2. Adam

2

Adam

A dam Sullivan didn’t usually pay attention to that sort of thing—beastkin lying unconscious, possibly dead, in the back alley of this wonderful, twenty million infested inhabitants of New York City. The sight—morbid and disheartening—was a normal occurrence in this part of the world. He’d passed five or six on his way to the car from work, and he wouldn’t even bat an eye, just like everyone else. One got used to the sight. One got desensitized to that sort of shit pretty quickly no matter where one lived.

This was the current world. There were the uber-wealthy living the life of luxury with no worries, the upper middle class who had a good job and high income to afford a nice home and a few holidays a year. There were the middle class who worked nine-to-five to pay for their mortgage and bills plus feed their family, the poor who ran around and worked two to three jobs, scraping by just to make ends meet, and then there were the beastkin who had been rejected by society, forced to live in the streets and sleep in the dark alleys and went about begging for survival. That was if they weren’t put into the institute first.

Beastkin—less than one percent of the population according to the latest census—was a dying race. Many considered that a blessing. The less there were of them, the better this world would be, because apparently, they contribute very little, if any, to society. They were considered parasites, this race of humans with small animal characteristics.

Even though Adam didn’t usually pay attention to this sort of thing, tonight was different. Tonight, his gaze involuntary shifted to that shitty dark alley and he caught sight of pale hair, fox ears, a slender body in torn clothing stained with dirt, and a face—pale, despondent, and damn beautiful, which caused his heart to seize.

The man stared at the boy, mesmerized. He didn’t miss the slow, heavy way the boy was breathing either. It looked painful, like each new breath was his last. The boy had probably been beaten up severely by some street gangs, which was not unusual. Beating up beastkin in the dark streets of New York City was the gangs’ pastime.

“Please,” a soft voice came his way. “Help me.”

Adam took in a deep breath and said, “Fuck!” His feet involuntarily turned and then moved toward the alleyway. Once he was standing inches away from the fox boy, he crouched down.

He gathered the boy into his powerful arms and then lifted him up. The boy felt light. He was probably starving most of his life, which wasn’t surprising. He doubted the boy managed to feed himself regularly.

The boy gazed at him, and then he had to go and give Adam one of the loveliest smiles the man had ever received.

“Thank you,” he said weakly.

Adam didn’t reply. An impassionate expression on his face, he carried the boy out of the alleyway and into the open street where people strolled and mingled. The fact that many pairs of eyes were on him and the boy didn’t go amiss by Adam. He knew he was a sight to behold—a tall, leanly built man with a Greek godlike face that would have no problem gracing the covers of high fashion magazines or advertising posters for luxurious colognes and expensive suits, carrying a foxkin youth with striking white hair and wearing dirt-stained clothes. Shock was apparent on the many faces of those he passed.

Adam admitted his action was certainly unusual, as the normal procedure when one spotted a badly beaten-up beastkin in the street was to call the police and an ambulance and let them deal with the situation. Beastkin was a second citizen, and to stain one’s hand with them was something that people just didn’t do.

Adam ignored the looks that came his way and continued toward his car parked a block away.

He felt the boy burying his face against his chest, and he glanced down. Hurt and embarrassment played markedly on that beautiful face, and Adam noted tears lingering along the line of the thick lashes of the closed eyes. When he felt the boy going limp against him, he knew the boy had fallen unconscious, which didn’t surprise him. Adjusting the boy in his arms, he then turned a corner and entered the parking lot.

Thirty minutes later, he arrived at his luxurious penthouse in one of the most affluent neighborhoods. After pushing the door shut with his foot, he—with the unconscious fox boy in his arms—headed along the hallway into the open-plan living area where he laid the boy on the couch. Then he took off his suit jacket, threw that onto the armchair behind him and then he went down to his knees. He touched the back of his hand on the boy’s forehead.

Warm. Not hot. Good.

The boy fluttered his eyes open then, having gained his consciousness, and Adam shifted his gaze. Their eyes locked, the boy’s large and blue like the vast summer sky, while Adam’s were dark and smoky.

Adam felt something warm inside him stir as they stared at each other.

Fuck, the kid is cute.

The youth shifted his gaze away first and then licked his lips, looking around the place. He frowned as if in confusion. Turning his attention back to Adam, he asked tentatively, “You’re not taking me to the hospital?”

Adam raised a brow and retorted, “You want to be put back into the institute?”

Terror played markedly on that beautiful face. “No! Please, don’t take me back there,” the boy said softly, his voice shaky.

Adam had no doubt there were no fond memories for the boy where the institute was concerned. He had heard some horrendous stories. Bottom line, the place was not a warm home to raise beastkin children as the higher-ups advertised it to be. It was a well-known fact that the hospital, as routine practice, transferred any beastkin coming through their facility to the institute, which was why most avoided going there even if they suffered from life-threatening injuries or illnesses.

“Tell me what happened.”

The boy licked his lip again, which agitated Adam. He shifted his gaze, working on pushing away that new emotion awakening inside him. He got up and headed over to the kitchen on the other side of the room.

“I was minding my own business,” the boy said. “They beat me up, Tony and his gang. I didn’t do anything.”

“I can surmise that,” Adam said as he opened the door of a cabinet and searched inside for the first aid kit. More quietly, he added, “No, you didn’t do anything.”

No one needed to have done anything to acquire those shitheads’ attention, and once you got their attention, you were pretty much screwed.

With the first aid kit in hand, Adam returned to the boy and sat on the side of the couch.

“Take off your clothes,” he said. “I need to see your injuries.”

The boy widened his eyes for a moment, looking damned alarmed and ready to bolt. Adam could see fear radiating in those beautiful blue eyes, and he wanted to curse.

His voice gentle, he said, “I want to check your injuries. I won’t hurt you. ”

The boy stared at him for another moment and then hesitantly nodded. He shifted in his position and then motioned to lift his torn, dirt-stained sweater. His movement was slow, and Adam knew it must be painful just to move his body.

The man leaned forward, grabbed the hem of the sweater, and gently pulled it up the boy’s body and off his head.

The boy uttered, “Thanks.”

Adam didn’t reply. He ran his gaze over the boy’s body, noticing how slender he was and the numerous bruises and scratches.

He asked, “What’s your name?”

“Shiro.”

“Shiro,” Adam said. “Japanese?”

Shiro nodded. “My mom, she was a Japanese foxkin. Immigrant.”

“Dad?” Adam asked absentmindedly.

“Don’t have one,” Shiro said.

Fuck! He had just stepped on a landmine! Right, no more asking about personal information. For now, at least.

“Sorry,” he said.

“About what?”

“That I asked you about…” He sighed. “Never mind.”

Shiro frowned. “I don’t mind you asking.” He smiled then, a sad one. “But, Mom, she loved me. When she died and then they came, the institute, I was only ten then.”

“And how old are you, Shiro?” Adam asked. “I need to know because I don’t want the police to think I’ve kidnapped a beastkin child.”

His cheeks blushing crimson, Shiro said, “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m eighteen now, so I’m an adult.”

“Eighteen?” Adam asked. “You don’t look it.”

Shiro shrugged his shoulders. “They say foxkin age slow or something like that.”

Adam snorted. “Or maybe you’re just malnourished?”

“That, too,” Shiro said.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Again, Shiro shrugged. “Can’t remember. Maybe yesterday or the day before that. I don’t keep track of that sort of thing.”

Adam was, naturally, flabbergasted. No, of course no one keep track of feeding themselves, but fuck, he was lost for words.

He stood and said, “Let’s get you washed up first and then I’ll treat your wounds. After that, I’ll cook you something to eat.”

Shiro looked up at him then, his eyes large, and Adam felt something warm inside him stir, again .

“Thank you,” the boy said. “For helping me. I called out to a lot of people walking past that street, but no one came… I thought that I…” Tears welled in his eyes.

Adam rested his hand on the boy’s head and ruffled that thick, pale hair. He said, “I’ll go and get the bath ready.” Then he walked out the door.