When I was a kid, I used to watch cartoons in the afternoon. One time, this commercial about saving animals came on. It had just about the saddest music I think I ever heard. Between that and the little puppy faces and kitten tears, it broke my tiny heart, right then and there.

I stole my mom's credit card out of her purse and called the number on the screen, and tried to give a thousand dollars to save them all — which was the most money I could think of at five years old.

Lucky for me, the lady on the other end knew what a crying child sounded like, and asked to talk to my mom or dad.

They weren't mad. But they did get concerned, because I couldn't seem to let it go. I kept asking, over and over, if they thought all those puppies and kittens and rabbits and things would be okay.

And that was just the one commercial.

My dad said I'd grow out of it — that it was just a 'sensitive phase,' and I'd 'harden-up' as I got older — but that didn't happen. Even now I can't look at the news, or drive by a sad billboard, or read a novel without feeling something of the same way I did that afternoon, between cartoons.

Kit makes me feel that way, as he takes the bowl of steaming broth and the little pile of crackers I put next to it (I don't care what Ambrose says, I just can't equate broth and meal in my mind), with a mild meekness that makes my heart twist.

He keeps his eyes lowered, and his thin hands shake a little, and the shapes of his bones show beneath his smooth, olive-toned skin — clavicles and ribs, shoulder-blades and the ridges of his spine.

He sips the broth and eats the crackers like each bite is something to be relished, and his dark eyes hold a haunted look that doesn't belong in such a young, pretty face. I wonder how old he is, but I don't ask, not wanting to disturb him while he eats.

And as I study him, I see that his honey-gold curls clinging to the back of his neck are still damp with sweat, and there's dirt in the creases of his skin. He'd probably like a shower or a bath. And, for that matter, some clothes.

I busy myself selecting some — a t-shirt that's a little small on me, and an unopened pack of underwear from my emergency kit.

"You wanna wash up?" I ask, coming back to stand by the bed.

He nods without looking at me, lifts the quilt aside, and gets to his feet, moving with a slow carefulness that tells me he's a little unsteady, still.

"Where is it?" he whispers.

"Where's what?" He's still naked, and I avert my eyes, mindful of his modesty even if he doesn't seem to be.

"The kitchen. To wash."

He's still holding the bowl, and I realize he misunderstood.

"No, I don't mean wash the dishes. I mean you. Take a shower, get clean. You know — before bed."

"Oh."

The word is nearly soundless, and for some reason he looks terrified.

"Are you afraid of water, or something?" I ask.

He shakes his head.

"Okay, then. Here." I hand him the shirt and underwear. "All my other stuff will be too big for you, but I'll ask Noah and Julian to bring some things over tomorrow. You're somewhere between their sizes, I think. Come on, bathroom's through here."

I lead the way into the hall and down to the end, holding the door for him.

"Take your time, and use whatever you like — soap, towels." I point to each. "I think I got an unopened toothbrush around somewhere, even. I'll look for it."

I turn and see him still standing in the doorway, the bundle of clothes clutched in his hands. He's trembling.

"Hey, Kit — are you okay?" I ask. "I mean, you don't have to shower, if you don't want to, you know."

I rub the back of my neck awkwardly, wondering if I'm being too overbearing again.

He keeps his eyes on the ground.

"I would like to wash first, yes," he whispers.

"First?"

He looks up at me, finally, and I see all kinds of raw emotions on his face — desperation, resignation, fear — and he swallows and takes a breath like he's about to step off a cliff.

"You've been very kind to me," he whispers. "I'm sure you will be... kind to me."

Color spreads over his cheeks, turning his olive skin bronze, and finally — finally I get it, and feel my own face darken with embarrassment.

"Kit, I don't want anything from you," I say. "I just wanna help. You don't owe me anything — certainly not whatever it is you're thinking of right now. I don't know what kind of life you've had, or what you've been through, but here? Nobody's gonna make you do anything you don't want to do. Ever again. Understand?"

He looks at me like I just told him he could fly to the moon on paper wings, but he nods anyway. I move past him and out into the hall, pulling the door almost — but not quite — shut after me.

"Like I said — take your time," I tell him again, and then I leave him alone.

My brother is right, I realize as I walk back down the hall: Kit Mortaine is dangerous.

Because the only thing I really want to protect anymore — besides my Pack — is my own heart, and Kit is already past my defenses. 

The sooner Dane accepts his request and gets him settled somewhere else, the better.

 ~ ☾ ~

"I said no."

I stare at my brother, my brain refusing to understand.

It's the following morning, and Dane has assembled us all — the whole Pack plus the Foley's Shifter clan— at Ambrose and Noah's rambling old mansion. We sit in a big room with lots of sofas and upholstered chairs, ringed in a kind of messy circle: Me and Kit, Julian and Dane, Noah and Ambrose, Chloe and Grace, Ian and Sam.

And Dane just refused Kit's asylum request.

"But you haven't even heard his story, yet!" Anger threatens to raise my voice, and I try to control it. Shouting won't help anything.

"I don't need to," Dane replies.

I lose my battle. "Dane! You goddamned son of a—"

"Just listen." He raises a hand. "I said no, because alpha or not, it shouldn't be up to me alone. So, I said no, because that means it goes to a vote, and everyone here should have a voice."

I look around, and understand what he means.

Julian, Ian, Chloe, Grace, and Noah all have history with the Mortaines.

"Fine," I concede, settling back in my chair. Can't hate the man for trying to be democratic, and the vote has to be unanimous to turn Kit away. 

"So." Dane shifts his attention to the young man himself, who now wears some clothes Noah lent him, which fit him well enough. "Let's hear it. Why do you seek asylum with my Pack?"

Kit sits with his back straight, hands resting on the arms of his chair, but keeps his eyes lowered. He hasn't spoken or looked at anyone since we arrived.

"I'm not like them," he whispers. "Like the rest of my family, I mean."

"That remains to be seen," Dane replies.

Kit is silent a moment, and then he speaks again. "What I mean is... I'm not a Wolf like them. Not a full Wolf."

"Father or mother?" Dane asks.

"My mother is Vivienne Mortaine, who is also mother to Selene and Stefan," Kit answers. "But our fathers are not the same. My siblings' sire is my mother's mate — Harrald Mortaine. Mine was... another man."

"Man, or...?" This time it's Ian Foley's partner, Sam, who speaks.

He's a slight little thing, with black hair and eyes as black as Kit's. He's also part incubus, and sits curled half in Ian's lap, like a cute, demonic kitten. Ian says that, like Ambrose, he can see stuff the rest of us can't.

Kit hesitates. "He was... a Shifter," he says at last, barely audibly. "A fox."

"Thought as much," Ambrose comments smugly.

Noah nudges him in the ribs, and Kit looks up, casting a desperate glance around the room. 

"You know how it is," he says. "Our alpha — my uncle Obadiah — decides everything. Even who mates with whom. He chose my mother's mate, Harrald, but she never loved him. Despite the mate-bond, she... she fell in love with someone else."

He shuts his eyes, as if ashamed.

"A roguish young fox, wondering through?" Ambrose guesses.

Kit nods.

"When I was born, it was obvious Harrald hadn't fathered me. Obadiah decided not to punish his sister — my mother — directly, though, but to punish her through me. So, I was raised as befitted my father's blood. Like an animal. As a slave."

He looks around at us again.

"I thought it was like that in every Pack — that the mis-born were made to serve. Is it not so?"

"No," Dane growls, and I'm at least gratified to see his amber eyes aglow with indignation. "It is certainly not so."

Kit lowers his eyes again, and I see the corner of his mouth trembling.

"Anyway. There's another Pack north of us. They call themselves the 'White Dawn,' and they're led by this alpha called Ferrault. Obadiah wants a rock-solid alliance, and Selene wants Ferrault as her mate. The negotiations have been... rough, though. The last time Ferrault paid a visit, Obadiah surprised him with a gift. He'd learned that Ferrault had... certain tastes, I guess. Anyway, the gift was me."

He swallows, his breath quickening.

"That was a few months ago."

"Shit." I swear, then cover my mouth with my hand.

"I escaped, though," he goes on, his voice dropping back to a whisper. "I took Ferrault by surprise — attacked him — and I escaped. But I know Obadiah will send his best after me. And his best is Selene, and—"

He looked up again, fixing his eyes on Dane.

"It's for this I beg asylum. Please. I may not be a full-blooded Wolf, or born of a sanctified Match, but I... I'll serve you, and your Pack, however you see fit. Just don't send me back there, or let Selene take me. If Ferrault doesn't, Obadiah will demand my life for what I did. Please."

I finally take my hand away from my face and speak.

"How old are you, Kit," I ask quietly.

He glances my way. "Twenty-six... I think."

I blink. That's at least six years older than I'd guessed, but most Wolves age slowly, I suppose. Most of my parent's Pack looks younger than they are. Regardless, it dashes my hope of gaining him extra protections. He's an adult, fair and square.

"So that's it?" Dane asks. "The whole story?"

Kit nods, studying the rug at his feet.

I'm tempted to cuss Dane out again, but I hold back, figuring I'll save it for later. I love my brother — I'd die for him — but he sure is a son of a bitch, sometimes. Then again, you could say all Wolves are.

"Alright," Dane says, and scrubs a hand across his chin. "Noah, why don't you show Kit where the library is. Then... we'll convene."

Noah obeys, leading Kit away with gentle words and a gentle touch. Once they're gone, Dane looks across at Ambrose Thorne. 

"Well?"

Ambrose sighs, running a hand through his long, auburn curls.

"Wish I could say otherwise, but either that wasn't the whole truth, or it wasn't the truth at all," he says, casting me a twisted smile. "I'm sorry, Monty, but I do believe your foxy lad's a liar."