Page 24 of His Loved Lycan Luna

With a cold smile, I tighten my grip on the boning knife. I twirl it between my fingers, relishing in the weight and balance of the blade. Slowly, I move closer to Mrs. Daley, the sound of her racing heartbeat filling the room. The blood from her injured hand pools at her feet, a stark reminder of the power we hold over her. With deliberate precision, I place the back of the blade against her cheek, tracing a chilling path down to her chin. Tilting her head up to meet my gaze, I hold her captive with my cold, gray eyes.

“Name or the ear goes first, then the toes, then I will de-glove your hand,” I tell her calmly, my voice laced with a dangerous edge. I have every intention of following through with my threats if she refuses to comply. The horror in her eyes tells me she knows this, too.

“Doyle Mathews,” she blurts out, her voice tinged with fear.

“And his address?” I press, my grip on the knife tightening ever so slightly.

“3 Lincoln Way,” she answers, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Any wife or children we should be aware of?” I continue, but she shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes.

“Figures a pig like that would have no family,” Liam sneers, his contempt evident in his tone.

“Go check it out and bring him back,” I command Liam. With a nod, he swiftly exits the room. When he leaves, I clean up the blood on the floor and wrap Mrs. Daley’s hand in case any of the children wake up.

Twenty minutes pass before the shrill ring of my phone pierces the silence. Pulling it from my pocket, I answer the call just as a little girl descends the stairs, rubbing her sleepy eyes. Hastily grabbing a tea towel, I discreetly cover Mrs. Daley’s wrapped hand.

“Yep,” I answer the call, watching the child as she walks down the stairs. She peers up, hearing my voice, and I wave to her before kicking the wheelchair. Mrs. Daley smiles fakery and waves to her, earning a strange look from the child, who waves briefly as she steps off the last step.

“I’ve got him, and I’m on my way back,” Liam’s voice crackles through the phone.

“The trunk?” I inquire, anticipation coursing through my veins.

“Nope, he showed me to his store. He’s tied up in the cold room,” Liam chuckles wickedly.

“Even better,” I respond, ending the call. Now it is time to focus on the little girl before me.

“What’s your name?” I ask gently, bending down to her level. She hesitates for a moment before answering.

“Kimmy, sir,” she replies, her voice filled with a mixture of shyness and curiosity. I scoop her up into my arms, holding her securely.

“Are you hungry, Kimmy? What do you usually have for breakfast?” I inquire, noting the furrow in her brows and the rumble of her empty stomach.

“We haven’t had breakfast since Abbie and Ivy left, sir. You came with the king?” she whispers into my ear, her innocent question catching me off guard. I nod solemnly,glancing at Mrs. Daley, who lowers her head in shame. A low growl escapes my throat as I redirect my attention to Kimmy. Her hair resembles a tangled haystack atop her head, some strands matted and neglected for far too long.

“What did they usually make for breakfast?” I probe gently, hoping to ease the hunger that gnaws at her small frame, that’s if any food is in this place, the cupboards looked pretty bare.

“Pancakes, but Mrs. Daley can’t get the flour from the basement. The bag is too heavy for us to lift, we did try, though,” Kimmy explains.

“Very well, I’ll fetch the flour. You go and do whatever it is you kids do in the morning,” I instruct, gently setting her back on her feet.

“Can we watch cartoons?” she asks before her eyes go to Mrs. Daley, who purses her lips.

“Yep, and make sure you turn the volume all the way up,” I tell her, just as a few more kids start rushing down.

Kimmy scampers off to join the other children. More little ones descend the stairs, their excited chatter filling the air when Kimmy tells them they are having breakfast this morning.

Within minutes, the room buzzes with activity as I make my way down to the basement. The sight that greets me is chaotic and an utter mess. Flour is spilled haphazardly across the floor, evidence of their futile attempts to scoop it out with cups. Shaking my head at their efforts, I grab a fresh, fifty-pound bag of flour and climb the steps.

Liam reenters just as I drop the bag onto the counter, his eyes widening at the sight. “What’s with the flour? Planning to batter the old hag?” he jests, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

A snort escapes me before I reply, “No, Liam, the kids are hungry.” Turning my attention back to Mrs. Daley, I ask, “When does your staff usually arrive?”

“Katrina comes in at lunch,” she responds hesitantly.

“Call her in early,” I instruct firmly. Liam hands her his phone, andshe dials the number obediently. As she carries out our orders, Liam takes it upon himself to count the number of heads in the room, determining how many pancakes would be needed.

“Who wants pancakes?” I hear him call out and all the kids cheer.

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