“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Probably for the same reason you waited until Farley left before telling me,” he reasoned, without censure or judgement. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you didn’t do it maliciously, and you were put under immense pressure to do as you were told or see your brother be put in harm’s way. I don’t see how you could have done anything else.” Keon set his cup on the coffee table and lay a warm hand on Milo’s knee.
“I knew from the minute I met Thatcher that he was manipulative, but I never thought he’d put his children in danger to satisfy his own needs,” Keon admitted, looking sad, as if he should have protected Milo. “I’d planned to ask why you’d been talking to the guard, but you warned us how dangerous Thatcher was and confessed to how scared you were of him, and I knew I didn’t need to. You did whatever you had to do to survive him.”
Milo’s eyes welled, startled someone who’d only known him a matter of days could see into his heart. “I never wanted anyone to get hurt, if I could help it,” he whispered, fighting the rush of emotions.
Keon brushed a thumb over his cheek and sat back, getting comfortable. “You underestimate yourself, probably because that’s what your father wanted. But you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, and I’ll enjoy reminding you of that whenever you need to hear it.”
Milo set his cup aside to free his hands and snuggle into Keon, accepting and welcoming the comfort he offered freely, and Milo felt he didn’t deserve. A kiss grazed his temple, and he closed his eyes, thanking the Mother for bringing Keon into his life.
“You did the right thing, mikha.For you, and for those you love. That’s not something you should ever apologise for.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Keon
One Week Later
NOTHING WAS BETTERthan the wind rushing through his fur. Keon felt free, happy, and as close to complete when he was running as a m’weko. His senses felt sharper and, unlike the lonely runs he spent alone, Milo ran alongside him. Hi m’weko’s gait was halting, his speed faltered every few feet, and he stumbled more than once, but his m’weko was happy to be free and independent. Keeping pace with Keon, playfully nudging and yipping like a pup.
He loved every minute.
Keon led them from the usual track by the border of his land, heading for his favourite clearing by the longest road. He wanted Milo to experience the beauty of their territory. Not the places Thatcher had shown by bringing soldiers to their camp, but the serene spots where nature flourished and their senses overflowed.
Keon slowed to a walk as they entered the trees, Milo by his side, with beautiful snowy-white fur. He walked closer and nudged Milo’s muzzle with his, a warm affection encasing him as he thought of their week. Peaceful, open, and honest, they’d shared their pain over their families, the stories of their rejected true mates, and their experiences with Dnara. There was a lot to learn about the man who’d been locked away, living through books and tales told by the soldiers around the fire.
Milo licked his face, flooding Keon with warmth as he returned the show of affection. He nuzzled his head into the crook of Milo’s neck and playfully bit the spot where the bruises didn’t show, inordinately fond of the marks that reminded them of the first time they met and Keon had accidentally marked him.
A reminder this m’weko by his side was his. Not yet claimed, but by choice, by will, loyalty, and affection. All the ways his m’weko cared about, and ways his human marvelled at.
Despite what Milo had been through, he was trusting, open with his heart. He welcomed Keon into his life, adjusted to the pack like it was his natural home. In return, the pack had rallied around the small man with a big personality and a bigger heart.
They continued walking, emerging into a clearing in the middle of the woods. Keon stopped at the tree line, letting Milo take in the view. Watching as joy lit green eyes. He dipped his head to the grass, inhaled deeply, and soaked in the view. The clearing was a wilderness of colour and scent, poppies, tulips, and wildflowers growing through the long grass. Dew lingered from the mist the storm had left behind, days ago. This morning, life returned to the meadow, a host of insects and birds swarming amongst the plants.
The sight of Milo’s bright emerald eyes told Keon he understood how special this place was.
While Milo explored, Keon watched him embrace this new life, accepting his place, and becoming comfortable. At home. He thought of the last week and his m’weko huffed in pleasure.
Life with Milo was…interesting. Waking to Milo became his new favourite way to start the day, the scent of clover and honeysuckle encasing him in warm reassurance. His clothes smelled permanently of his new mate, and he’d already referred to what used to behisastheirs. The bed, the house, the pack.
Weston marked Milo as a good influence. “I much prefer the scent of fresh grass and honeysuckle that permeates the house to those cigarettes you smoke.” The idea their scents had mingled was astounding, as that usually didn’t happen until after the mating bond. Grass for Keon, and honeysuckle for Milo, the house had become a blend of the courting pair.
Milo was a sweet distraction to his nerves and senses. The cigarettes were barely needed. Where he’d puff away, considering a problem or troubled by a situation, Keon looked to Milo for his opinion, or a comforting snuggle on the sofa. Astounding, infuriating, andright. He’d already written a three-page letter to Drew asking why he’d never explained this unfathomable possessiveness when he rattled on about how much he loved Rylee.
Keon imagined his inner Alpha and m’weko had shifted the mating bond from Vega to Milo with his acceptance of their union, but he’d never expected it to be…like this.
Opening the bedroom door and letting Milo’s sister, Haley, wake him by pouncing on the bed had been one of the best moments of his life. Followed by one of the worst, when he admitted Milo had been right about his mother. She had escaped Thatcher, at the cost of losing touch with her children. Keon promised to keep searching, but Milo swore, through the tears, he had what he needed as he hugged his sister close.
To say, “You’re safe,” and mean it had been worth every second of torment and chaos, every bloody cut, every broken bone and bruise he’d taken from Usher during the challenge.
Doctor Robell had visited earlier in the week, summoned by a scout. He’d agreed with Milo’s self-diagnosis, naming it as a fairly common disorder, peripheral neuropathy. It had no typical behaviour or pain level, but he’d left a supply of painkillers for whenever Milo needed them. The treatment was less decisive. Milo was right. If he pushed his body beyond its limits, he would risk losing the last of his mobility. Robell wanted him to use the crutches indoors, a wheelchair for distances, and rest often, but actively encouraged the use of Milo’s m’weko.
As with most, the more time he spent in his m’weko body, the more his human body could utilise the hormones and biology to heal. It may take years, due to the severity of the nerve damage, but Robell thought Milo could maintain his current mobility. In the best case, he could use crutches for longer distances, but only if he was carefulnow, when his condition was new.
Keon considered it good news. They had months until Farley returned to ask when they wanted to complete the official mating ceremony, and Milo had insisted on walking for the ceremony. A positive goal to keep in mind, incentive to keep motivated. Robell was convinced he couldifhe behaved. It was Keon’s job to make sure he did.
Robell had left updated first-aid books for Milo, in case he wanted to train to become the pack doctor. An idea that appealed to Milo, and Keon approved of. Milo was the type of man who would tire of having no purpose, the same as Keon. If he could find a place in the pack, a true vocation, he would be happier.
