6. Milo
CHAPTER SIX
milo
“I’m going to kill him. I’m really going to do it.” Milo mumbled as he examined himself in the vanity mirror. “He has officially baked his last bun.”
“Pip will help kill his buns.”
“How about you leave his buns alone and take on Ralph.”
Pip hissed behind him.
“Inferior familiar. I will tear off his worm tail.”
“That’s the spirit,” Milo said, then thought better of it. “You know I’m joking, right, Pip?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Pip said, waving a leg in the mirror’s reflection, “I understand the chasm.”
Milo flinched as he applied some salve to a bruise along his bicep.
“Hells.”
He was hurting all over. His spine felt as though someone had tied him into a pretzel in at least three anatomically questionable directions. And his hips… fuck, his hips just felt like one giant bruise, protesting every single micromovement. He had a mild headache too and…
Milo giggled to himself. He couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t help the bubble of mirth.
He looked like he’d lost a fight with a mountain troll, so then… then why was he so giddy? Even as he inspected himself, he couldn’t help the stupid grin from overtaking his face.
Because I’m a fucking lunatic, that’s why.
But instead of looking for wounds, it felt more like a hunt for pieces of a story. Clues on just how good Milo got it last night. He couldn’t stop searching for more.
“Lanterns,” Milo muttered, pulling his collar aside.
There were teeth marks on his shoulder. Teeth marks on his chest, around his nipple. A particularly colorful bruise wrapped around his hip where some eldritch horror with four fingers had apparently grabbed him hard enough to leave marks.
But of all his battle scars, his favorite mark of all—
Milo craned his neck to the side, revealing the now scabbed-over wound.
His mating mark.
Milo touched it gingerly and flinched when it hurt, smiling like a masochist. Sure, maybe it meant he had a screw or two—or three—loose. But he liked that mark. That permanent impression of teeth pressed into his skin. A pleasant shiver ran down his spine at the thought of it.
He dabbed Phoenix Ash Balm on his wounds, careful not to put any medicine on his mating mark. He wanted the scar. The permanence of it. The proof that he belonged to—
Behind him, the mattress creaked.
Grievance sat on the edge of the bed, looking like someone had just announced that Pumpkin Fest was canceled.
Milo’s giddy grin fell. “Stop it.”
Grievance’s eyes lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face has been saying it for the last twenty minutes.”
His mate’s gaze dropped once more, settling on the bruises scattered across Milo’s skin.
The misery returned.
“Milo…”
“Grievance.”
“I hurt you.”
“You were drugged.”
“But I—”
Milo rounded on him. “You. Were. Drugged.”
Grievance’s jaw tightened, and Milo sighed. They had already had this conversation. Twice in bed. Once while Milo made breakfast. Again while Grievance followed him around the apothecary like an enormous, guilt-ridden shadow.
And apparently they were going to have it for a fifth time. Milo crossed the room and stood between Grievance’s knees.
“Look at me.”
Those beautiful brown eyes reluctantly rose to his.
“You asked me.”
Grievance swallowed.
“Every time it mattered, you asked for my permission. And every time, I told you yes.”
“But—”
“No buts—unless it’s mine,” he said with a wink and was glad when it earned him the barest hint of a smile. Milo took the Chimera’s face between his hands.
“You didn’t choose to eat something laced with succubus venom. Rowen and Sadie made a spectacularly stupid mistake, and I reserve the right to be furious with them about it until at least next Pumpkin Festival.”
That earned another tiny twitch at the corner of Grievance’s mouth. Milo kissed it quickly.
“But I am not angry with you.”
Grievance’s hands settled carefully on Milo’s hips, almost as though he were afraid to squeeze.
Milo hated that. His mate was never this careful with him. Tender, yes. Protective, always. But this was fear. And Milo absolutely refused to let one silly accident make Grievance afraid of touching him.
So Milo leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
“Come on. We have to go out.”
“Why?”
“We have traps to check.”
“Oh.”
He continued to look dejected.
“Buuuut,” Milo said, squeezing himself closer, “I don’t see why we can’t sneak into town for a bit. I bet the cider truck is up and running.”
That got his attention.
“Hot cider with cinnamon sticks and whipped cream on top,” Milo said more insistently.
Grievance considered. “And those little apple candies?”
“And the little apple pieces.”
Grievance sighed. “Fine.”
“I knew I could count on that sweet tooth to make you come around.”
He kissed Grievance on the mouth, and relaxed when he finally felt a smile press against his.
The Hollow had somehow become even more crowded overnight.
With Pumpkin Festival only a few days away, MythFolk had begun arriving from towns scattered across the valley—and some, according to the national flags hanging outside the inn, had come from considerably farther away.
October was Pumpkin Hollow’s season.
Everyone knew it. And everyone wanted a piece of it.
Main Street was a river of pointed hats, horns, wings, tails, colorful coats, and floating shopping bags.
Witches wandered alongside goblins. A family of trolls posed beneath an archway made entirely of glowing jack-o’-lanterns while someone attempted to convince three excitable pixies that it was in their best interest not to provoke the sleeping cerberus snoozing outside Thistle & Threads clothing store.
Leaves spiraled overhead in enchanted currents of red and gold, occasionally arranging themselves into scary faces before scattering again. Somewhere down the street, a brass band was playing a slightly questionable rendition of Monster Mash.
Milo loved every second of it.
“COMING THROUGH!”
Milo jumped aside as a group of children shot past on miniature broomsticks, their pointed hats nearly flying off their heads.
A painted sign hovered above the street.
JUNIOR brOOMSTICK RACING — HEATS EVERY HOUR!
“Five silvers on the little goblin!” someone shouted.
“He’s six years old!”
“He’s aerodynamic.”
“This is a children’s race, no gambling!”
Milo laughed.
Farther down the road, an enormous pink cloud floated above a booth advertising a cotton-candy eating contest. Milo wasn’t entirely certain how one competitively ate cotton candy, but judging from the purple-faced dwarf currently shoving an entire sparkling cloud into his mouth, Pumpkin Hollow had found a way.
Near the fountain, several enormous wooden barrels had been filled for apple bobbing.
And beyond that—
Milo narrowed his eyes toward a field behind the town hall.
“Is that a maze… made of corn?” Grievance asked.
“You betcha.”
Milo watched a woman emerge from between the stalks, looking furious.
“There is a skeleton in there giving wrong directions! I was stuck in there for hours!”
Somewhere inside the maze, something giggled. Milo rolled his eyes.
“They can’t come up with something more original? Jinxed skeletons giving wrong directions is exactly what they did last year.”
Grievance shrugged. “Seems entertaining.”
“You say that because you can smell your way out. Which is also called cheating.”
“It is problem-solving.”
Milo was about to argue when the smell hit him. Apples. Cinnamon. Cloves. Warm caramel.
Parked beside the fountain was an enormous copper wagon with THE HOT CIDER CAULDRON painted across its side in curling orange letters. Steam billowed from a chimney on top while a gigantic enchanted apple rolled back and forth across the roof.
The line wrapped halfway around the square.
“Oh, I need me some of that,” Milo said, working away some of the ache in his neck. Grievance caught the moment and frowned. “Because it’s festive and delicious,” Milo insisted.
No other reason. And definitely not because I have some Soothewort powder I plan to put in my cider to help with the inflammation in my back.
They joined the queue and stood in silence. Grievance had been quiet all morning. Brooding in that way, he insisted, was completely different from pouting, but Milo knew better.
Every few minutes, Grievance’s eyes wandered toward him. Toward his neck. His wrists. Any visible evidence of the previous night. And every time, his expression tightened.
Milo slid his cold hand into Grievance’s and squeezed. His mate squeezed back.
But the sadness remained.
Fine. If words aren’t sinking in, I’ll try something else.
“Stay here.”
Grievance frowned. “Why?”
“I need to check something.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” Milo pointed toward the cider wagon. “You are currently twenty minutes away from obtaining apple cider that I desperately need right now. Do not abandon your post,” Milo said with mock authority.
“Milo—”
“I’ll be right back!” he waved, and before his overly protective mate could object, Milo disappeared into the crowd.
He knew exactly where he was going.
A little shop had opened near the end of Main Street sometime during the summer. Milo had passed its window dozens of times with Grievance. And every single time—Grievance looked inside.
Apparently, Milo’s massive monster had an eye for jewelry. Rings. Chains. Bracelets. Brooches. Anything polished, sparkling, or set with stones inevitably caught the Chimera’s attention.
He’d amassed quite the collection in their year together, including Milo’s old cufflinks—which he’d never had much use for until now—and a peridot pendant Milo had gifted him last year that he hardly ever took off.
Grievance was adorably shy about his collection, careful not to fuss over it when he knew Milo was watching.
But every once in a while, Milo caught him arranging and rearranging his jewelry on the vanity, searching for the perfect way to display his treasures.
He’d center each piece carefully on its own little velvet pillow, angling the gems this way and that until they caught the light just right.
It was fucking adorable.