Page 73 of Hell’s Weapon

“Sorry dude, my bad.” I put a hand to my chest and give him my sincere eyes. I also slap him on the shoulder, which accidentally knocks the strap of his satchel off and the bag falls to the floor, his stuff exploding everywhere.

A couple more stumbles and shoving of furniture as I apologise more and help him recover his stuff and I am the proud owner of the last file I need.

Before he can decipher what I’m doing, I scoot off and engage the Officer in a very detailed chat about the notes on the board. Which happen to be about the mechanics of the winged breeds; the Dragons, Demons, and what not. It genuinely is fascinating, and I ask about a hundred questions. I only meant to ask one of two so none of Wren’s, or is it Den’s, team approaches me, but when I finally look around the room is completely empty.

The Officer, who tells me her name is Zafihra, and a dragon shifter, wishes me a good day and I grab my own stuff and head out.

I keep a keen eye as I walk the corridor, just in case I’m about to get jumped. But, either Thirty-One hasn’t discovered his missing file yet, or the revenge they’re planning is going to come later, because all appears quiet.

Until a noise in the final room before the exit makes me halt in my tracks. The door is open and a muffled sound comes from inside. It sounded like whispering, meaning maybe there’s two of them.

Moving to the wall, I creep along, before diving into the room, taking the element of surprise from whoever is waiting for me.

It’s not any members of the team I’m expecting though. It’s Milo. And it wasn’t whispering I heard, it’s the hushed sounds of him crying.

He’s sitting at the back of the room on one of the desks, legs crossed and tears streaking down his cheeks. Immediately, I’m filled with equal parts concern and a burning rage to go end the life of whoever has done this to him.

The concern takes priority, and I’m at his side in a heartbeat, taking his face in my hands. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Doubting he can talk currently, I search his gaze as fresh tears spill over, wetting his eyelashes and making fresh tracks down his cheeks.

His fingertips push gently on my abs, over the file I’ve got hidden. Caging my instincts to wrap him into my arms, I let my hands drop, placing them on the desk instead, one each side of his thighs.

He starts signing shakily, “I fucked up.”

I laugh because of course Tacita has already taught him the cuss words.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to swear,” I apologise when his face crumples more.

Leaning over me to the seat tucked halfway under the desk, he grabs his notepad and pen. Schooling my features so that he cannot tell how impatient I’m getting, I hold my tongue between my teeth to stop myself from being a dick.

Whoever has hurt him is going to pay.

He turns the page eventually, and through the tear-stained ink I read.

It’s all my fault. I’ve tried to stop it, to make it stop, but I can’t. And now you and Tacita are going to get hurt. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to start feeling anything. It worked before, I don’t know why it won’t work now.

My heart feels like it's beating out of time and my palms are sweating as I get a glimpse of Milo’s thoughts. They echo my own in ways but I can see he has some trauma rearing itself inside that head of his. I’d guessed he has been through a lot just because of how subdued he can get, and that his lack of speech is not a physical disability but wrapped up in something from his past.

“Oh, Sweetheart. I don’t think any of us imagined the path we all seemed to have started on. I certainly didn’t foresee that feelings would get involved.” I move a hand to his thigh and gently caress it through the joggers he’s wearing. “But I don’t regret it. I meant what I said last night, or this morning. Time is getting a little warped in here.

“What I’m trying to say is that nothing is your fault. And I should’ve made this clearer earlier but my feelings for you are not conjoined to my feelings for Tacita.”

His head tilts as he searches for a lie, but if anything, he looks more fearful at not finding one than if he had.

“No matter what happens with her, I want to be with you. If you want that, of course,” I try to reassure him.

He flips the pad back round so he can write.

You don’t want me. You can’t.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” I say sternly. I can’t tell if this is coming from some deep self-esteem issues, or something else, but I won’t tolerate these kinds of thoughts from him. He can tell me anything he wants but he can’t dictate my feelings.

“I haven’t ever felt like this before, Milo. But I’m not going to ignore what’s going on in my chest. I want you to be mine. I am already yours.” His eyes widen and I don’t give him the opportunity to argue back a second time. Gripping the back of his neck, I pull him forward until our lips meet.

I kiss him gently at first, this isn’t about carnal need. It’s about claiming him, letting him see that my feelings are not about sex and that the physical touches with him are because I want–no, need–to show him how hard I’m falling.

His lips taste slightly salty from his tears but they’re warm and soft. He doesn’t drive the kiss forward but doesn’t brace against it either. Licking his plump bottom lip that he chews too often, I seek permission to link us deeper. His head angles further in response as his tongue seeks mine.