Good. Keon left them nearby and returned to collect his dishes, putting the bowl on the plate and his empty mug inside the bowl to free his hands. “When you feel ready, come out and go left. Follow the hallway to the front door, turn right, and you’ll find me going over paperwork with my Beta,” he said, giving clear directions to prevent the confusion of finding his way around while navigating crutches.
Milo hid behind his hair, subdued this morning. Was he more confident in his m’weko body, or had those constant licks and attention been limited to the life-or-death situation of the storm?
“If you get into trouble or need help, send a flare.” Keon tapped his temple in teasing. He wasn’t fond of the strange and unfamiliar telepathy, but it would be useful for Milo. If he had more exposure, he could get used to it. “Leave your dishes on the bedside table, and I’ll collect them.”
His words brought a knowing smile to Milo’s lips, warm and amused. “I will, thank you.”
Keon couldn’t resist, stepping close to cup Milo’s head and kiss his temple. “Stop thanking me,” he whispered, retreating to the door before he did anything stupid. “Call if you need me.”
One step from the bedroom, Milo whispered, “Yes, Keon.”
Mother, this man would kill him.
*
Milo
AS THE DOORshut behind Keon, Milo let a smile slip free.
For once, Haley was right. Keon was far better looking than Simeon, and swoon-worthy to boot. Some gift from the Fates let him know exactly what to say to Milo, as well as what he needed to hear and when, to make his heart flutter.
That final kiss to the forehead…gentle, thoughtful, and careful, as if Milo was a delicate thing to be taken care of. Perhaps that was how Keon would treat anyone under his care, or maybe it was a reaction to Milo’s disability. He’d be disappointed if it was, but it wouldn’t be new.
He’d almost frozen in surprise when Keon asked if he could use his crutches. People presumed that being disabled allowed him to use whatever aid he could get his hands on. But the crutches were awkward and unwieldy, and he hadn’t known how to use them effectively when it wasn’t one leg but both that required support. In the end, he went by the moment, supporting whichever leg felt weakest at the time.
For Keon to ask, he must have noticed they weren’t heavily used. That, or he understood the true extent of Thatcher’s lies and selfishness, realising he wasn’t the kind of man to supply Milo with the necessary tools to make his life easier. And he hadn’t. Milo had done his best, but it was Usher who caved and found a more permanent solution.
After indulgent minutes soaking up the last of the warmth from the bed, Milo reluctantly slid his legs off the mattress and sat up. Raking a hand through his hair, and stifling a yawn, he reached for the crutches, glad Keon had put them close to the bed. He normally had to lean on furniture to get to them, or trust them to remain where he left them throughout the night.
If he was to regain any extent of his original strength, he had to keep pushing his limits. He didn’t know if that was the right thing or not, but Milo was a firm believer in trying something once before discounting it. His only failure would be not trying.
After a quick wash in the bathroom, with his hair fixed, Milo ventured into Alpha Keon’s bedroom and eyed the wardrobe with curiosity. An array of clothing waited, some with a distinctive Dnaran flair, while others were traditional Vihaan, common to an Alpha’s wardrobe. Avoiding anything that would scream ‘this belongs to the Alpha’, Milo chose a plain outfit of comfortable, loose joggers, a T-shirt, and a well-worn jumper.
It wasn’t until he’d made his choice and dressed that he realised the scent coming off the clothes was teasing his senses. A wave of fresh grass, reminiscent of the finest spring evening, with the night dew starting to glisten the blades, and a hint of mint.
The mix of scents was like the combination of his favourite smells, only missing the distinctive addition of books.
A smile crept to his lips, but Milo fought it. He couldn’t get used to this or being around Keon. No matter his scent, how kind and attentive he was, this wasn’t his life. Milo was destined forsomething,but the Fates hadn’t made it clearwherethat would take place orwhatit would be. It would likely revolve around his gift, and perhaps saving Vihaan from his father.
If that was the case, he’d be happy knowing he’d made a difference, no matter how small.
*
Keon
KEON BROUGHT TWOfresh cups of coffee into the living room after doing the dishes. Weston yawned, getting comfortable on the sofa, curled into the corner by the fire. Accepting the cup, he sipped. “Thank you for the soup.”
“You’re welcome.” Keon walked to the window to pull the curtains and peek at the dreary day. Spotting a figure on the path, he walked to the front door and opened it. Farley didn’t hesitate to walk in, shaking a hand through his hair to dust the rain off. “Tell your men to come in out the rain.”
Farley glanced at them with exasperation, gave the order, and ushered them into the living room. As Farley took his favourite armchair by the fire, Keon handed over his fresh cup of coffee to the Meskli. “Bless you, lad.”
Keon retreated to the kitchen to pour a new cup. When he returned, Farley was lamenting the horrible, restless night he’d spent in the luxury of the Pack-House. When Farley asked, Keon answered concerned questions for how his night had gone, explaining the events during the day, Thatcher’s visit, and his discovery of Milo. Leaving nothing out, he told of how Milo feared his father, and had an unspecified injury so severe his m’weko limped.
“Thatcher lied.” Keon sipped his coffee as he tried to roll his tongue around the idea Thatcher had an ulterior motive. An idea he couldn’t propose to Farley without gaining the Meskli’s untainted opinion first. “He talked about Milo like he was a child and infirm. You’d have expected a boy of ten, who had difficulty navigating the world and shouldn’t be left unattended.
“What I found was?” He paused, searching for the right words as his eyes drifted to the door, wondering what was delaying Milo. “?the opposite. Milo is small for a m’weko, but he’s older, smart, and capable, and he obeyed my orders without question. He understood what I was asking, and withdrew when he thought I would return him to Thatcher.”
Farley hummed over his coffee. “Older?” he asked, the intrigue unmistakable.
