“The Foxes Are All I Have”

When Neil arrives, he takes one look at Jean's face and his expression drops the false amicable facade it had been wearing. "I thought this was the team of pacifists," he says in French that sounds different from what Jeremy's learned. "Wanna tell me what happened to you?" Jeremy opens the door wider, to invite him in, but Neil steps back, giving Jeremy a critical look. It feels like a warning, and Jeremy gets the feeling Neil thinks he might be responsible for Jean's injuries. Before he can defend himself, Jean speaks. "You could have come at a better time," Jean answers grimly, also speaking differently than both Jeremy or Neil, but clearly they can both understand him, because Neil shrugs.

The back lounge is empty. Jean steers Nathaniel, dead on his feet, to the leather couch. He gives him a light push and Nathaniel barely makes it to the seat before he collapses on the cushion, curling in on himself. He needs to eat, but that's taken away, too, as punishment.

Jean squats on the floor in front of him. He smells like nothing but sweat and bruises and the other alphas. He smells most like Riko. Jean does not want to think about why.

"Only one hour," Jean tells him, holding up a finger. Nathaniel's eyes struggle to focus. "Any longer and the others will notice."

Despite wanting to be anywhere else, Jean lowers himself to the floor and sits with his back to the couch. When Nathaniel's breathing evens out, he puffs little sighs of air against the back of Jean's neck.

How anyone can look at Nathaniel and see anything other than a cub in need of protecting, Jean will never know. They treat him as if he is not even human. Jean's stomach aches with each new bruise that blossoms over Nathaniel's skin.

Anger and hatred boil in his chest. He had been promised a partner. He had been promised an alpha. Jean looks over his shoulder. Nathaniel's brown face is sallow and bruised. His eyes are sunken in. He's almost nothing at all.

Jean twists where he's sat, pulling one knee up against his chest, facing Nathaniel completely. His lashes up close are blood red, splayed across the barely-there freckels on his cheeks.

Jean lifts on finger. He traces it across the bridge of Nathaniel's nose. It's crooked, a little, like it's been broken more than once. He doesn't stir.