Chapter Four #2
My attention snapped to movement behind us—the bearded leader, Butch, was approaching, his massive form silhouetted against the security lights. Instinctively, I shifted position, moving behind Rooster where I felt marginally safer.
"Report," Butch said, his voice gruff as he surveyed the damage to his club member.
Henry answered without looking up from his work cleaning Rooster's wound. "Concussion. Laceration. Hardheaded idiot refusing proper medical care. The usual."
Butch grunted, then turned his attention to me. I tensed under his scrutiny, feeling exposed despite Rooster's presence between us.
"You're the one who tore into that guy with the bat?" he asked, nodding toward the man I'd attacked. The attacker was now conscious, but moaning in pain as someone zip-tied his hands. His jacket was in shreds, blood seeping through multiple deep scratches across his torso.
I looked away, not confirming or denying anything.
"Saved my ass," Rooster said, wincing as Henry began stitching his wound. "Liam spotted them first, tried to keep me out of the fight, then went full protective mode when I got hit."
Butch studied me with newfound interest. I didn't like it. Being noticed was dangerous. Being considered valuable was even worse—it meant people wanted something from you.
"What exactly happened?" Butch asked Rooster. "Before the fight."
I was grateful when Rooster took over the explanation. My throat felt raw from the few words I'd spoken earlier, and explaining anything fully would have been beyond me.
"Liam and I were at the picnic table when he spotted two men sneaking into the yard," Rooster said, remaining impressively still as Henry worked on his wound.
"We were able to hide before they spotted us.
That's when I texted you. Liam noticed the second group coming through the gate before anyone else did. "
"Good eyes," Butch commented, glancing at me again.
I ducked my head, avoiding his gaze.
"Better than good," Rooster said. "Kid's got instincts. Knew something was wrong before I did."
I shifted uncomfortably under the praise. Years of living in shadows had taught me to recognize danger, that's all. There was nothing special about wanting to stay alive.
Butch nodded thoughtfully, then turned to two of his men—the massive one called Bear and another with long dark hair pulled into a ponytail.
"Bear, Gunner, take our new friends to the basement. I want to know who sent them and why."
The men nodded, already moving to collect the captive intruders. I didn't envy those men what was coming. The basement clearly wasn't a place for friendly conversations.
Butch turned back to us. "You should stay inside tonight," he said, addressing me directly. "Whoever sent these men might send more. You're safer with us."
My heart rate spiked at the suggestion. Indoors meant trapped. Indoors meant surrounded by people I didn't know or trust. Indoors meant no easy escape routes when things inevitably went wrong.
But then Rooster tried to stand and immediately swayed, his face paling beneath his beard. Henry steadied him with a muttered curse about stubborn patients. The sight of Rooster's vulnerability made something twist painfully in my chest.
He needed help. He needed looking after.
Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed Rooster's hand and tugged him gently toward the clubhouse. If he was staying inside, then I would too—at least until I was sure he would be okay.
"I think that's a yes," Rooster said to Butch, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth despite the pain evident in his eyes.
I led him toward the kitchen door, the one place in the clubhouse that felt remotely safe to me. My heart hammered against my ribs as we approached the building, every instinct screaming that I was making a mistake.
But when Rooster squeezed my hand gently, something quieted inside me. Just for tonight, I told myself. Just until his head was better. I had a debt to repay, after all. Food for protection—it seemed like a fair exchange.
That's what I told myself, anyway, as I stepped willingly into the building I'd spent months circling from a safe distance.
I pushed Rooster into the nearest chair the moment we entered the kitchen, my movements quick and decisive.
This space, at least, felt vaguely familiar from watching through windows—the gleaming countertops, the industrial-sized stove where he'd prepared the food that had kept me alive these past months.
I knew this room, even if I'd never been inside it, and that small comfort steeled my nerves as I turned to examine Rooster's injury in the bright overhead light.
The gash looked worse under the fluorescents—an angry red line disappearing into his hairline, already swelling into an impressive lump. Blood had dried in his beard, turning the vibrant red a rusty brown.
Despite the doctor's neat stitches, the area around the wound was already darkening into what would become a spectacular bruise.
"It's not as bad as it looks," Rooster said, trying to sound reassuring.
I shot him a disbelieving look and turned to search the cabinets. I needed ice for the swelling. A bag to put it in. A towel to wrap around it. Simple first aid knowledge I'd picked up from necessity over the years.
The kitchen was immaculately organized, each cabinet containing exactly what its label promised. Plates. Glasses. Mixing bowls. Baking supplies. I found a stack of clean dish towels in a drawer beside the sink and grabbed one, then located plastic bags in another drawer.
Now for ice.
I moved to the large stainless steel refrigerator, pulling it open with determination.
The inside was packed with food—containers labeled in neat handwriting, fresh vegetables, gallons of milk, cartons of eggs.
My stomach growled reflexively at the sight of so much food in one place, but I pushed the feeling aside.
Focus. Ice.
I frowned, searching the freezer compartment before realizing there wasn't one. Just this massive refrigerator with no freezer section.
"The freezer's in the pantry," Rooster said, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Big chest freezer at the back."
I nodded and headed for the door he pointed to, pulling it open to reveal a walk-in pantry larger than any room I'd slept in for years. Shelves lined the walls, stocked with canned goods, dry pasta, rice, beans, flour, sugar—enough food to feed an army. Or survive an apocalypse.
My eyes widened as I took in the sheer abundance. I couldn't help cataloguing it all, the survival part of my brain automatically calculating how long such supplies could last.
At the back, just as Rooster had said, stood an enormous chest freezer. I lifted the lid to find it packed with frozen meats, vegetables, and containers of prepared meals. And ice. Plenty of ice.
I filled a plastic bag with ice cubes, wrapped it in the dish towel, and returned to Rooster. He hadn't moved from his chair, his eyes slightly unfocused in a way that worried me. Concussions were serious. I'd seen people die from head injuries that didn't look much worse than his.
Carefully, I placed the makeshift ice pack against the side of his head, positioning it to cover the worst of the swelling without pressing on the stitches.
"Thanks, kid," he murmured, reaching up to hold the ice pack in place.
I stepped back, observing him critically. The ice would help with the swelling, but it wouldn't fix the concussion. There was a faster way to heal, and we both knew it.
Why wasn't he shifting?
All shifters knew that transforming accelerated healing. Injuries that might take weeks to heal in human form could mend in days or even hours after a shift. The more time spent in animal form, the faster the healing.
I frowned, trying to figure out how to communicate this without speaking. Words were hard for me on the best days, and today had been far from the best.
I pointed at him, then made a transforming gesture with my hands.
Rooster's brow furrowed in confusion. "What is it, Liam? You need something else?"
I growled in frustration, an animal sound that slipped out before I could stop it. I tried again, pantomiming shifting, but he just looked more confused.
"I don't understand what you're trying to tell me," he said gently.
I looked around and spotted a notepad and pen on the counter. Grabbing them, I quickly sketched a stick figure, then an arrow, then a rough bear. I held it up, pointing insistently.
Rooster squinted at my drawing. "You... want to see a bear?"
I shook my head, adding another arrow from the bear back to the human, then circling the whole sequence.
"A transformation? You know about shifters?" His eyes widened slightly. "Have you seen one of us shift before?"
I wanted to scream. He wasn't getting it. I jabbed my finger at him, then at the drawing, then at his injury.
"You think I should shift?" he asked finally, understanding dawning. "To heal faster?"
I nodded emphatically, relief washing through me.
"I can't, kid. Not with you here. We don't—" he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "We don't reveal ourselves to humans. It's our most important rule."
So that was it. He thought I was human. He was protecting his secret, not realizing I already knew because I shared it.
I stared at him for a long moment, weighing my options. Revealing myself was a risk—the biggest I'd taken in years. But watching him suffer needlessly from an injury he'd received while protecting his family... it bothered me more than I wanted to admit.
Decision made, I stepped back from him, creating space between us and the kitchen table.
"Liam? What are you—"
I cut him off with a raised hand. Then, holding his gaze, I grabbed my pad of paper and wrote down what I wanted him to know, something I hadn’t shared with anyone. Ever.
Rooster's mouth dropped open when I turned the page toward him, the ice pack forgotten in his hand. "You're a shifter," he whispered, eyes wide with astonishment.
I blinked slowly in confirmation, my golden eyes holding his gaze.
"A lynx," he continued, wonder replacing shock. "I thought you might be, with those eyes, but I wasn't sure." Rooster’s expression changed from shock to something more complex—curiosity mixed with a gentle understanding that made my chest feel strange. “I’ll bet you’re a beautiful lynx.”
I wouldn’t know. I quickly wrote on my pad again, before turning it toward Rooster. “Never shifted.”
“You’ve never shifted?”
I shook my head.
“Then…” Rooster frowned. “If you’ve never shifted, how do you know you’re a shifter?”
I huffed before writing on my pad again. When I turned it toward Rooster, his eyebrows hit his hairline.
“Someone told you?”
I nodded again. I couldn’t exactly tell him that plants had told me I was a lynx shifter. He’d think I was nuts.
“Your parents?”
This time I shook my head. “No parents.”
"No parents? How long have you been on your own?"
I held up all ten fingers, then five more. Fifteen years.
"Since you were what? Seven? Eight?"
I nodded. Seven.
"Jesus," he muttered. "And you've been alone all that time? With no one to guide you?"
I shrugged. I'd figured it out on my own. Plants had helped—they always recognized what I was, even when I was in human form.
I pointed again at the drawing, then at him, raising my eyebrows in question.
"You're right," he admitted. "Shifting would help me heal faster. But I didn't want to scare you off." A small, rueful smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Guess I was worried over nothing."
I nodded, gesturing impatiently for him to get on with it. The stubborn man had a head injury that needed healing.
"Not here," he said, rising carefully from his chair. "Too exposed. We have a shifting room down the hall for emergencies. Will you come with me?"
The question hung in the air between us—an invitation, not a command. He was giving me a choice, acknowledging my freedom to refuse.
I hesitated, then nodded. I'd already revealed my biggest secret to this man. Following him down a hallway seemed like a small risk in comparison.
As I walked beside him, supporting his larger frame when he swayed slightly, I realized something had fundamentally changed between us. We were no longer just the provider and the stray, the cook and the homeless kid.
We were two shifters who had recognized something in each other—something that felt oddly like belonging.
The thought should have terrified me. Instead, as we moved deeper into the clubhouse, I felt the unfamiliar sensation of my defenses lowering, just a fraction.
Maybe, just maybe, I could trust this red-haired cook with the kind eyes and gentle hands. For tonight, at least, I'd stay. Tomorrow's problems could wait until morning.