Snorting at the teasing, Farley stood and stretched, crossing to clasp him by the shoulders. “I’ll miss you, young pup.” He smirked and whispered, “Though I imagine you’ll be busy, and never notice I’m gone.” The glance he shot Milo, sleeping on the sofa, curled under a blanket, made his meaning perfectly clear.
Keon shook his head. “You’re not expecting much, are you?” he retaliated, glad pregnancy was impossible, or Farley would be vying for a child when he returned. The man was insufferable enough without making him an honourable grandpa. “I’ll put him to bed and see you out,” he decided, though it was early afternoon.
Farley’s guards wanted to leave for a known safe house before dark, in case the storm returned. While Farley oversaw the guards as they stocked supplies, Keon crossed to the sofa. Milo was sweet and innocent, tuckered out from the stress of confronting Thatcher, realising he was free of the man’s influence. Having Thatcher linger on Keon’s land had run him ragged emotionally.
“Milo,” he whispered, brushing hair from his eyes. “I’ll carry you to bed,” he said, smiling at the moan of acknowledgement. Slipping his arms under the smaller frame, Keon lifted him easily. Milo was thin, frail, needing weeks, months, of decent care to get him into healthy shape.
Milo eased his balance by curling against his chest, wrapping his arms around Keon’s neck. “Sleep,” Keon whispered, carrying him to the bedroom and tugging the covers aside to let him sleep in comfort.
Long, spindly legs slid under the covers as Milo snuggled into the pillow. Keon indulged in one last kiss to his temple, then left.
Drifting onto the patio, he lit a cigarette and leaned against the veranda post.
Vega stood amongst the guards, hands tied loosely, a backpack over his shoulder. He glared at Keon, but he didn’t care. The man had broken one of their fundamental laws, and couldn’t behave. He’d jeopardised Eliseo’s mission, started fights with Farley’s guards, and refused to leave the pack peacefully.
With Farley’s agreement he could no longer be trusted, there was no other option. He would travel with Farley and be delivered to an appropriate pack of the Meskli’s choosing on the way. Which was why Farley spent an hour talking with Weston about his Beta duties, and inspected his guards.
The petulant child inside refused to say goodbye because he would see Farley soon. The man who had lost his entire family knew nothing was certain. Descending the front steps, he broke protocol and hugged the Meskli. “I’ll see you in a couple months.”
Farley returned the hug. “Before the rain seasons. I’ll return to mate you with your lad.”
Keon hoped he was right. “Good. I’ll have time to make changes,” he agreed, refusing to utter the horrid word ‘goodbye’ in the hope it wouldn’t become prophetic. He preferred the banter, the promise of a future meeting. “I’m hoping you’ll barely recognise this place when you return.”
Farley chucked his chin. “I can barely recognise you from the lad you were. Afraid of your brothers and your instincts. You’ve grown into a fine man. I can’t wait to see what you do next.” He tipped his head in a silent goodbye and signalled to his guards.
Farley walked toward the edge of the village, where members of the pack waited to see him off. When Farley was no longer in sight, beyond the tree line and on his way home, Keon walked into the house feeling bereft. Bypassing Weston’s cautious gaze at the front door, he detoured for his bedroom and shut the door. Counting to ten to control his emotions, he removed his shoes and crossed to the bed.
Keon lay on the warm bed, unable to resist curling around Milo and burying his nose in the crook of his neck. The scent of him—clover, honeysuckle, and the wildness left after a storm—soothed his soul. Keon wrapped his arm around his future mate and stole the freedom to rest.
A soft hand slid over his, linked their fingers, and tugged him closer. His hand was drawn against a firm chest, tucked beneath Milo’s chin, and used as a pillow.
Keon closed his eyes. He’d let Milo drift into a deep sleep, and enjoy the closeness, then submit to work.
*
HIS NAME SPOKENsoftly forced Keon to open his eyes, frowning at the clock on the bedside table saying his five minutes had become an hour. Annoyed and tired, he scrubbed his face. He’d gone to sleep snuggled behind Milo, but they’d swapped, Milo’s hard cock nestled against his ass. The second call of his name made Milo moan in complaint and shuffle closer, rubbing his length against Keon’s ass.
Keon was sorely tempted, but he was tired and everything was new with Milo. He wanted to do this right, as it would be the only mating of his life. He would have forever with Milo and wouldn’t forget the emotional bond they’d created during the storm.
“What?” he croaked, rubbing his eye as he eased Milo off and rolled him to the other side of the bed. Keon scrubbed his face as Weston crept closer.
“I’m sorry, Alpha. Alpha Thatcher is here.” He smiled, from the end of the bed, when Keon groaned in complaint. “Coffee?”
“Yup.” Keon forced tired bones from the bed, and was halfway through a splash of water at the bathroom sink when he cottoned on to why Thatcher had returned. He rushed through a quick change of shirt, made sure Milo was comfortable, and hustled to the living room to accept a mug of coffee from Weston.
“Thatcher,” Keon said in greeting, sipping his coffee. He gestured for Thatcher to take a seat, but the man shook his head and eyed him with disdain.
“Where is Milo?”
Interesting. He’d asked after his son countless times, yet Milo’s physical state was testament to how Thatcher treated ‘family’. From how pale, weak, and thin he was to the injuries caused by Thatcher’s thoughtless dictatorship, everything Milo thought was ‘wrong’ with him lay at Thatcher’s feet.
“He’s sleeping,” Keon replied, ambiguous and disinterested. He wouldn’t explain that Milo was exhausted from stress, emotional turmoil, and using his talents. Leave Thatcher worried Keon had been fucking him into oblivion for the last hour. “I don’t see a reason to wake him, unless you’ve fulfilled your end of our bargain. Though I don’t see any women with you.”
Thatcher huffed. “You’re insufferable.”
I live to piss you off, Keon thought, but kept his mouth shut, smiling and sipping coffee as he basked in Thatcher’s discomfort. He wouldn’t risk angering him without Milo’s family in his clutches.
After a brisk command to his guard, one left and returned with a young girl, hand gripping her upper arm with more brutality than necessary. The guard shoved her at Thatcher, who gestured to Keon.
