehow less frail than his human form, Milo shook out white fur and climbed shakily onto the sofa to curl up and sleep.
Tomorrow, or the day after, he would venture outside in the hope of finding the Beta and pleading for sanctuary. Perhaps by then, his father would have forgotten about him, and he might have thought of a bargaining chip to offer Alpha Keon in return for his protection.
Relief flooded his tired system, and for the first time in years, Milo felt safe.
*
