Page 34 of Unwanted

Jak sobbed again as Pup’s body went still, the blood slowing into a trickle. Tears flowed down Jak’s cheeks as he took his hands from around the arrow and picked up Pup’s large body, rocking the giant animal in his arms. My friend. My friend. My friend. He cried, his sobs mixing with the wind as it blew through the branches of the trees who stood on, watching, whispering to each other, but only ever that.

“I thought he was wild. I didn’t know.”

Jak whipped his head around, and Driscoll was standing close by, a bow in his hand, arrows strapped to his waist. Jak’s gaze moved slowly from Driscoll’s face to the weapon he held and back again. The man had killed Pup. Rage, hotter than the sun, went through Jak, and slowly, he lowered Pup’s body to the ground, coming to his full height, the feel of Pup’s blood warm on his bare chest. He lowered his head and growled, low in his throat.

Driscoll’s eyes went wide as he looked at him, and though he looked scared, there was something else shining from his eyes. That look that had shined from Baka’s eyes when Jak did something good. That weird excitement that had been on his face when he was showing Jak the picture in his bedroom.

“I’m going to kill you,” Jak growled. Meaning it. He was going to tear his throat out.

Driscoll nodded, backing away as he raised his hand. Jak went forward, sadness and anger making him feel dizzy like the forest had started to spin around him. No, he wouldn’t tear his throat out. He was going to grab the bow and arrows from Driscoll before he could raise one and bury one of those arrows in his neck. His heart. Jak’s back teeth scraped against each other.

“I understand how you feel, but listen. Listen,” Driscoll said, his voice shaking. “I can get you one of these if you want.” He held up the bow and nodded down to the arrows at his side.

Driscoll raised his hand again. “If you harm me, they’ll come looking. My friend in town will know something’s wrong if I don’t show up for supplies. And they’ll come out here and find you. Do you want that?”

They’re killing the children.

Only Jak wasn’t a child anymore.

But he wasn’t yet a man either.

He stopped, that old terror swimming in his veins, mixing with the horrible swirling sadness of Pup dead behind him. He all of a sudden felt so tired he wanted to drop to his knees. He ached inside. “I can get you one of these,” Driscoll repeated again. “Pig meat is going for lots of money in town. If you can kill one, I’ll bring you your own bow and arrows.” When Jak stayed silent, Driscoll added, “I’ll throw in another box of matches too.”

Jak looked back at Pup’s body, his heart crying out with loss. What good would it do to kill Driscoll now? It wouldn’t bring Pup back…and the bow and arrows would help him survive, especially now that Pup was gone. The hurt inside swelled. He hung his head. A pig. One of those wild hogs with the razor-sharp tusks. He avoided those pigs like they were the devil’s children. Even Pup—

“I’ll do it,” he said, turning away from Driscoll to gather Pup’s body. He’d bury him by the river where he’d once buried the small bodies of Pup’s brothers and sisters, those loved creatures who had once saved his life. And he’d say goodbye to his Pup and wonder how he would walk each day even more alone than he’d already felt. Pup had saved more than just his life…he’d given him a reason to live.

Once Driscoll was long gone, Jak sank to his knees next to Pup, twisting his fingers in his friend’s fur, raising his head and howling his sadness into the empty sky.

Chapter Twenty

Tiny ice crystals. Sparkling. Glittering on the glass in the last light of the ending day. Lucas threw another log on the fire, holding his hands before it for a minute, thankful for the wonder of warmth. Sometimes, still, the flames felt…holy to him, like the first time he’d felt them after living through so many miserable winter days and nights with nothing but cold. Ice. Suffering. Aloneness.

A rumble made him pause, tilting his head as he listened. A vehicle? Shock and fear rolled through him. He walked quickly to the front window, his eyes widening when he saw that same large truck Harper drove, moving slowly—carefully—through the woods toward his house.

He watched as it came to a stop, and a minute later, Harper climbed down, a heavy-looking bag over her shoulder, walking to the place where the fox den was and staring down into it. When she turned toward his house, she had a smile on her face.

He stepped back quickly, making his body still as he heard her climbing his steps. He shouldn’t answer. Why is she here? What does she want? She knocked at his door, and he stayed still, trying not to answer, but in the end, a different part of him won out. The part that had come alive at the sight of her face, seeing that she’d come back. The part of him that knew she was his, even if he’d lived a life that could not make it be true.

When he opened the door, she smiled at him, moving from one foot to the other.

He waited for her to tell him why she was there, not knowing what to say. Hi? Hello? Why are you here? What do you want? He thought those questions might sound like he didn’t want her there, and maybe he didn’t—shouldn’t—even though he knew he did.

“I’ve been advised not to do this,” she finally said.

Advised. I’ve been…told. Someone told her not to do this. He frowned. “Do what?”

She looked away and then back. “Um, come out here.” Her cheeks turned light pink like flowers had suddenly blossomed under her skin, and she moved the bag from one shoulder to the other.

He leaned against the doorway, and her eyes moved to his arms as he crossed them over his chest. His arms were bare, and he thought she must be looking at the scars that crisscrossed his skin here and there. Everywhere. It made him feel…naked even though it was only his arms. Those scars told too many awful stories about the way he’d lived. Stories he didn’t want told. Ever. “Why didn’t you listen?”

“Oppositional defiant disorder?” She let out a small, uncomfortable laugh.

Those were three words he didn’t know and nothing to go along with them that would help him figure them out. Lucas tilted his head. “I don’t know what that is,” he admitted.

She smiled. “In my case, it just means I’m pigheaded.”

He squinted at her. There it was again, three minutes into a conversation with her and he was already mostly lost. A gust of wind blew hard, and she held the bag tighter to her, moving her shoulders in and making her head go lower against the cold. “Come in,” he said. “It’s cold.”

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