Keon
THE SCENT OFclover and honeysuckle tickled his nose. A brush of soft hair against his jaw, the huff of breath against his neck, light fingertips drifting lazily, sleepily across his chest.
Keon must be dreaming. Delusions induced by the pressure of the storm. A lingering after-effect of the painkillers, lack of sleep, mixed with the storm’s rise in barometric pressure and not eating. Confident, until he turned over to resist waking and bumped his nose against solid flesh. Keon opened his eyes, stunned by the porcelain skin of the body beside him. It was impossible to mistake what was pressed against his thigh or, despite Thatcher’s words, the reality Milo was a grown man.
Almost of the same age, they differed in one way. Milo’s sleeping features screamed mature, a classically handsome elegance, an indefinablesomething. He could understand why his m’weko was small and pure snow white, because Milo was. Pure white hair never to be mistaken for blond, light-blond eyebrows and eyelashes invisible against delicate pale skin. His head was tucked into Keon’s shoulder, but a shift of his leg, interlocked with Milo’s, revealed his short stature, his feet barely at Keon’s shin.
Small, delicate, and beautiful. Stunningly beautiful. Bloody mesmerising.
Keon risked lifting his hand from where it had slipped to Milo’s bare waist. His head demanded distance to let the poor guy save his dignity. The rest couldn’t resist the urge to brush a lock of hair tangled in Milo’s eyelashes. The hair was shaved close on the left of his head, a long fringe descending from the crown over the right eye. Grazing his cheek and offering a safe hiding place to keep every flicker of emotion fleeting and hidden. A secret to be earned.
Milo snuffled and moaned sleepily as he pressed closer, thumb brushing Keon’s collarbone as the hand curled around his neck, nose dusting an Eskimo kiss over his pulse. Swallowing the sudden rise of emotion—a confusing blend of protectiveness and arousal—Keon cupped a hand around Milo’s neck to encourage him to stay.
He should wake Milo. Give him the chance to retreat to have the dignity of clothes and make what was in his head a conscious choice. The man who was tired, grieving, and ached in ways he hadn’t realised, wanted to keep Milo close and let him fill the gaping holes in his life.
Nothing was more intimate to their people than letting their m’weko rub against another. Yet Milo had acted freely in the bunker, where it could have been self-preservation. In his bed, drifting off to sleep, was different. Was he wrong to think it meant more? Or Milo shared the spark of attraction?
Keon hadn’t noticed last night, if he was honest. He’d been convinced Milo was a child until he’d explained his real age. He’d been a m’weko and his interactions had been adorable, comforting, and soothing in a way Keon had never imagined. A way he’d needed. He’d bonded to the m’weko first, but Milo being as beautiful on the outside as on the inside was an unexpected bonus.
A deeper, primal instinct told Keon if Milo wanted to be close, he wouldn’t resist. Hewanted tokeep the man close to guard and protect Milo, to learn about his talents and needs, his dreams. Which couldn’t happen without dealing with Thatcher. The reminder had Keon reluctantly slipping out from under Milo, despite his moaning protests, and escaping the tempting man in his bed.
Dismissing the idea of keeping Milo, Keon showered and dressed. He wasn’t going to keep Milo, because Milo wasn’t a possession to be kept. He was a man, a m’weko, and a foamewith freedom and free will. As much as Keon and his m’weko didn’t like it, Milo was free to go where and when he wanted, without Keon getting territorial like a love-struck teenager. Besides, Milo had a true mate. While Keon’s was a selfish asshole, wishful thinking wouldn’t make Milo’s mate repulsive.
Whatever the truth, Milo wasnotKeon’s to keep.
Chapter Eighteen
Keon
THE STORM RAGEDoutside the house, less dangerous once the thunder and lightning wore out. Rain tap-tap-tapped on the windows and the wind rose to a fury. The danger was over, the storm likely lingering for days more until it disappeared without a trace. Leaving them to repair the damage.
Keon sat in the doorway of the back door, feet resting on the steps, protected by the porch wrapping around the rear of the house as he enjoyed a morning coffee. He’d woken early, using the time to think. Nothing was clearer than when he’d woken, but he felt capable of facing the problems.
When he checked his watch close to noon, he heated the soup from yesterday, made a fresh batch of coffee and buttered three rolls. Halfway through preparations, he heard the sound of Weston’s shower running, across the hall. Perfect timing. Keon took a tray through to Weston’s room, leaving the soup and a plate with the buttered roll next to a cup of coffee on his bedside table. He returned to the kitchen to put his brunch and Milo’s onto the tray and took it into his bedroom. The smell must have woken him, Milo stretching temptingly across the double mattress when he walked in.
Keon placed the tray on the bedside table and waited as Milo rubbed his eyes. In an instant, he went from a smiling, bleary-eyed, tousled man pleased to see him to darting up to sit against the headboard, hands grabbing the duvet to cover his body.
At least he knew he was naked.
Delighting in his sudden shyness, Keon tapped the legs from the bottom of the tray to place over Milo’s lap. “Morning, sunshine.” He winked, teasing Milo for his nerves. Rounding the bed, he sat against the headboard to take his bowl of soup from the tray.
“Alpha,” Milo replied, head dipping to let his hair drape attractively across his eyes.
“We’re beyond ‘Alpha’, aren’t we? You can call me Keon.” He sipped at the piping-hot soup. When Keon paused to enjoy his coffee, he noticed Milo wasn’t eating. “I figured you’d be starving.”
A dusting of pink graced his pale cheeks. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough from sleep.
Keon instinctively brushed Milo’s hair into place from where it covered his eyes. “I’ll let you eat in peace, but I don’t know much about your needs, or these talents and disabilities you have. I’ll stay in case you need me. After we’ve eaten, if you feel comfortable, you can use the bathroom and steal my clothes,” he offered, though it would be a rare torment to wear them when Milo left and discover his scent remained.
Returning to his lunch, Keon focused on eating. He tore his roll, dipped, and repeated, polishing off his soup in record time, while Milo picked gingerly at the meal. He must be starving after expending excess energy last night. Traipsing around the village in search of Milo and carrying him had Keon ravenous. Either he was unfit or hadn’t recovered from his fight against Usher.
When his soup was done, Keon nursed his coffee, enjoying the unfamiliar comfort of having someone to share his space with. The only people he felt this comfortable with were Weston, who usually read a book or completed paperwork, and Drew, who talked through it, because he couldn’t abide silence. It was rare to find someone who could just…exist in his space, without expecting anything of him.
Milo was interesting. As he ate, he forgot about his shyness in increments, growing more secure in his presence. When he’d finished his roll and was halfway through his coffee, Keon detected cautious, lingering glances. Not the nervous kind, to check he hadn’t moved closer, but the kind that made the air crackle with electricity. Looks suggesting he wasn’t alone in finding his companion astoundingly attractive.
Coffee cup empty, Keon left the bed to grab the crutches from the floor. He set Simeon’s sword on the dresser and rounded the bed to place the crutches against the headboard at Milo’s side of the bed. “I trust you can use these?” These were Dnaran crutches, not the handmade things common in Vihaan, and Keon didn’t know his needs or how long he’d been dealing with his disability. Were these the right tools to help him?
Milo flicked his gaze to the crutches. “I’m unsteady, but I can get to the bathroom. Thank you.”
