His Lost Lycan Luna (Kyson and Ivy)

His little arm had a bruise, and he cried when I grabbed him like he thought I was about to hurt him.

“Shh, shh. What’s your name?” I asked him, yet he eyed Mrs. Daley, clearly petrified of the woman. He

was all skin and bone, his big brown eyes had no light, his cheeks hollow and his eyes sunken in, his

curly black hair sat on his shoulders and was matted and knotted.

“He doesn’t talk,” little Kimmy says, coming back out in her d***y pajamas. She would be about nine and

one of the oldest ones here, which I thought was strange, however seeing a rogue child was more

bizarre, and l had a feeling it was just for show in case the King stopped by, but one thing was apparent

none of these children were cared for properly, and that really ground my gears.

“Like he can’t, or he doesn’t know how?” I ask her. She shrugs, and her eyes dart to Mrs. Daley. It was

clear she was scared of the woman.

“Mrs. Daley is leaving today; she is retiring. You can speak freely; she won’t hurt you,” I tell Kimmy. She

bites her lip before scratching the back of her matted blonde hair.

“I heard Mrs. Daley fighting with Katrina. Katrina wanted to take him and his brother; Mrs. Daley wouldn’t

let her.”

“He has a brother?”

“Had; we haven’t seen him for two days. He bit Mrs. Daley when she smacked Oliver,” Kimmy says,

pointing to the boy in my arms.

“His name is Oliver?” Kimmy nods.

“The brother’s name?”

“Logan, sir,” she says, and I nod.

“And what about Katrina? Does she hurt you?” Kimmy shakes her head, and she looks at Mrs. Daley

nervously, who stares ahead, looking out the window above the sink vacantly. She knew she had fucked

up.

“Mrs. Daley had the butcher hurt Katrina for sticking up for them. He broke her arm, but she is ok now.”

“Kimmy, can you find him some clothes and socks for Oliver?” I tell her, and she nods, holding her arms

out for him. He goes to her, and she takes him upstairs while I turn Mrs. Daley’s wheelchair with my foot.

“Where is his brother?”

“The kid is a menace; he bit me like a savage,” she sneered.

“Where is the boy?” I snarl, and Liam glares at her before twisting his knife between his fingers in a

warning.

“I would answer him. We don’t like child abusers, but you already know that.” Liam warns her, and she

gulps.

“In the laundry room outside,” I growl, storming outside in search of it before finding it behind the shed. I

could hear whimpering when I approached the wooden door. Pushing it open, I found the boy inside a

cage underneath the bench next to the washer. Anger coursed through me as I bent down and snapped

the lock. He looked to be about Kimmy’s age, though he was freezing cold and bruised and battered.

“Did Mrs. Daley do this to you?” the boy shakes his head, moving to the back of the cage.

“I won’t hurt you; I am here to help,” I tell him.

“My brother, help my brother,” he whimpers, cringing away when I break the front door off. And opened

the dog cage.

“Who put you in here, did Katrina? I won’t hurt you, and I won’t let them hurt you.” I tell him while taking

my jacket off. I drape it over his skinny frame, and he shakes his head.

“No, she tried to help me.”

“Who brought you out here, then? Daley couldn’t have. She wouldn’t have got down the back steps.”

“The Butcher did, Sir,” he says as he stares at my outstretched hand.

“Come on, you and your brother are coming home with me; I won’t hurt you, but I need you to come

inside where it is warm; Liam is inside. You will like Liam; he is making pancakes,” I tell him. He hesitates

before dropping his hand in mine, and I pull him from the small cage.

“How old are you?”

“Eight, sir,” I nod before seeing his b**e feet and scooping him up. I carry him inside before stepping into

the kitchen.

“Where is Daley?” I ask, noticing her wheelchair gone.

“She went to get more flour,” Liam says, winking at me.

I smirk, taking Logan to the living room before wrapping the surrounding blanket from the couch around

him. I then went and got firewood and filled all the fireplaces, lighting them.

The smell of pancakes wafted through the place, and Katrina walked in just as I got the living room

fireplace going. She was a young woman in her twenties, with brown shoulder-length hair. The kids

seemed to like her, jumping around and trying to get her attention. She stopped when I stood up and

stared at me.

“Who are you?” she asked, looking at me nervously. She sniffs the air before baring her neck to me.

“Gannon, Liam is out there; I assume you are Katrina?” she nods her head.

“Mrs. Daley?” she asks.

“In the basement,” I tell her, and she nods before her brows pinch, and she opens her mouth to say

something before spotting Logan by the fire, and her eyes widen. Oliver was sitting on his lap. She

rushed over, and I gripped her arm.

“I won’t hurt them; I am not Daley,” she spat at me, and I let her go.

“She rushed over and fussed over them. I sighed before walking to the door. “Help, Liam feed the

children; you just got promoted to headmistress,” I tell her, and she nods. Walking to the kitchen, I could

hear groaning and pained wails coming from the basement.

“Want a hand?” Liam asks, and I look at him covered in flour.

“Nope,” I tell him, snatching the knives from the counter and opening the basement door. I hear Liam flick

the radio on that sits on the windowsill and blasting the music.

Stomping down the steps. Mrs. Daley tries crawling away where she had been pushed down the stairs,

her legs tangled in the wheelchair as she clawed at the ground.

“Change of plans. I wanna hear you scream,” I tell her. Reaching down, I grip her hair and yank her head

back.

“And you will scream,” I snarled.