Chapter Three #2
After a long moment of hesitation, Liam crept forward, stopping several times to check for threats before finally reaching the table. He remained standing, poised for flight, as he reached for his plate.
"You can sit," I said quietly, still not looking directly at him. "No one's going to bother us. They're all inside eating."
He eased onto the bench at the opposite end of the table, putting maximum distance between us. Smart kid. Always keeping his escape routes clear.
I watched from the corner of my eye as he picked up half of the turkey sandwich and took a small, careful bite. Once he determined it was safe, he devoured the rest in three huge bites, hunger overcoming caution.
When he finished the sandwich, he moved on to the potato salad, scooping it up with his fingers. The sight triggered something protective in me—this kid clearly hadn't had anyone to teach him basic things like using utensils.
"Here," I said, keeping my voice casual as I held up my fork. "Makes it easier."
Liam froze, eyes locked on the fork with suspicion.
I demonstrated, spearing a chunk of potato and bringing it to my mouth. "See? Less messy."
After a moment's deliberation, Liam cautiously picked up the fork beside his plate, holding it awkwardly like he'd never handled one before. He tried to copy my motion, but ended up dropping a glob of potato salad onto the table.
His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but I pretended not to notice.
"Takes practice," I said, demonstrating again. "Try holding it like this."
He adjusted his grip, determination etched across his face as he concentrated on the task. His next attempt was more successful, though he still managed to get potato salad on his chin.
Without thinking, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a clean napkin, offering it to him. "For your face."
Liam stared at the napkin for a long moment before taking it with hesitant fingers. He swiped at his chin, missing most of the potato salad.
"Little higher," I said, pointing to my own chin.
He tried again, this time cleaning himself properly.
Despite the mess, I was impressed by how quickly he adapted. This wasn't a kid with limited intelligence—this was someone who'd simply never been taught. The thought made my chest ache. What circumstances had led to him being alone, without even these basic skills?
"Drink?" I asked, standing slowly to avoid startling him.
Liam tensed, but gave a small nod.
I returned to the kitchen, grabbing a beer for myself and, after a moment's consideration, a bottle of apple juice for him. Bug had mentioned once that many shifters preferred sweet drinks, their enhanced taste buds making bitter flavors like beer less appealing.
When I returned, I was pleased to see Liam still sitting there, working on his potato salad with determined concentration. His fork handling had improved considerably in just those few minutes.
I set the juice down at his end of the table, then retreated back to my seat before opening my beer. Always giving him space, always making sure he had an escape route. The kid was like a wild animal—one wrong move and he'd bolt.
"It's apple juice," I said when he eyed the bottle suspiciously. "Sweet. Try it."
He picked up the bottle and sniffed it cautiously before taking a small sip. His eyes widened slightly—apparently he approved. The bottle was half empty within seconds.
Progress. Small steps, but progress all the same.
I watched as Liam finished the last of his potato salad, his fork handling improving with each bite. The kid was a quick study, I'd give him that. There was intelligence behind those golden eyes—a sharp mind that had clearly helped him survive God knows what kind of life.
As he set down his fork with a satisfied expression, I figured it was time to see if I could get some information out of him without sending him running for the hills again.
"So," I began casually, keeping my tone light, "you've been watching our place for a while, huh?"
Liam's posture immediately stiffened, wariness returning to his eyes.
I raised my hands in a placating gesture. "Not accusing you of anything. Just curious how much you've seen."
He studied me for a long moment, then gave a small nod.
"Have you noticed other people hanging around who shouldn't be? Besides today's computer guy, I mean."
Liam's eyes flicked toward the clubhouse, then back to me. He held up two fingers.
"Two other times?" I asked, surprised. "Recently?"
He shook his head, then gestured with his hands to indicate something that had happened further in the past.
"When?" I pressed gently.
He seemed to consider how to answer, then pointed to Percy's window on the second floor of the clubhouse.
The realization hit me. "You mean when Biggins tried to take Percy?"
Liam nodded emphatically.
Christ. That had been over a month ago—a nasty situation when Alpha Biggins had tried to forcibly reclaim Percy as part of his fox skulk. If this kid had been watching us even back then...
"Did you see what happened?" I asked, genuinely curious.
Liam made a series of quick gestures—pointing to his eyes, then to various positions around the yard, pantomiming someone sneaking around, then being confronted. The kid had a talent for silent communication.
"You saw it all," I said, and it wasn't a question. "From hiding."
He nodded, a flicker of something like pride crossing his features.
"Listen," I said, leaning forward slightly but careful not to crowd him, "I want you to know something. You're welcome here. The food I leave out? That's for you. On purpose." I tapped the table. "This is your table as much as anyone's."
Liam's brow furrowed slightly, obviously skeptical.
"I mean it. But I'd appreciate it if you'd let us know when you see people who shouldn't be here. Like you did today." I gestured toward the clubhouse. "We've got people inside who've been hurt before. People who need protecting."
Something in his expression shifted—a flash of understanding, maybe even empathy.
"Deal?" I asked.
After a moment's hesitation, he gave a single nod.
"Good." I drained the last of my beer, feeling strangely satisfied with our silent conversation.
I couldn't quite figure out why this particular homeless kid had caught my interest so thoroughly. I'd helped plenty of people over the years—the MC had a soft spot for strays and outcasts—but something about Liam pulled at me differently.
Maybe it was those golden lynx eyes, or the careful way he ate what I provided, or how he'd risked his own safety to protect our club from an intruder.
Over the months, I'd noticed his preferences in the food I left out.
He devoured anything with protein—chicken, beef, eggs—and had a surprising fondness for sweet things.
Fruit disappeared quickly, especially berries.
Vegetables were hit or miss; he liked potatoes and carrots but left broccoli untouched.
I'd started adjusting my offerings accordingly, making sure to include the things he seemed to enjoy most.
It was strange, this one-sided relationship we'd developed. I knew his eating habits better than those of some club members I'd known for years, yet I'd barely heard him speak a word.
"Winter's coming," I said, nodding toward the darkening sky. "Temperatures drop fast up here. You got somewhere warm to stay?"
Liam shrugged, his expression carefully blank.
Not a good sign.
"The clubhouse has extra rooms," I offered, trying to sound casual. "You helped us out today. Least we could do is give you a warm place to sleep when the snow hits."
He looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the suggestion.
"Just think about it," I said. "No pressure. But Montana winters are brutal, especially if you're sleeping rough."
I was about to continue when Liam's head suddenly snapped up, his body going rigid with attention. His eyes, reflecting the security lights, narrowed as he scanned the yard with an intensity that reminded me of a predator sensing danger.
"What is it?" I whispered, immediately on alert.
Liam pressed a finger to his lips in the universal sign for silence, then pointed toward the tree line at the edge of the property. I squinted into the darkness, but saw nothing.
Before I could question him further, his hand shot out and wrapped around my wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong for someone so thin. With a quick jerk of his head toward Gearhead's workshop, he pulled me to my feet.
I followed his lead, letting him guide me into the shadows beside the building. He moved with absolute silence, feet barely seeming to touch the ground as he found a position behind a stack of old tires that gave us a clear view of the yard while keeping us hidden.
Once we were concealed, he released my wrist and pointed again.
This time, I saw them—two shadowy figures detaching themselves from the darkness at the property line. They moved with purposeful stealth, staying low and using the sparse vegetation for cover as they approached the back door of the clubhouse.
Unlike the amateur we'd caught earlier, these guys knew what they were doing. They wore dark clothing that blended into the night, and they moved with the disciplined patience of professionals.
I pulled out my phone, careful to keep the screen angled away from the yard as I typed a quick text to Butch: Two intruders approaching back door. Armed. Professional. Watching from Gearhead's shop with Liam.
The message sent with a soft whoosh that sounded deafening in the silent yard. Liam shot me a warning look, finger still pressed to his lips.
The intruders had stopped about twenty yards from the door, crouching behind Bug's meager herb garden. One of them pulled something from a bag—binoculars or maybe night vision goggles—and began scanning the building methodically.
My phone vibrated silently in my hand. Butch's reply: Stay put. Bear and Gunner moving into position. Do NOT engage.
I showed the message to Liam, who nodded his understanding. His body remained coiled with tension, ready to move at a moment's notice.
The figures conferred briefly in hushed tones too quiet for me to make out. The larger one pointed toward the side of the building where Henry's makeshift medical room was located, while the smaller one shook his head and gestured toward the back door.
They seemed to be disagreeing about their entry point.
I felt Liam shift beside me, his attention razor-sharp as he tracked every movement. His ability to remain completely still while maintaining such intense focus was unnerving. In that moment, he seemed more lynx than human.
My phone vibrated again: 30 seconds. Be ready to duck.
I nudged Liam and showed him the message. His eyes widened slightly, but he nodded again, pressing himself lower behind the tires.
The seconds ticked by with excruciating slowness as we watched the intruders finally come to an agreement. They began moving toward the back door again, one reaching into his jacket—presumably for a lockpicking tool or weapon.
Suddenly, the yard lit up like daylight as Gunner flipped on the powerful emergency floodlights we'd installed after the incident with Biggins. The intruders froze, momentarily blinded, as Bear and three other club members emerged from different points around the building, guns drawn and aimed.
"Down on the ground!" Bear's voice boomed across the yard. "Now!"
I watched as the careful planning of our would-be intruders fell apart in seconds. This wasn't their first day—they immediately assessed their options, realized they were outgunned, and dropped to their knees with hands raised.
Liam let out a breath beside me, his shoulders relaxing slightly as the immediate threat passed. But there was something in his eyes as he watched the scene unfold—not relief, but grim recognition.
He knew something about these men. And whatever it was, it scared him.