A Fragile Family

by J. J. Massa

  “How you doin’, babe?” the big man’s deep voice echoed in the tiny, tiled bathroom.

  “It’s been awhile,” Jack tried. Becker’s face took on an ugly caste. “I’m sore,” he admitted.

  “You just lay back, let me get what you need,” Becker rumbled, turning sweet again.

  Carefully, Jack eased back in the small tub, closing his eyes as Becker dabbed at his face with a soft, natural sponge. Poor Lilith. She thought she had Jack. She just didn’t know.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Home of Tracey and Tavist Darke

  Darke Woods Road

  Talking Rock, GA

  Rafe pulled the baby blue, metallic Chrysler Crossfire into Tav’s front yard, thanking Hertz, Marc, and the Gods of ingenuity for seeing to it that he got a car with a portable satellite navigation system.

  He would have hated to get lost for so many reasons. Of course he didn’t want to let Tayler down, that was a given. But to get lost when driving to the home of his hero, Tavist Darke—that would have been humiliating.

  In an odd parody of Myles’ earlier behavior twice already that day, Rafe stepped out of the small car and hurried around, trying to open the door for Tayler before he could do it himself.

  Tayler just grinned and shook his head at Rafe, making him laugh at himself. His heart swelled with love for the young Were as he stood there, looking down into Tayler’s dark gold eyes. He couldn’t believe how much his life had changed in one short year.

  And for all his losses, Rafe knew he was richer from what had come before, even though he still sorrowed over the loss of his father and the faith he’d had in him.

  As he stood in the middle of the tree shrouded yard, Rafe heard the scream. And then he heard a strange man’s voice chanting, “No, it can’t be, no…” as it retreated deeper into the house.

  He turned, stooped to lift Tayler and waited. After a second’s indecision, Tayler’s skinny arm wound around his neck and Rafe lifted him, hurrying toward the door.

  “It wasn’t Tayler before, luvvies. Shh, this is Tayler, now. You must come see him, he’s traveled just for you both,” Myles was murmuring soothing nonsense to two people Rafe couldn’t see. He knew one to be Ashley and the other, someone new. “We mustn’t scare him, isn’t that right? Wouldn’t that be terrible?”

  Rafe put Tayler down inside the doorway of a fair sized utility room that was situated at the back of the house. He could smell the other members of the family though they had cleared out, apparently, leaving the three here and Rafe and Tayler.

  Tayler made his laborious way across the room and stopped next to Myles who slipped an arm around him. Easing the young Were to his knees, Myles turned back to the two cowering between the washing machine and the wall.

  “Sherman, you remember Bernadette’s little boy, Tayler. Come on, pet, open your eyes. Show Princess here that this is Tayler, come to be with you and …” he trailed off lamely, apparently at a loss. Myles exchanged a helpless glance with Tayler and tried again. “Come on, my loves, you can’t ignore our own Tayler this way and hurt his feelings.”

  Rafe had always been respectfully afraid of Myles Montgomery. He’d never really been sure who had killed Anton and Luis de la Rosa—even though Marc had fought with Rafe’s own father, it was possible that Myles had killed him, too. Each death was warranted, though Luis could have lived. His struggles and an answering twitch from Myles had resulted in a snapped neck and severed spine.

  To see the deadly Were crouched on the floor, crooning inanities to two cowering humans was bizarre, to put it mildly.

  After long minutes of wheedling, Tayler put an end to the stand-off by easing forward and laying a hand on the man’s cheek. To Rafe’s relief, Myles kept a hand around Tayler’s waist, ready to pull him away if either Ashley or Sherman panicked.

  “Sherman,” Tayler called out low. “It’s me, Tayler, you know me…”

  Sherman’s eyes popped open, so blue that Rafe took a step backward. “Tayler?” his voice cracked, disbelief ringing in the single word.

  “It’s me, Sherman. I’m here, and I’m okay,” Tayler kept talking, both hands cupping Sherman’s face now as he sat in Myles’ lap.

  Rafe knew that Tayler believed in the power of touch and used it often. He couldn’t fault his little alpha for it, either. When Tayler touched someone, it always seemed to have the desired effect.

  “Ash!” Sherman’s voice was high and cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Ashley, it’s really him. It’s real. He’s real.”

  “Myles,” Ashley whispered, and then her eyes locked on Tayler. “Oh, God!” she began to cry. “You look so much like him…I was afraid I was…” she choked and couldn’t speak. Myles let go of Tayler who slid closer to Ashley and Sherman and put his arms around both of them—as much as he could. “He died, his little body…”

  “Blood everywhere,” Sherman husked, touching Tayler’s arm reverently.

  “Locked in there with his body, their bodies, like nothing else was real anymore.”

  “No more babies,” Ashley sobbed, stroking Tayler’s hair, his cheek, his shoulder.

  “Even the babies, the little ones, they couldn’t be kids anymore. We weren’t…”

  “We weren’t real,” Sherman supplied, picking up where Ashley left off. “We tried when we got home, but…”

  “And then Myles came and…he saved us and you’re here and maybe we’re real again, after all,” Ashley said in a rush, her words nearly running together and making no sense.

  Rafe backed carefully out of the room, Myles and Tayler touching and stroking, crooning and petting the two sobbing humans on the floor.

  ****

  Home of Hail Becker

  25 Rockwell Street

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Jack lay on his stomach, naked on the clean cotton sheets. He mentally catalogued his aches and pains, beginning and ending with the one between his nether cheeks— although there was a symphony of dull pain throbbing from his head to his toes and everywhere in between.

  Becker had used him again last night, though he’d been liberal with the lube, especially in light of his complete disdain of it the afternoon before. In comparison to every other liaison between Jack and his owner, that single joining had been almost gentle. It was probably as close as violent and deadly Hail Becker could ever come.

  The dichotomy between the two halves of Becker’s personality taunted Jack as he felt the huge man’s fingertips skim down his back. “How are you, babe?” Becker murmured, the sheet sliding away beneath the sensuous glide of his fingers.

  “Fine,” Jack mumble-moaned, arching slightly into the touch.

  The sheet slipped off, exposing his bare buttocks, bringing a tingle to Jack’s groin. Becker’s fingertips continued to stroke down, feather light, tracing Jack’s cleft.

  “You’re not hurting, babe?” he rumbled, his touch still light, but possessive as he cupped Jack’s pale cheek. Just the idea of his white, white skin, molded and stroked by those so-dark fingers brought a flush to Jack’s face. Becker chuckled, deep and rich.

  “You’re done, babe,” he murmured, his voice like gravel to Jack’s ears. “You lay here, be my good little babe, let me see to you. We’ll get some folks together later, when you’re up to it.” Jack felt a soft kiss on his shoulder, counterpoint to Becker pulling his thighs apart, then his cheeks. A thick finger slid in and out of him and then massaged his pucker for a long minute. “I missed you, Jackie. You always was my favorite. You’re a good little babe, coming to me this way. You know I’ma take care of what’s mine.”

  Jack didn’t answer, floating as he was on the edge of sleep, the deep, vibrant voice of Becker lulling him back to a place of twisted safety in his mind. Suddenly, his balls were caught in a tight grip, a wide thumb plunged roughly into his anus. Belatedly, he remembered that a response was expected here.

  His mind searched frantically as the vice tightened around his testicles, the thumbnail scraping at
abused and torn tissue. Pain, razor sharp, cut through him, tearing him, crushing. This wasn’t the pain he craved, this was punishment.

  “Yours, Becker…Hail. Yours, always belong to you,” he managed, finally. The thumb stopped moving, the grip between his legs loosened. “Do whatever you tell me to, need you,” Jack wheezed, grateful when the hurting thumb became soothing again, the fingers fondling his balls cuddled them tenderly.

  “I don’t mind spankin’ you when you need it, babe,” Becker oozed lovingly.

  “Don’t make me hurt you, though, Jackie, I don’t like to be mad at you. My favorite.”

  “’M sorry, Hail,” Jack apologized, his throat thick. He was sorry, hurting, so much that he truly wanted to cry. Had he been forgiven? He was so glad he remembered to call Becker by his given name…would there be more abuse or was he finally deserving of the cosseting indulgence lavished on him when his owner was happy with him?

  “That’s my good babe,” Becker crooned, pulling his fingers away, sliding the sheet back up over Jack’s nudity. “You let ol’ Hail see to you, bring you some goodies, take care of you. We’ll find someone to do your job for you later, when you’re feelin’ better. Rest now, babe,” his loving litany ending on a whisper as Becker pulled the door closed behind him.

  Jack sniffed, turning his head on the pillow and letting a tear leak down. Had he really had a choice? Riding the razor’s edge between pain and pleasure, ownership and freedom, Jack didn’t think there were any choices left. This was the life he’d been molded to, helpless to resist what Becker had to offer. He was, in spirit and in fact, owned by the half-sweet, half-killer that doled out love and blood in equal measure, just as he saw fit.

  Once, many years ago, Jack had been the owner. He had been the one to use, abuse, punish and indulge as he saw fit. His sons deserved to be as powerful as Hail Becker, as powerful as Jack had once been.

  In his way, Becker loved Jack. He understood the loss that ate at Jack…now that he was no longer owner but property, whether he was Becker’s favorite or not. Becker would help him exact his revenge. Tracey and Ashley would be punished for the hurt they’d inflicted on Jack. Lilith would be rewarded with the death of Sherman Landon, a gift for setting Jack free.

  Jack’s revenge would be awesome and terrible. Becker would see to that.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Home of Tracey and Tavist Darke

  Darke Woods Road

  Talking Rock, GA

  Tracey draped herself over the aged rubber and wood of the old tire swing, crafted and hung by Tav and her sons fifteen busy years ago. She closed her eyes and floated along, listening to the full, sensuous sounds of Myles’ aching saxophone as it throbbed around her.

  The deep, soulful tenor ebbed and flowed, caressing every frayed nerve, stroking over her, reminding her of black satin, soft fur, rich chocolate and fine wine. She needed the escape, the beautiful, warm melody lifting her and transporting her to that other welcoming plane, just as much as everyone else within hearing distance.

  No doubt in her mind, as she drifted back to earth, Myles needed the music as much as all of the battered and bruised souls littering her home this night. She didn’t need to be a werewolf to hear Sherman and Ashley sobbing out the details of their horrific experiences in the Philippines.

  The two had been trapped under maybe a ton of mud, stuck in what amounted to a cave with three dead bodies, one of which they’d somehow come to believe was little Tayler. Now, Ashley was back, maybe changed irrevocably, Sherman, hurt beyond measure, had been added to the family…and then there was Myles.

  Myles. Tracey couldn’t escape Myles. The music faded away, like the receding ocean tide, leaving her feeling melancholy as she hung, twisting under the branches of the big old tree.

  A gentle nudge sent her riding the cool night air, her long hair ruffling in the light breeze. She couldn’t fight a grin, even though her throat filled, tight and heavy, to see Myles’ hopeful half smile back at her.

  She sniffed, a tear rolling down her cheek as she held a hand out to him. Stepping forward, he took it, pulling her into his arms, holding on. “We have problems, Myles,” she rasped, leaning her cheek against his solid chest.

  “I know…” he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, “I know we do.” His voice was soft, thick, and she felt his cheek against the crown of her head, felt a warm tear trickle down her temple. “Why can’t you love me?” he whispered, maybe he hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

  “It’s hard to love you like a son when you’re breaking my daughter’s heart,” she forced out, breathy sobs punctuating every other word.

  “You--you were so mean to my brother, and,” he took another deep breath, “and I wanted you to love me so much,” he stuttered, struggling obviously to keep his emotions somewhat under control. “He forgave you but--but I just couldn’t,” he choked.

  Tracey’s arms tightened around him, one hand reaching up to stroke his shaggy hair. “You changed my daughter’s life, before she ever even had a chance. I was so mad at you, just for…just because.”

  “I’m sorry,” Myles gasped, pulling back. Tracey kept her arms around his waist when he cupped her face with both hands. “Tracey, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

  Tears streamed down his face as he swallowed convulsively. He sniffed deeply but didn’t look away, letting her see his weakness, his heartbreak, his deep sorrow for whatever sins she chose to assign him. In her heart of hearts, Tracey realized that he probably blamed himself for more than she could even imagine.

  “Myles,” she whispered, managing a weak and watery smile. “I’m--I’m sorry, too, okay?” He opened his mouth to speak, maybe to object. “How about let’s start from here.” He closed his eyes and nodded, still cupping her face. She tapped him on the chest lightly, causing him to meet her eyes. “Don’t screw up anymore,” she said as fiercely as she could, not bothering to try a glare. Her heart wasn’t in it just now.

  “I--Thank you,” he croaked. She nodded sharply at him. “Thank you,” he whispered again, dropping his hands and stepping back.

  She tilted her head and smiled, not moving as Myles turned and made his way up the path toward the small house where Sherman and Ashley lay sleeping.

  “You, Tracey West-Darke, are a truly remarkable woman.” Mik’s ringing baritone took her by surprise, causing the bottom to drop out of her stomach. “Don’t you say anything or I’ll bite you!” he growled.

  “You scared the red out of my hair, Mik Montgomery!” she yelped. “What are you doing lurking around?”

  “Get over here and scratch my neck or I’m gonna dig up your flower bed and get fleas in your carpet,” Mik threatened.

  Tracey’s laugh pealed out, washing the tight emotions free. “You better watch it or I’ll chain you up out back and braid your tail!” she shot back, moving forward to embrace Mik in gratitude.

  “That was good,” he snickered, walking beside her toward the back porch.

  “Yeah?” she glanced over at him. “I think ‘em up at night when I can’t sleep.”

  Mik chuckled, warming her with his regard. “I just bet you do, young lady, I just bet you do.”

  ****

  Cave above Talking Rock Creek

  Talking Rock, GA

  Tayler limped to the edge of the gorge looking down on the rushing water of Talking Rock Creek. Tipping his head back, he howled mournfully, releasing the cacophony of emotions twisting and turning and squeezing his heart. He listened to the musical echoes of his voice as it reverberated off of the sheer rock walls of the cliff that dropped down to the water.

  Rafe’s low, desolate song joined with the resonance of his own, the babbling and rushing water a backbeat. Tayler turned, nuzzling into Rafe, grateful when he nuzzled back, comforting him.

  Rafe’s thick coat was glossy and straight, beautiful to Tayler as he buried his face against it. His own pelt was fluffy and thick, but every bit as black and it made him feel closer to Rafe, like they looked more
like brothers when they were in wolf form. Tav joined them, his deeper chorus following Rafe’s, fusing with the night sounds, pulling them together in a single, doleful melody.

  Where Marc had tan in his ebony coat when he transformed, Tav was jet black as Rafe and Tayler in full wolf, his hair wavier than Rafe’s and straighter than Tayler’s.

  They all looked like family together and it warmed Tayler’s heart.

  He was grateful, too, that Serena and Victoria had stayed over with friends tonight. He liked Tav and Tracey’s twin girls, though they fussed over him, but he needed quieter, calmer company tonight.

  “You okay, hermanito?” Rafe yipped, supporting Tayler as he leaned.

  Rafe had told him that the word meant little brother in Spanish, and it warmed Tayler all the way through. He liked when Rafe called him that.

  “Um, hmm,” he mumbled, pretty sure that Rafe would buy it, equally sure that Tav would not. Dads were different, and Tav was a dad.

  “Whole lot of emotion in the air today,” Tav observed, giving Tayler a lick on his snout. “All that on top of traveling…I know you’re worn out. How’re you feeling about Ashley and Sherman thinking you were dead?”

  Tayler nuzzled Tav back, dropping down to his belly, his muzzle between his paws as he looked out into the inky night, sorting through his feelings. Rafe dropped down next to him, supporting him, as always, though silently for now.

  Tayler took a deep breath, and decided full disclosure was called for. “I feel sad, and sorry—for those families, I want to help ‘em. For those kids, cuz it’s all over. For Ashley and Sherman, because they tried so hard…and I want to bite Sherman’s awful wife for not loving him right and making him sad…” He breathed deep, scratching at his nose. “And then there’s Myles, Jacob, Aunt Tracey, Christopher…I want to help ‘em all, make ‘em feel better.” He sighed heavily, knowing it was hopeless.