5. Chapter Five

Cally

I’ve never been so terrified in my life. My lips are trembling and my hands are shaking as I wonder if I’m going to survive this encounter. This guy—animal? monster?—has to be well over six feet tall even without the impressive rack on his head. He threatened to kick Tater into the next county, and by the thick muscles in his thighs, I think he could do it without much effort.

Even with Tater’s teeth firmly imbedded in Sylas’s ankle, I’m convinced he could still beat me to that hole under the fence if I make a break for it.

Sylas hasn’t taken a step toward me. There’s no menace in his expression. What’s scarier than him is his threat of what the military might do.

“Are you suggesting the military might… kill me?” My voice quavered on those last two words. All my bravado and empty threats are gone.

“No. No.” He almost takes a step in my direction, then thinks better of it and stays where he is. I noticed his hairy legs before, but now I’m struck by his shiny black hooves. “The commanding officer isn’t like that. Rumor has it that if something like this happened, they would hold the trespasser in the brig until they announce the project to the public.”

Relief flies through me when he denies I’ll be killed, but then my mind does the math. If this guy ages like a human, he has to be around thirty years old. If the public doesn’t know about him—them—yet, how many more decades will it be before the project goes public and they let me loose?

The thought that I’ll be held prisoner here for the rest of my life hits me like an atomic blast. Suddenly, my knees can’t hold me up anymore. As I sink to the dirt, Sylas spans the distance in a few long strides and scoops me into his arms.

My mind stops working. I’m stunned for long moments, aware only of time ticking by and my inability to think. Then, my thoughts come back online.

What’s shocking is Tater isn’t going crazy. Maybe he senses that Sylas isn’t a threat. He’s sitting in front of us whining with concern but not attacking.

I’m in deep shit, possibly doomed to be incarcerated in the middle of Nowhere, Texas for the rest of my life, and all I can focus on is how impossibly broad Sylas’s chest is, how impossibly warm and tan his skin is, and how impossibly perfect his human face is. And I don’t know how to feel about those antlers. Or is it horns?

Out of every word in the English language, and every possible permutation of ways to string all those words into phrases and sentences, I stupidly ask, “Antlers or horns?”

Some odd combination of emotions passes across his handsome face, then his mouth settles into a small smile. “Antlers. Elk shed them every spring and regrow bigger ones. These are permanent and have stopped growing. Thank goodness.”

Maybe it was the long minutes my body was on high alert, flooded with adrenaline, but now I just want to sleep. What a ridiculous, counterintuitive urge. If all humans reacted like this, our species would be extinct by now, because I can barely keep my eyes open.

“There’s a little house nearby. I was on my way there. I’ll take you, get you some water, and we can discuss next steps.”

“Next steps,” I repeat, dreamily. I’m going to discuss next steps with elk-man. Whoops. I hope I didn’t say that out loud.