He hadn’t known Thatcher had two sons. The man had never mentioned it. Though, if he was like every other Alpha in Vihaan, he wouldn’t advertise a disabled child. He assumed ‘sticks’ meant crutches, leaving the boy in trouble with this storm.
“Tell me about your son.” Keon poured a single glass of scotch from the bottle on the table. Never knowing when he’d pop in, he’d told Weston to leave it, with fresh glasses. Again, he would not be the one drinking.
Thatcher frowned at the glass, but downed the drink in one gulp. “He’s a boy. Innocent and incapable. I keep him hidden, because crowds frighten him, and he’s unsteady on his feet. An…incident…months ago led to a fight where he was badly injured,” he recounted, dispassionate and with enough pauses Keon guessed this wasn’t the whole story. Or a truthful one.
“His name is Milo,” Thatcher said, recognising the boy was more than the sum of his faults. “He’s not of age and will get hurt in this storm. He inherited talents which would have warned a storm was coming. He’ll know how fierce it will be to get to safety, but—”
Here came the accusation Keon had kidnapped him.
“—I can’t be sure he left willingly. If he did, he may not be in his right mind. He isn’t safe to be out in the world alone,” Thatcher concluded, much to Keon’s surprise. He met Keon’s gaze and his jaw tightened. “I need you to find and return him to me. I could search for days, in this storm, but you know the safest places to hide, places of safety during a raid. With his talents, he may have stumbled upon them without realising he was being guided. Or, he may have been taken by someone who knows of those places.”
Bingo. The unspokenI blame you.
“I hope you understand,” Keon said, glancing at the window, “I can’t send a search party. I won’t sacrifice my men or yours to a fruitless search. I’ll spend the next hour searching for Milo. Give me a physical description and I’ll do my best. After that, it won’t be safe.” From what Thatcher had said, this boy was frail and emotionally, if not mentally, fragile. He may be frightened of Keon, a stranger. Or the wrong word or act could send him running.
Thatcher didn’t speak, leaving Keon worried he couldn’t describe his son. “Milo is a small m’weko and prefers to shift when nervous or scared. He can fit into tight spaces,” he said, eyes drifting as he struggled to pull a memory of Milo, reminding Keon of the last time he’d asked Simeon who he was screwing. It had taken forever to sift through the roster to remember his current squeeze. “Human, he is five foot six, white-blond hair, green eyes, and has a birthmark.” He pointed to the right side of his neck, under the ear. Finally getting to the important information.
“I imagine he’ll be the one face I don’t recognise,” Keon explained, grabbing his boots from the fire. “Have you seen the old, unused barn halfway between your camp and my village?” Thatcher narrowed his gaze. “Take your people to the barn. You’ll be safe through the storm. Do you have plenty of supplies? If not, take what you need. I’ll fetch my Beta and let him know I’ll be leaving the house.”
He couldn’t leave them with nothing, but it grated to realise Thatcher had been prepared to ride out the storm in the woods. He could have gotten half his pack killed.
Keon left Thatcher lurking in the living room, glad they’d cleared the paperwork away earlier, and made his way to Weston’s bedroom, where he knocked lightly on the door. “West.”
“Yes, Alpha?”
Opening the door, he found Weston reading in bed. “You’re awake.”
“I can’t sleep with the wind,” Weston replied, a frown directed at the window as he set a bookmark into the paperback. “Did I hear voices?”
Keon stepped into the room and briefly outlined the problem. “Thatcher’s unwanted, disabled son he keeps hidden in shame has gone missing in this storm.” Weston’s lips parted but no words escaped. “I’m heading out for an hour, before this storm builds, and hope I return in time,” Keon explained, aware he was cutting it fine.
Weston threw aside the covers and stood, in comfortable wool pyjama bottoms and a hooded top. “Do you need help?” he asked, adorably young and innocent in the outfit, despite the steel in his eyes marking him as a Beta.
“No. I don’t want anyone else outside during the storm. It’s dangerous,” Keon replied, though he loved that Weston offered. “I’ve told Thatcher to get his people to the old barn and take what supplies he needs. I’ll make sure he doesn’t wait. We can keep his son here for the duration of the storm, if I find him. Will you hold the fort?”
“Of course.” Weston grabbed his paperback and crossed the space between them to lay a hand to Keon’s arm. “Be careful, Alpha.”
“You’re a star.” Keon offered a wink and left the room. Weston could take his time getting dressed or follow when he was ready. Keon would forgo a coat, as the wind was strong and it would hamper a shift or the need to crawl into tight spaces. When he returned to the living room, he found Thatcher pacing. “Thatcher,” Keon called to get his attention. The man glanced behind, expecting Weston to follow. “I expect I’ll find Milo in one of the storage sheds. I’ll bring him here, but don’t wait for us. You’ll get stuck here for the next three days, if this storm doesn’t blow over.”
Thatcher snorted. “I will wait in the barn with my people. You will send word when you find him.”
“If it’s safe,” Keon corrected, refusing to be dictated to.
Keeping his mouth shut was the smartest decision Thatcher ever made.
Keon opened the side table drawer, slipping a pocketknife and silver-plated handcuffs into his jeans pockets.
Walking Thatcher to the front door, Keon called over his shoulder. “I’ll return in an hour, West,” he said, setting the alarm on his wristwatch, useless except for the handy extras. Without his mobile and the apps he’d become addicted to, it was his last connection with Dnara and its technologies. What he wouldn’t give to have his phone or borrow Drew’s e-reader, with thousands of books at his fingertips.
Opening the front door, Keon was immediately hit by a chilled wind and the creaking of a door or window not properly latched. Before he stepped out, he glanced at the sky, increasingly violent red, rain lashing beyond the porch. He doubted he had an hour, but he’d re-evaluate as time passed. Either way, he would get soaked.
Giving Thatcher one last look, where he shrugged on his heavy coat, Keon eyed his belt. “Out of interest, why the dagger?”
Thatcher palmed the weapon at his hip and stepped past Keon into the deluge. “I wasn’t sure what state you’d be in or if I should threaten your Beta into getting an audience,” he admitted without shame, taking off into the wind and rain.
“Bastard,” Keon muttered, heading into the night.
Chapter Sixteen
