HE DIDN’T KNOWwhat was more shocking: that Keon had heard his words, or that he responded, and it actually worked.
Milo had never known anyone to hear his thoughts, the way his gift allowed. His mother had told him it was a gift passed from the Mother with their visions, but only her grandfather had controlled and shared it with others. Since Milo had never met him, he’d never had the chance of knowing what it was like to beheard,and tohearin return.
The long petting strokes Keon swept over his fur left Milo struggling to keep his eyes open and thoughts in order. It was nice to be taken care of, to have someone care about calming his erratic reactions to perfectly normal situations, before expecting anything of him. Milo wished he could control the surge of adrenaline that made him shake and quiver, but that was just one of the many downfalls of his injury. He’d lost control of many natural reactions a long time ago.
The instinct to snuggle close and bury his muzzle into Keon’s throat was intense, but Milo fought it. He doubted Keon would want him getting too close, though he’d seemed surprised when Milo confessed his age. Why was that?
Whatever it was, or meant, he couldn’t get his hopes up. With the immense favour he had to ask of the Alpha, Milo couldn’t let anything cloud his judgement. He needed to remain level-headed and keep his hormones in check. Keon’s attractiveness and attentiveness meant nothing if he refused Milo sanctuary.
“You must have been here awhile,” Keon murmured, rubbing his cheek over Milo’s shoulder. “You’re warm.”
The remark was surprising but would have made human-Milo smirk. The m’weko reacted on instinct to lay his chin on Keon’s shoulder and offer warmth to the man who had battled through the storm to find him. Milo figured heat was worth the closeness, and if it let him bask in Keon’s scent of wet grass, so be it.
Chapter Seventeen
Keon
WITH MILO CALM, it was time to get the facts.
“Little m’weko,” Keon said in the silent room, casting a concerned glance at his watch, “we don’t have much time. I’ll be blunt. The mind-talking freaks me out. Can you lick me for ‘yes’ and give a nip for ‘no’?” He wasn’t surprised when the m’weko in his arms delicately dragged a tongue over his bare neck.
He instinctively lifted his shoulder into the contact of a rough tongue on skin. “Thatcher has me on a wild goose chase for his missing son. Convinced the kid was kidnapped,” he hinted, unsurprised the m’weko squirmed in his lap, desperate to get away. Keon automatically bent to grab the tip of one ear between his teeth, stilling the m’weko.“No misbehaving or I’ll shift and put you in your place.”
He gave Milo the chance to prove he wouldn’t be trouble. “Better,” Keon approved, when he made no more attempts to escape. “I don’t buy the kidnapping story. According to Thatcher, his son is young, disabled, and vulnerable. Has a mysterious ‘talent’ to warn of the storm. Considering I see crutches in the corner, you’re the smallest m’weko I’ve ever met, and you don’t like me mentioning Thatcher, I presume you’re his son, Milo?”
After a pregnant pause, a tongue darted out to lick the curve of his jaw.
Keon contemplated what came next. “Thatcher implied you were a child, and I need you in speaking condition to confirm my suspicions,” he explained, eyeing the m’weko behind cautious eyes. “However, I want to go home to my warm, comfortable bed tonight, and we don’t have time. You’ll need to behave, and let me take you to my house, where I’ll keep you safe through the storm.
“I won’t tell your father you’ve been found, or where you are, until we’ve had a chance to talk.Afterwe sleep, eat, and rest. Once we’re thinking clearer, safe, and sheltered from the storm, we’ll talk. Okay?” he asked, waiting for a reaction. He instinctively tightened his hold on the m’weko, prepared for Milo to run, not expecting the scrape of tongue against his cheek.
Milo was the apple that fell far, far from the family tree.
Keon released the m’weko,encouraging him onto his feet. “Thatcher didn’t describe your disability, but considering the crutches and how your legs are shaking, I guess your condition makes it hard to walk. Will you tolerate me carrying you?”
Though the m’weko glanced at the crutches, he bobbed a nod.
“This wind is a bitch and nearly shovedmeoff my feet. Our combined weight should get us home,” he reassured Milo, though a twenty-year-old Alpha’s son wouldn’t like the idea of being carried. He blinked when the m’weko stepped in to lick his cheek. “You like doing that, huh?” he teased, pleased the skittish beast trusted him enough to get close. Milo didn’t mind the teasing, stepping into Keon’s space to rub his muzzle across Keon’s shoulder and into his neck. A promise of trust and loyalty he’d never anticipated from this pup.
Keon rubbed his muzzle and stood. “Right, let’s get you to safety.” Before he grew fonder of the guy. Looking around the cellar, he judged everything had been treated with care, with no need to re-check the stock or move items into place. The crutches were a problem, because leaving them behind would leave Milo feeling vulnerable, but transporting themanda m’weko would be problematic.
Keon located rope, tied a harness around his chest with three knots, and prepared for awkward walking. In the centre, he put Simeon’s sword, refusing to leave it behind, and bracketed it with the crutches, angled to the sides, not inward where his feet could tangle in them. Finished, he shrugged on the unwieldy device and prayed it held.
He gave Milo the gesture to move, and Milo rose from his haunches, padding across the room. Calm, trusting, patient. Keon wouldn’t shame or embarrass Milo by asking him to jump into his arms or climb the steps to make it easier to lift him. His ankles shook even as a m’weko, indicating a severe injury to his human body. Once Milo stood close, Keon bent his knees and scooped him into his arms.
Though little, he was the size of a full-grown human wolf. Armography got the pup into the right position, where Milo could rest his head over Keon’s shoulder, allowing him to see clearly. Careful to keep his posture level to balance his weight, he took the first step. Adjusting his stance for the next, he felt secure enough not to pause between steps. He took the staircase to the door, shoved it open, and stopped as he re-entered the world.
Fuck, it was cold. The temperature had dropped a half-dozen degrees, and the wind was biting. Keon kicked the door shut, slamming his foot against the door to secure it, and started walking to his home, not far from the podium.
Fighting the wind was the hardest part. He barely registered the ice-cold rain or the thunder and lightning battling in the sky. The wind pushing every step meant the journey took twice as long as a half hour ago. Having the added weight of Milo in his arms grounded him.
Weston must have been watching at the window. As Keon ventured off the main street and ascended the path to his house, the door burst open, revealing a guiding light to help avoid the sodding puddles.
“Blessed Mother!” Weston exclaimed, as Keon took his first step inside and let his Beta shut and bolt the door.
“F-f-found h-him-m,” he gloated, teeth chittering as the cold from outside battled violently with the warmth of the house. He shut his mouth and tipped his head to the hallway, a signal Weston squeaked at.
“Of course.” His Beta rushed along the hallway, held open the door to his bedroom, and let Keon follow at his own pace. Weston already had the taps of the bathtub running in the en-suite bathroom. “When you have time, write a note with the damages. I’ll make notations for reparations and renovations due after the storm passes.”
