Page 3 of Little Fangs

She stood on her paws, leaning on my knees, her face against mine. She licked my lips and the blood that I’d gotten on my skin from the mouse.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said again, softer.

Misty led me out on my hands and knees, and I looked up at the man.

His brow immediately grew intense. He knew. Dipping into a squat, his thighs bulging out the sides of his sweatpants, he said, “You’re hurt.” And he placed a finger under my chin. “Jesus Christ, who did this to you?”

I shook my head. “I—I—”

“It’s okay,” he said. “How long have you been out here?”

“No, I—no—no.”

He stroked the side of a finger down my cheek. “You’re cold,” he said. “You’re from Ludmila’s manor, aren’t you?”

My jaw, almost like it had been forced shut, wasn’t letting any sound out.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he said, a thumb swiping at my bottom lip. “But you were desperate enough to go for a mouse just then, so I don’t think you’re a threat. Especially since Misty likes you.”

His cat was sticking to my side, her tail wrapped right around my arm almost.

I nodded, lowering my gaze, and tried to avoid looking at his crotch. “I—”

“Let’s get you inside,” he whispered. “Sun’s almost up, and I’m guessing that’s not ideal.”

I held up my wrist as if he knew, but from the look on his face, he probably didn’t. He was just a human who lived in Willow’s End, he was probably used to this, rescuing poor and injured animals from the clutches of death. And that’s what I was right now, an animal, forced to be handed scraps by a cat, to live outside and prepare myself for death from whatever corner it might appear.

“Come on,” he said. “I’m not gonna ask again. You look a little beat up, and I’m probably guessing you don’t wanna stay out here waiting for whoever it was who did that to you.”

I shook my head, pushing up from my knees. The ache of the cold weather had sunk into my bones, turning them into heavy weights I was forced into lugging around. He stared at me for a moment before picking me up like a baby, an arm under my knees and another at the back of my head. He carried me to his cabin with the cat in tow behind. Maybe she hadn’t been able to hear me, but she’d been able to feel me, and that felt good. The approval of a cat had got me into the man’s home.

“I’m Harlan Cartwright,” he mumbled as he placed me on his sofa. “And you’re safe here. I won’t ask what happened, but if Misty approves of you, then that’s all that matters. She’d never comfort a—monster.”

My lips trembled, my jaw practically about to break from the way my teeth chattered against each other. I didn’t know what to tell him, because I’d lived far too long being told I was a monster—twenty human years being taught that being a man meant being a protector, to practically becoming a shut-in at Ludmila’s manor.

Misty leapt up on the sofa, then placed herself squarely on my chest. Harlan smiled at the action, and I watched his expression like a hawk, trying to make sure it wasn’t going to change on a whim. He could easily have put that shotgun to my head and blown my brains out.

“But I would like a name,” he said, squatting in front of me. “In case anyone comes by, I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”

I nodded. “My name is Micah.”

“Micah,” he repeated. “Nice to meet you.” He shook my hand. “Now, I’ll make sure to keep these curtains closed and the doors shut. That’s what—what you need, right?”

“Yes, thank you, Sir,” I said, gulping hard. There was a horrible itch now in my throat. The mouse blood hadn’t done too much for me, but it was probably enough to get me through the next twelve hours if I lay here, did nothing, said nothing, and waited for night to fall.

“I’m not going to pretend I know everything about you, but I know a lot,” he said. He took my hand and looked at the wrist. I was covered in bruises, looking like a dirty watercolor painting of blue, purple, and gray. “Do you need to eat?”

My eyes grew wide, and he smiled. “I can’t,” I said, watching his smile drop.

Harlan’s tongue crossed his teeth. “You consume—or can consume raw meat, right?”

I nodded.

“Great. I’ve got some fresh buck meat,” he said. “I’m just trying to protect my own neck, and Misty’s.” He snickered.

“Sorry, I’d never bite—or anything like that, Sir,” I let out, my voice hoarse, my throat aching. “But you don’t have to help me. I can sleep until night and then leave.”

“No, you’ll eat first. I’m not sending you back out there to be—hurt again,” he said.