His Lost Lycan Luna (Kyson and Ivy)

“So I hear you have a mighty fine butcher in town,” Liam asks her, and her hand freezes as she goes to

tip the cup to her lips; I watch her gulp.

“Now that looks like a guilty face, now doesn’t, brother?” Liam says, nudging me.

“Very guilty. Do you have something to confess, love, want to get it off your chest before you meet your

maker?” Liam taunts.

“What do you mean?” she says, and I click my tongue.

“I was hoping to do this the easy way. I am not here for you, but if you want to be difficult, I need a little

practice, anyway; I haven’t sliced and diced for a while,” I tell her, holding my hand out for Liam’s knives.

He pulls the rolled-up leather pouch from inside his leather jacket pocket, handing it to me. I roll it out

along the bench, picking them up and showing her each one, and Mrs. Daley begins to sweat, her eyes

flicker between us; Liam smiles sadistically, and I turn to her.

“Which one?” I ask her. She shakes her head, clutching her mug, but Liam takes it from her.

“I never… I had to feed the children… It was only the one time… she probably doesn’t even

remember…” She started stuttering.

“I want a name,” I tell her, picking up the boning knife. I turn it between my fingers before moving toward

her. Her blood pooled around her feet from her hand. Her lip quivered as I stopped in front of her. I

touched the back of the blade to her cheek and slid it down to her chin before tilting her head up to look

at me with it.

“Name or the ear goes first, then the toes, then I will de-glove your hand,” I tell her calmly. I had every

intention of doing just that if she didn’t answer. Her horrified gaze met my cold, gray eyes. She knew

wasn’t lying.

“Doyle Mathews,” she blurted.

“Address?” I ask.

“3 Lincoln Way,”

“Wife, children we should know about?” I ask, but she shakes her head.

“Figures a pig like that would have no family,” Liam sneers.

“Go check it out and load him up,” I tell Liam, who ducks out quickly. While he was gone, I cleaned up the

blood on the floor and wrapped Mrs. Daley’s hand in case any of the children woke up.

Liam was gone for about twenty minutes when my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket just as a little

girl came down the steps, rubbing her eyes. Reaching for a tea towel, I covered Mrs. Daley’s wrapped

hand.

“Yep,” I answered the call, watching the child as she walked down the stairs. She looked up, hearing my

voice, and I waved to her before kicking the wheelchair. Mrs. Daley smiles fakery and waves to her,

earning a strange look from the child who waved briefly as she stepped off the last step.

“Got him on my way back,” Liam informs me.

“The trunk?”

“Nope, he showed me to his store; he is tied to a chair in the cold room,” Liam laughed.

“Even better,” I tell him, hanging up.

“And what is your name?” I ask the little girl when she remains frozen on the step. I could hear more kids

moving around upstairs.

“Kimmy, sir,” she says, and I bend down, scooping her up.

“Are you hungry? What do you usually have for breakfast?” I ask her, and her brows furrow, and she

yawns again, her tummy rumbling.

“No breakfast since Abbie and Ivy left, Sir. You came with the King?” she whispered into my ear. I nod

and look at Mrs. Daley, who drops her head. I growled before turning my attention to the girl; her hair

looked like a haystack on her head, some parts matted like it hadn’t been brushed for a long time.

“What did they usually make?” I asked her.

“Pancakes, but Mrs. Daley can’t get the flour from the basement, and the bag is too heavy,”

“Right, I will get the flour. You go do whatever it is you kids do in the morning,”

“Can we watch cartoons?” she asks before her eyes go to Mrs. Daley, who purses her lips.

“Yep, and make sure you turn the volume all the way up,” I tell her, setting her on her feet just as a few

more kids start rushing down.

It took minutes before the place was filled with chatter, and I ducked down to the basement and found

the flour. No wonder none of them could carry it. low could tell they had tried because flour was poured

on the floor like they had been scooping it out of the bag with cups. I shake my head, grab a fresh 20 kg

bag, and head up the steps.

Liam walks in just as I drop the bag on the bench. “What’s with the flour? You gonna batter the old bag?”

Liam laughs.

“Kids are hungry,” I tell him, turning my attention to Mrs. Daley.

“When do staff come in?” I ask Mrs. Daley.

“Katrina comes in at lunch,” she says.

“Call her in early,” I tell her, and Liam hands her his phone. She dials the number and does as she is told

while Liam goes out to count heads to know how many pancakes to make.

“Who wants pancakes?” I hear him scream out and all the kids cheer.

“Alright, alright, settle down. Uncle Liam is going to make them, so settle down and watch your dancing

puppet show,” I hear him say just as a little boy stumbles down the steps with a blanket dragging behind

him.

“103, f**k me, that’s a lot of pancakes,” Liam says, coming back in before his eyes go to the boy. I sniff

the air, realizing he is a rogue and Mrs. Daley growls before realizing who is standing next to her, and

loving glare at her, making her drop her head and flinch away.

The boy cowers and whimpers and runs from her, heading back up the stairs, but I grab the back of his

pants, plucking him off the steps. He was only about three years old and wore holey pajama pants and

had no shirt; he was covered in goosebumps and holding a filthy blanket.