Page 42 of Baby and the Beast

Nash closed his eyes as exhaustion mixed with pain. As an animal, he wasn’t really in the hunting chain, and his human wasn’t much better. He’d foraged berries for a long time, but the weather had just about put a stop to that. And unlike most foxes, Nash couldn't stomach to eat small mammals even in his animal form.

And he’d gotten turned around somehow. A delivery driver had been decent and given him a ride, which was fine—until the truck broke down and the driver basically told him to make himself scarce because his company didn’t allow hitchhikers. His second ride, a few days later, had thought Nash should pay him—and not with money. When Nash, as politely as possible,made it clear he had no intention of doing so, the douchebag waited another hour while they climbed into the mountains, then simply gave Nash a choice: go down on him or get out.

Nash got out.

So here he was, twenty-four hours later, with no exact idea where he was—and in trouble. Real trouble. It would be a shifter baby, so better able to survive the low temperatures, but all babies needed milk. Rare as that was for a male shifter, he could produce it—but to do that, he needed food himself. Not only was he hungry, but his fat stores were also seriously depleted from the journey. He hadn’t eaten for a night and a full day, and the only thing visible above the snow was rock.

Nash stared at the cave entrance again. He couldn’t detect movement, so once he’d breathed through the contraction, he shuffled inside and immediately appreciated the relative warmth. Squeezing through the narrow opening made him feel a little better. No bear could get through that.

But wolves could. There were a lot of animals in the mountains that would view him as a snack in his animal form—and not much more of a threat in his human one.

He took in the huge pile of furs in the corner. The small fire pit that looked like it was simply set up for winter and barely used, the skins lining the cave—and knew without a shadow of a doubt he’d stumbled into a cave used by a human. Maybe a hunter? But surely they would be gone now? Surely, he was safe. He closed his eyes as another pain built.

He had no choice. Not that the hunter was likely to put a bullet in him, just bring him problems of a different sort. Either way, if he didn’t get in the cave, both he and his kit would be dead by morning.

Casimir’s grandfather would have said it was too early to snow like this, but as he lifted his face to the huge gray clouds that looked full to bursting, he knew the weather was about to prove him wrong.

He had what he needed for the winter. Hunting was already scarce, and even the deer were entering the post-rut phase. Unfortunately, that meant the bucks would go lower down to find food—and lower down meant people.

Something he wasn’t interested in. Ever again.

Alone, his world was black and white, and just how he wanted it to stay. He trudged along, the bodies of the three snowshoe hares tied together. They would last him a good few days with the frozen quarter-carcass of the deer he still had on ice back at the cabin.

Plus, he had the canned supplies, and the dried fruit he’d exchanged for the wood carvings. He bartered furs and carvings for things he couldn’t grow or catch—even his beloved coffee, which he’d never quite kicked the craving for. When he could, he was hired to escort hunters. Water was plentiful because of the snow, and in eleven years, he hadn’t been at risk of starving to death.

Eleven?

He slowed, mind turning over the seasons. Yes, he had found his cave that first winter, built the small hut by the next, and had enlarged it over the next two into the cabin it was now. He remembered the last winter especially—it had marked ten years since his life had imploded. This would be one more. One moreyear to mark his existence. One more year of penance for the lives that had been lost.

He shook his head to banish the memories. He was done with what-ifs. Bitterness would kill you faster than a blizzard out here—even if on some of his worst days, he’d considered simply lying down in the snow and going to sleep for good.

He remembered when he was younger barely escaping from a bad goring by the bull they had kept. His grandad had said he was too stubborn to die even then. But—

Casimir stopped instantly, dropping his catch and darting to the side. The cave mouth was all but hidden, but he’d heard a sound. A high-pitched whine, almost. He’d made the cave impenetrable for bears, but he couldn’t stop the wolves until he barricaded it—which was why he was here. He’d needed to close it up for the winter.

But whatever it was, it could make another meal he could add to his winter menu. Moving silently, he checked for other sounds and hoped he and his prey were both alone.

He heard another whimper and huffed softly. The animal was probably injured. He would be doing it a favor—there was no way it would survive the winter. He walked slowly into the larger opening, then stopped in utter astonishment at the young man holding his spare shotgun—the one Casimir had left in the corner.

The one currently pointing at him.

For a breathless few seconds, Casimir took him in. Twenty-something, red wavy hair that fell past his shoulders, and dressed in the weirdest combination of clothes. The man gritted his teeth.

“Oh thank god, I was worried—aghh!” He didn’t get the chance to finish the sentence before he staggered a little and put his hand out for balance, promptly dropping the gun. He closed his eyes tightly and brought his other hand around to his belly.

Was that where he was injured? Not that Casimir could see any injury—because the man looked like he had about four coats on.

The man gingerly dropped to his knees and then leaned forward, bracing himself on the pile of furs and taking some shallow breaths. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and fixed his hazel gaze on Casimir. He pressed his lips together, and Casimir could see another wave of pain hitting him.

For a brief moment, Casimir was ashamed to admit—even to himself—that he was tempted to turn around and walk back out. But then, as if he’d spoken that thought aloud, the man collapsed on his side, and Casimir lunged to catch him.

Fuck.

Casimir lay him down carefully, but he was panting and still clutching his stomach.

“Where are you hurt?”

He opened his eyes. “I’m not. Not in the way you mean, anyway.”

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