His Stray

Chapter 2

13 years prior

The glass shattered when the picture frame hit the wall. Lucas cowered, covering his head with his arms as small shards of glass rained down on him.

“How many f*****g times do I have to tell you?” his father roared, spit flying from his lips as he stalked closer. “You don’t interrupt me when I am on the f*****g phone!”

Before Lucas could apologize, or explain that he hadn’t even known his father was home when he burst into the office, his father grabbed him under the arm and flung him across the room like he weighed nothing. Lucas tried to make himself small as he slammed into the hardwood floor, rolling to a stop near one of the armchairs.

“Stop!” Landon ran into the room, scrawny and knob-kneed, throwing himself between their father and Lucas. “He didn’t know!”

Lucas looked up at his brother and felt a rush of relief. Landon always took care of him.

“Don’t get in my way, retard,” their father snarled, swatting at Landon like he was a fly.

Landon didn’t even flinch at the insult. He squared up, small fists raised. Lucas knew nine-year-old Landon was no match for their father, and he flinched when he saw Landon’s jaw crack against their father’s fist.

Landon dropped to the floor beside him. “Run,” he whispered, teeth bloody.

Lucas didn’t need to be told twice. He jumped to his feet, tearing out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him. He was down the stairs and out into the rainy fall night in seconds. He sprinted barefoot across the lawn, not even sure where he was going.

He slipped in the wet grass and rolled through the mud before slamming into something solid. Pain flared again, leaving him dizzy.

Tired, hurting, and scared, Lucas curled up into a tight ball and started to cry. He cried because he was terrified of his father. He cried for his small, aching body. He cried for Landon, who he’d left to face their father’s wrath alone.

It was cold and wet in the mud, but he didn’t want to move. He had no desire to get up.

Until the angel spoke.

**

Celia woke with a start at the sound of something striking the wall below her window. She pulled the worn blanket up to her chin, debating whether to wake her parents.

Not her real parents, like all the kids liked to remind her. But they let her call them Mom and Dad anyway. They still let her crawl into their bed when she was scared. Which she was right now. Very much so.

She slipped out from under the blanket, ready to tiptoe down the hall, when she heard it. Over the rain tapping at the windowpane, she could just make out the sound of someone crying.

Chewing her lip, Celia looked from the window to the door, trying to decide what to do.

Finally she padded over to the window and climbed onto the small chest underneath it so she could see outside. All she found was darkness, raindrops racing down the glass, and her own frightened face staring back.

But the sound was clearer now. Soft whimpers.

She flipped the old lock and pushed up the heavy window. Cold wind rushed in, spraying her with a mist of rain. Leaning out, she peered into the night until she saw it.

Someone was curled up under her window, soaked and covered in mud.

“You okay?” she whispered.

The figure uncurled a little. A pale, round face splattered with mud looked up at her.

“Who’s there?” The voice was small and scared.

“Just me,” she said. She leaned out further, trying to see better.

Slowly, the person stood on shaky legs. A boy. His dark hair was plastered to his head, his body shivering.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

“Celia.” She smiled at him. “Why are you crying out here?”

“I’m not crying,” he snapped, swiping at his eyes. “Alphas don’t cry. And if I was crying, I wouldn’t tell a stray like you.”

Her eyes widened. She hadn’t recognized him at first. “Lucas?” They were in the same class at school.

“What’s it to you?” He tried to sound tough, but his voice cracked.

“Do you want to come in?” she asked.

“No,” he scoffed, though his lip trembled.

“I’ll get a towel,” she offered.

He hesitated.

“It’s warm in here too,” she added.

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded. He jumped up, grabbing the windowsill and pulling himself through. Celia scrambled back just in time, and he landed on the chest with a wet thud before tumbling onto the floor.

“I can get my parents,” she said as he looked around.

“No!” he whispered. “They’ll tell my dad I’m here and then…” His voice trailed off, tears cutting clean tracks through the mud on his cheeks.

“You don’t want your dad to know you’re here.”

“No,” he hissed. “I hate him. I’m never going home.”

Celia blinked. “Why? What did he do?”

Lucas crossed his arms and looked away. “I’m not telling a stray anything.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll get a towel.”

She crept into the hall, pausing by her parents’ door. Her father’s loud snoring told her he was fast asleep. She tiptoed to the linen closet, grabbed two towels, and hurried back.

Lucas had shut the window by the time she returned. He stood in the middle of her room, dripping water onto the floor. She turned on the small lamp by her bed and handed him a towel.

Lucas looked down at his soaked clothes. “What am I going to wear?”

Celia thought for a moment, then ran to her dresser and pulled out one of her dad’s old shirts. It smelled like fresh-cut grass and pine.

“It’s my dad’s,” she said, holding it out.

He didn’t move, so she grabbed a pair of shorts from another drawer. They were hand-me-downs, longer than most of her clothes. People always told her they looked like boy shorts. She hated them, but they would fit Lucas.

“It’s all I’ve got,” she shrugged.

With a sigh, Lucas took the clothes. “Where should I change?”

Celia chewed her lip. If he went to the bathroom, he might wake her parents. She darted to her bed, jumped on it, and pulled the blanket over her head.

“I won’t look,” she promised.

Lucas laughed, and it made her smile under the blanket. “Okay,” he whispered, sounding a little lighter. She listened to the rustle of him changing, the soft grunt as he pulled the shirt over his head. Finally he told her he was done.

When she peeked out, she saw his hair still plastered to his head, mud streaked across his cheeks. The shirt swallowed him, the shorts lost under the hem. She slipped off the bed and grabbed the towel from his hands.

“Here,” she said, stepping closer. “I’ll help.”

Lucas stood still while she tried wiping the mud from his face, but it only smeared more. She dropped the towel with a sigh and sat on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs.

“Why were you outside?” she asked.

His lip trembled again. “My dad… he was mad.”

“What was he mad about?”

Lucas looked away. “He was on the phone and I went in the room.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded. “He doesn’t like when we’re in the way.”

“What did he do?”

Lucas bit his lip, kicking at his wet pile of clothes. “He threw a picture. Grabbed my arm. Threw me.”

Celia gasped. “What?”

Lucas slowly rolled up his sleeve to show dark bruises already blooming. “Landon came in and told me to run.”

“What happened to Landon?”

Lucas gave a heavy sigh. “I’m sure Dad whooped him for getting in the way.”

“That’s so mean,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. He shouldn’t do that.”

She threw her arms around him. Lucas stiffened at first, then sagged against her, hugging her back.

When she pulled away, she climbed under the blanket and patted the spot beside her. Lucas crawled in, curling close. She could feel how cold he still was, even through the shirt.

They lay there quietly, Lucas’s breathing finally slowing. His head dropped against her shoulder, and soon they were both drifting off.

Just before sleep claimed her, Celia promised herself she would tell her parents what Lucas’s father had done. Surely they would take Lucas in, just like they had once taken her. And if that happened, maybe she wouldn’t be so alone. Maybe she would finally have a friend.