Keon shrugged off the rope strap to let the crutches clatter to the floor.
“I’ve prepared care packages to be handed to anyone who must endure those renovations,” Weston continued, muffled by the running water.
“G-good.” Keon shoved the crutches into the corner of the room with his foot, far from the hazard area. He sat on the end of the bed, legs weary and ready to surrender, refusing to relinquish his hold on the m’weko. “W-wait,” he whispered into his fur, rubbing his cold face against hot fur. The combination of a warm house and Milo’s proximity fought the chill. “I’m taking you into the b-bath. We’re s-soaked and chilled to the bone. Y-you can stay as m’weko to s-stop you from getting sick,” he explained, in case the human inside Milo protested. He was more grateful than he could put into words when the m’weko licked his neck.
Weston emerged, drying his hands on a towel. “I left soup in the fridge to be re-heated. You’ll find fresh bread on the counter, and the kettle is ready if you want cocoa or coffee,” he said, and hesitated in the doorway.
“G-Go sleep, West. We’ll be f-fine. I’m not doing anything but h-heating up and feeding him t-tonight. We’ll s-sleep and figure this out tomorrow,” he promised, refusing to push, when he was less than 100 percent.
As soon as Weston left, closing the door behind him, Keon released Milo onto the bed. The m’weko sat hunched on the quilt, shivering and sodding wet. “Stay.” Heading into the bathroom, he double-checked the water level in the bath and stripped, leaving his clothes dripping on the wooden floor. Ruined.
Returning for Milo, he tried not to register the widening of green eyes or the heat of the gaze running over his body. This was a vulnerable m’weko who needed to be taken care of, tonight. Tomorrow, he could acknowledge Milo was of age, an adult, and adorable in unexpected ways. Being the youngest son of the enemy didn’t matter. Milo was more than the family he’d been born into.
Lifting the m’weko into his arms, he returned to the bathroom and stepped over the side of the tub, lowering into the water to prevent splashing over the side. Submerged to his shoulders, he rested his head and relaxed. If he could, he’d have slept in the bath, surrounded by warmth, the m’weko lying across his chest and lap, head tucked into the crook of his neck.
Keon couldn’t resist running his hands over soft white fur, lightly scrubbing the filthy muck, dust, and rain from the delicate coat, massaging and relaxing the pup in his arms. Milo dozed as the water cooled. Putting an end to the bath, Keon lifted the m’weko over the side of the tub to sit on the floor, while he stood and pulled the plug. When the mangy mutt shook his fur out, splashing him with the remnants of water, Keon scowled.
After drying off, he grabbed the joggers Weston had looped over the generator-heated towel-rail and stepped into the warmth. Dry and dressed, he grabbed a second towel and attacked the white m’weko.
Milo yipped and squirmed, lethargically nipping at his hand in warning when Keon scrubbed the towel over his fur. Keon worked to get the m’weko dry to prevent lingering in wet fur and the scent of wet dog in his bed. Once Milo was dried and sleepy, Keon carried him to the bed and pulled aside the cover to lay him on the clean sheet beneath. Stripping the duvet they’d soaked when they came in, he replaced it with a heavy blanket and crawled into bed.
Within seconds, a tired, warm m’weko snuggled against his chest. “Hungry?” he asked, belatedly recalling Weston’s offer of soup and coffee. The m’weko rumbled a disapproving noise and shoved his head against Keon’s chest. “Yeah, me neither. We’ll eat when we wake up,” he agreed, beyond exhausted, and unwilling to drag his ass out of bed.
Caressing Milo’s warm, dry fur, he flicked off the bedside light Weston had left on. “Don’t worry, we’ll sort everything tomorrow. I won’t send you home if you don’t want to go.”
*
Milo
‘GENTLE’ HADN’T BEENa word in Milo’s vocabulary since he was a child, and then, only ever associated with his mother. No one else in his life had treated him carefully, with tender touches and a soft voice. Not until Keon.
He hadn’t realised how much he craved being taken care of until Alpha Keon stepped into his life and made it feel natural.
When he spoke of the storm, Milo feared he’d taken Alpha Keon from his people at a time when they needed him most. Yet, he never complained. He didn’t scold Milo for ‘running away’ from his father. He didn’t criticise him when Keon saw his crutches and was starkly honest about being uncomfortable with the mind-speaking.
Milo hadn’t meant to reveal the secret,neversharing that with anyone. Even his father didn’t know, and no one he’d tried to communicate with could reply or hear his thoughts. Until Keon.
What did that mean?
It was…world changing. Why was Keon capable when others weren’t? What made him different? It couldn’t be that he was Alpha because Thatcher had never heard the many cruel and angry words Milo had thrown at him in his childhood. Perhaps Keon had heecha blood in his family line, or his shock came from the fact Milo had the same gift.
If this was possible, who knew what else could be done with his gift? It had been forever since Milo had anyone to share it with, to tell about its existence, and the idea of telling Alpha Keon made him giddy. Maybethiswas the bargaining chip he could use to broker his freedom from Thatcher?
Turning his head on the pillow, Milo stared through m’weko eyes at the man lying beside him. A human man, who made sure he was safe, warm, clean, and comfortable before drifting into sleep.
What had he done to find someone like Keon? To have this generous, kind man in his life?
Milo snuffled closer to the warmth emanating off Keon, worried Thatcher had asked the Alpha to find him. Thatcher had told Keon he was a child. Why? What purpose did that serve? And what did he expect Keon to do when Milo shifted into a full-grown man? Had Thatcher been hoping Milo was too weak to shift to his human form? He was partially right. While a good night’s sleep would help, the shock of Keon intruding upon his hiding space, the disturbed sleep and panic of being discovered, and the worry Keon would send him back to his father had left Milo shaken.
Neither Keon nor the Meskli knew about Thatcher’s law—and Milo had forgotten, until now, as it was rarely utilised—the one that claimed any male under Thatcher’s rule only came of age to be considered an adult at twenty-five. That meant Milo was five years from being legally of age to leave his father’s pack.
Thatcher had called him a child to Alpha Keon, laying the groundwork for a later conversation, where he stomped on Milo’s freedom and stole his only chance of escape. Thatcher could spin any story he liked by relating Milo’s behaviour to his injury. Perhaps he’d already told Keon he was mentally ill, as well as physically disabled.
Milo huffed a breath and nuzzled closer to Keon’s warmth. The Alpha lay with his back to Milo, but the heat radiating off him was tempting. He would rest tonight, shift in the morning, and pray. It might take time and effort, but he would make Alpha Keon see he was a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. That he had a logical, genuine reason to seek sanctuary from Thatcher. Refusing him would only result in continued harm to him and those he loved, and potentially death.
If Alpha Keon turned him away after hearing his arguments, then he wasn’t the man Milo thought.
*
