Page 13 of Feed Your Fiends

All those notifications pinging on my phone from Beaulieu’s lost sheep. All my father’s pestering messages bombarding me for updates. All those DM’s looking for clout and a fuck because they think Elle’s gone for good.Meaningless.All of that attention is utterly worthless unless it’s coming from Elle.

My mind’s whirring, my skin itching, crawling to get back to her, and yet everyone milling around the flat are necessary steps to reclaim my living doll. Steps to give my father what he wants because it’s imperative that I do. Steps to find answers to questions that have been prodding me ever since the accident.

Soft padding followed by footsteps alerts me to the hallway where Bae’s strolling in from the back bedroom with two beasts in tow.

His wolf-dog, Zoi, immediately flies over to my discarded coat on the couch. The one I’d taken off an hour ago after returning from the hospital. He snuggles his muzzle into it, seemingly revelling in the scent. It took Bae three good tries to get him off it when I first arrived for our training session. As I watch Zoi fall in love with the jammy-rose aroma coating it, something tells me I won’t be leaving with it.

Fuck’s sake.It’s cheaper Bae just buys the damn perfume. It’s clearly both of their favourites. If I weren’t here, I know Bae would shamelessly be huffing it, too.

“So?” I ask, facing him. Before I can catch his eye, a shadow on all fours darts past me, and the metallic rattle of the rolling cage tells me that he’s crawled back inside.

Bae shakes his head hopelessly, his elbow-length jet-black hair fluttering.

Fuck.

“Out,” I command, but those eyes of spring won’t look at me even as I kick the cage and dent the bars.

“That won’t work,” Bae says, dropping to a squat and pulling kibble from his pocket. Despite the heat in the flat, he’s covered from head to toe as usual, from his black turtleneck to his dark socks. “Come.” He extends his palm, and to my surprise, the creature crawls out, bending to lick up the pieces Bae drops to the floor.

I squeeze my eyes shut in irritation. “Why the hell is he still eating kibble?”

“Training takes time. We have to deprogram him.”

“I don’t have more time,” I snap, stepping over the mess with a clack, thanks to the house slippers Bae gives every guest. If only the scratchy sound of them dragging against the hardwood was enough to itch my brain and calm my impatience as I head for the kitchen. “Zedd! Where are the wings?”

I spot Zedd’s dirty blonde head bent over the island before the rest of him comes into view. Unlike Bae, he’s shirtless save for his apron. Only the lights above the island are on, bathing him in a warm golden glow as a soft-rock love-making melody drifts from speakers hidden in the walls.

When he turns to me, his normally stoic face is laced with a mild mania that only overtakes his features whenever he’s cooking. Between his oven mitts is a wire rack with two dozen crispy wings, all neatly aligned.

“Fresh from the air fryer. Look at how evenly they browned,” he says, searching my eyes for the same amount of enthusiasm and weird eroticism.

Unfortunately for him, my dick doesn’t get hard from eating, not food, at least. But I can’t deny that it smells delicious, even if the flavour is wrong.

“Why did you make a masala glaze? I told you he likes lemon pepper.”

“I made lemon pepper. I figured it couldn’t hurt to work on my masala, too. He may like it.”

“He doesn’t have a sophisticated palate. He likes five-for-five wings and corner shop beer,” I say, storming past the island loaded with coriander, chiles, cumin, and a whole heap of other richly coloured spices.

The harsh white light of the fridge nearly blinds me, thanks to Zedd’s moody lighting, as I reach for the six-pack I’d picked up on my way over. It’s the only other thing in the fridge besides water. Not that I’m surprised. Its emptiness mirrors the rest of Bae’s flat. I bring the cans to the dining table, the only furniture in the massive living room. Zedd had set it for one.

Just as I’d hoped, those light blue-grey eyes behind the cage’s bars find me once I pop a top, and a crisp sizzle escapes the can. Bae said he needed to be familiarised with his favourites again.

“Come,” I command pouring the piss water into a glass.

He scampers over in that uncanny way, almost like an ape. I guess it’s better than all fours.

“Sit,” I gesture to the chair I’d pulled out from the table, but he doesn’t budge.

“He’s not comfortable with the furniture yet,” Bae says quietly before taking a wing from Zedd, who’d followed me. “He wasn’t allowed to use any for two years. Or so I think.”

Irritated, I watch as Bae sticks the wing below the beast’s nose. He sniffs, already salivating at the offering, but he doesn’t follow it to the plate Bae slides it on. He just stares longingly from a safe distance with those big puppy dog eyes I want to stab out with the fucking fork we still haven’t got him to use.

“Maybe he prefers drums,” Zedd says with a shrug. “I told you I should make both.”

“He only ordered flats,” I grit, my eyes flying to Bae. “Why isn’t this working? We’ve been doing positive reinforcement for days now. I’ve been buying all the shit he loved.” I’d even abstained from my beloved tank therapy where he’d spin and spin as if I were stirring a soggy teabag. I call ittea time.

“It takes time—”

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