Page 14 of Bred By the Minotaur (DreamTogether Breeding Program #3)

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in what feels like months, though I know it hasn’t been that long. The couch digs into my side and my back at all sorts of uncomfortable angles no matter how I lie down or how many blankets I put on it first.

Work has been hell since I went back, too. After losing all my files, I feel like I never have the thing I need at hand, and I’m constantly behind. Finally, I have to tell my boss that I’m going down to four days a week, because I’m just too... tired.

Tired. All the time, and not just because of the lack of sleep.

I feel like I’m always being pulled in ten directions at once, trying to pick up the scattered bits of my life and put them together into something resembling familiar.

There’s insurance to deal with constantly, and I’m already racking up credit card debt.

Replacing all of our paperwork has been a nightmare.

Sandra tries to help, but she doesn’t understand the bureaucracy any better than I do.

Sometimes I cry after a bad phone call, and she has to put down her knitting to hug me.

At least she’s forgiven me for what I said. But we’ve always been good at that, as sisters—sure, we’ve hurt each other, but we’ve also learned that we’re all each other has. At the end of the day, it’s just us, trying to survive.

And still, we get on each other’s nerves. The house is too small and each of our personalities is too big to fit inside it. Every night on the couch, I think about Hank and Milo, wishing I was there instead.

Fuck. I never should have gone in for pizza that night, seen their cute house, seen how sweetly and wonderfully they interact. It’s obvious how much Hank loves that little kid. If I’d had a dad like Hank... things would be different. Maybe I would have had a good example.

But even in our foster home, we never really had a “parent.” In our second family, Clarissa was nice enough, but always kept us at arm’s length. She didn’t want to get attached to us in case we were moved, and we felt the same way.

Milo is a lucky kid, and he deserves people in his life who can give him that kind of undivided attention and love. I am not that person.

And I can’t lose my job at DreamTogether, especially now.

I haven’t heard from Hank since that night, just like I asked.

Still, it sucks. I wish I could hear his deep voice again.

I take out the phone he gave me and look him up after I’ve turned out all the lights, staring at that photo of him in the orange pants, which now I know is from a calendar the fire station did for a charity event.

Explains the topless minotaur.

What would it be like to look into his face while we have sex? This thought occurs to me frequently late at night, and I’ve masturbated more times than I can count just to that picture.

But my decision not to involve myself with Hank only becomes surer when Sandra takes a turn.

These happen sometimes, periods of time where everything is worse, and then she can’t get up at all.

I work in the living room, listening for her call in case she needs help.

We’ve scheduled doctor’s appointments, but they’re going to say what they always say: they don’t know what’s causing it, and they have no answers.

It’s about nine o’clock one night, and I’m trying to finish an illustration that’s due tomorrow when I get a call from an unrecognized number.

“Hello?” a frantic voice on the other end says, before I can even utter a greeting.

“Hello, this is Phoebe.”

“You’re Milo’s emergency contact?” The woman on the other end sounds like she’s losing it. “Because he’s really sick and he’s freaking out. I tried to call his dad, but Hank’s phone is off?—”

“Emergency contact?” I’m trying to think of when Hank ever asked me about that.

“Yes,” the woman says. “Your name was on the fridge. Milo won’t listen to me. He’s babbling nonsense, and I don’t know what to do.”

I run to the front door and look outside, and sure enough, down the block, someone is standing outside Hank and Milo’s house, a hand in her hair as she talks to me on the phone.

If Hank is at work, and Milo’s having a crisis...

Fuck.

“I’ll be right there,” I tell her, and hang up.

Hank

It’s been a long, long day.

I’m already exhausted when the alarm goes off a second time, and we all jump into the truck to respond to the call. When we arrive, a woman is on the front lawn on her knees, sobbing. Two of her neighbors, an elderly couple, are holding her back from running into the building.

After hearing there are still two children inside, Ron and I move as one. I bludgeon down the door, and he rushes past me. He sprints up the stairs straight into the flames, while I charge down the downstairs hallway.

I hear screaming through an open doorway. Inside, a human boy is curled up in his bed.

I sweep him off it in one motion, taking the blanket with me so I can throw it over him.

“Cover your eyes,” I tell him, then wrap my arms all the way around his little body and charge back out the door.

Ron is successful in bringing down the older girl who lived there, too, but she has minor burns and injuries from smoke inhalation. We stand with them and their mother as the ambulance pulls up.

By the time we’re back at the station and I can check my phone again, it’s been nearly four hours.

“Hi, Hank, it’s Phoebe,” my voicemail says, and I stop in my tracks. Her voice is eerily calm. “I’m with Milo right now. He’s fine. Please call me back when you can.”

I play the next voicemail. “Hank! It’s Janelle, and Milo is... he’s really upset. He’s sweating and throwing up, and I don’t know what to do?—”

I hear Milo in the background crying, and all the hair on my body stands on end.

Wait. Think. It takes a moment before I understand this turn of events. Phoebe’s message is last—which means that for whatever reason, the sitter called Phoebe to come help.

After throwing my gear in my locker, I’m still tugging on my shirt when I rush out of the station and get in the car.

Milo.