Why had he reverted to his wild persona as soon as he’d spotted Ken? Although he’d come here to his sanctuary for some precious time alone to commune with nature, he’d lived among people for a few years now. He had an education. He even owned a company. But when he’d found Ken bruised and bleeding, all he’d wanted was to take him back to his cave. He’d looked at the fine bones of Ken’s face, at the black marks marring his golden skin, and he’d needed to keep him safe. Wylde knelt, picking up fresh kindling for his small fire from the forest floor. His first years had been ordinary, boring. He’d been Steven Butler, who lived with his grandfather high on a mountain in the dense woods of the Pacific Northwest. The old man had been something of a recluse, so he’d kept Steven isolated; but they’d had a good life, and he’d been taught how to fish, what berries in season were safe to eat, how to live off the land. Then one terrible day the old man had grabbed his arm, falling… and Steven was too young, too alone to process his death.
