Chapter Four #2
A warm wind drifted through the open window, carrying the smell of cut grass and the honeysuckle blooming at the edge of the woods. Zeppelin closed his eyes for a moment, letting the scents ground him.
Vaughn moved toward the window, cracking it open a little more. “You need me to go back you up? Two of us could hit the place by noon. Maybe drag Bayne out by his ears if he’s being an idiot.”
Zeppelin’s nerves twisted tighter. If Bayne was high, there’d be no reasoning with him.
You had to outmuscle him, hold him down, and hope to hell you didn’t get bit in the process.
It was an ugly kind of recovery, but Zeppelin would do it a hundred times if it meant bringing his pack member home alive.
“We wait until nightfall,” Zeppelin said finally. “If he’s not back by then, we go after him.” He turned to eye his beta. “Only we’re taking the pack. Have them ready by midnight. Chase and Quinn stay behind to watch over the mates.”
Vaughn nodded, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Like a field trip. I’ll remember to pack a lunch.”
“I’m not going to assume Bayne’s using,” Zeppelin said, voice firm. “Right now, as far as we know, he’s trapped, not relapsed. Got that?”
“Got it.” Vaughn ducked out, more than likely already planning.
Zeppelin stayed by the window, watching the play of sunlight across the yard, taking in every shadow and flicker of movement. Even the squirrels paused to eye the world, as if they knew something bad was brewing over on the far side of town.
His phone buzzed again. Nothing from Bayne. Just another spam text about switching car insurance. Zeppelin deleted it then ran a hand through his beard, wishing he could shake off the feeling of helplessness.
A feeling he despised.
Muscle memory brought him back to the map spread across his bed.
He smoothed the paper, tracing the drug-house street with the edge of his finger.
Bayne’s last known location sat in a rough rectangle near the edge of the old mill district.
All the horror stories about that neighborhood came back, stories of adults who didn’t make it through the winter because they couldn’t drop their habits.
He hated this. Hated waiting. Hated picturing Bayne lying somewhere on a dirty floor, strung out or worse, eyes empty again. If so much as a scratch showed on his pack member’s skin, Zeppelin would break every bone in the dealer’s body.
Pouring himself another mug of coffee, he let the bitter heat burn a path down his throat. His hands didn’t shake. He’d had years to practice patience, but right now? Patience felt like poison.
Out in the hallway, someone dropped a toolbox. The clang echoed through the house, followed by muffled curses and a faint thud as the guy tried to catch it before it bounced down the stairs. Zeppelin cracked a smile then checked the clock for the hundredth time.
Still no word.
He dialed Bayne again, but the call went straight to voicemail. Either the drug house had a cell blocker or Bayne’s phone was busted. An even worse thought? He was knocked out cold.
None of the options eased the twisted ache in Zeppelin’s gut.
* * * *
Bayne stood outside, drawing in a deep breath, the scents of pine and motor oil tangling thick in the morning air.
He moved restlessly, flexing his fingers at his sides, muscles keyed up with a jittery energy that wouldn’t settle.
Clint’s truck sat waiting in the driveway, and Clint himself was already strolling toward the driver’s side, keys swinging loosely from his hand.
The easy way his mate moved made something flicker in Bayne’s chest, his wolf sitting up and watching with a low, attentive hum.
“I’ll drive.” Bayne held out his hand for the keys before his mate could reach the door.
“You don’t even know where you are.” Clint’s fingers curled around the key ring like Bayne would snatch them and bolt. “Or where the clinic is.”
“You’ll guide me.” Bayne didn’t budge, not an inch. If whoever had chased him through the woods last night was still pursuing him, he had to be behind the wheel. It would be the only way to get his mate out fast if things went sideways.
Clint could handle a truck just fine, but Bayne’s reflexes gave him the edge they might need.
He’d swerve into oncoming traffic or drive straight through a fence if that's what kept them alive. Clint would hesitate, follow rules, probably wave for their pursuer to pass them so his mate wouldn’t exceed the speed limit.
Besides, sitting passenger while his mate drove felt backward, like wearing shoes on the wrong feet.
Clint’s mouth opened, probably to argue about insurance or liability or some other human concern that didn’t matter when survival was on the line.
Then he seemed to reconsider, studying Bayne with those brown eyes that saw too much. After a long moment, he dropped the keys into Bayne’s palm.
“Fine, but if you scratch my paint job, you’re paying for it.”
Bayne folded himself into the driver’s seat, adjusting mirrors and finding the pedals while his mate climbed in beside him. The cab smelled like coffee grounds and dog treats, with an undertone of cleaner that probably never came out.
“Left at the stop sign,” Clint said, buckling in.
Bayne turned left before his mate finished the sentence, already seeing the route in his mind. Tree-lined street leading to Main then straight through downtown to the converted Victorian that housed the clinic. How did he know that?
“Lucky guess?” Clint’s voice carried an edge of suspicion.
“Must be.” Bayne kept his focus on the road, noting every car they passed, every pedestrian who might be watching. Nobody followed. Nobody paid them any attention at all.
Morning light slanted through the windshield, warming the cab. Clint had his window cracked, fresh air ruffling his hair. Made him look younger, less exhausted. Bayne’s fingers itched to reach over, smooth down that wayward piece sticking up at the back.
“Right at the light,” Clint said.
Again, Bayne was already signaling before the words came out.
Downtown spread before them, brick buildings and hanging flower baskets trying their best to look quaint.
Cyril’s Café on the corner had a line out the door.
The hardware store next to it displayed wheelbarrows and garden hoses like trophies.
“You’ve been here before.” Not a question from Clint this time.
Have I? Bayne searched the blank spaces but found nothing but fog. “I’m not sure.”
“Recent head trauma does weird things to memory.” Clint’s clinical tone didn’t quite hide his curiosity. “Sometimes people lose days. Sometimes they lose years. Sometimes they just lose random pieces, like their phone number but not their address.”
“What about losing everything except how to annoy veterinarians?”
“That’s a new one. I’ll add it to the medical journals.” Clint pointed ahead. “Blue house on the right. Park anywhere.”
Bayne pulled into the small lot beside a Victorian that had been painted the color of a robin’s egg. White trim made it look like a wedding cake, and a sign out front proclaimed Crimson Hollow Veterinary Clinic in cheerful script. Picket fence and everything. All it needed was a rainbow.
Inside, the clinic smelled like every vet’s office ever. Wet dog, disinfectant, and fear-sweat from a dozen different species. A woman behind the counter, maybe in her early fifties, looked up from her computer, did a double-take at Bayne, then tried to pretend she hadn’t.
“Janet, this is Bayne. He’s helping out today.” Clint moved past the desk like he hadn’t noticed his secretary’s reaction. “Bayne, Janet runs this place. I just pretend to be in charge.”
Janet’s eyes traveled from Bayne’s too-tight shirt to his face and back again. “Nice to meet you.” Her smile suggested she had about forty questions but was too professional to ask them. “Dillan’s in back with the Pomeranian.”
She was probably thinking about Clint’s plumber excuse and deciding Bayne was the cause of it. She wouldn’t be wrong.
“The one that ate the sock?” Clint was already moving toward the exam rooms.
“Different Pomeranian. This one ate rubber bands,” Janet called out, her blue eyes twinkling.
“Why do they all eat things?” Clint muttered, then glanced back at Bayne.
“Coming?”
I wish. Watching his mate’s ass had Bayne half-hard and ready to bend the vet over the nearest exam table. Who knew scrubs could be considered sexy lingerie? The pants made Clint’s ass look plump and inviting.
Bayne followed Clint down the hallway, past walls covered in photos of animals and thank-you cards from grateful owners. They ended up at a room right next to the EXIT sign. Inside, a guy who couldn’t be older than twenty-five was trying to calm a vibrating ball of orange fur.
“Dillan, Bayne. Bayne, Dillan.” Clint washed his hands at the tiny sink. “How’s Princess Butterscotch?”
“Anxious. As usual.” Dillan’s attention locked onto Bayne like a tractor beam, though he tried to play it off by focusing very hard on the Pomeranian’s chart. “Is he your…friend?”
“He’s helping out.” Clint dried his hands with those rough brown paper towels that never actually absorbed anything. “Can you prep exam room two? Mrs. Chen will be here soon with her rabbit.”
Dillan left, still shooting glances at Bayne like he was trying to solve a puzzle.
“They’re going to talk,” his mate said once Dillan was gone. “Janet’s probably already texting everyone she knows.”
“About what? My terrible fashion sense?” Bayne plucked at the shirt that was slowly cutting off circulation to his arms.
“About me showing up with a random guy who looks like he could lift the x-ray machine with one hand.” Clint’s ears had gone pink. Interesting. “This is a small town. By noon, everyone will think we’re…you know.”
“Fucking?”
Clint dropped a thermometer. It clattered across the floor and rolled under the cabinet. “Jesus. Yes. That.”
While his mate retrieved the thermometer, Bayne examined the Pomeranian, who had stopped vibrating long enough to sniff his hand.
Most dogs either loved him or wanted to tear his throat out. No middle ground. This one apparently voted for love, turning into a puddle of orange fluff the moment he scratched behind her ears.
“Huh.” Clint straightened, thermometer in hand. “She usually hates everyone except her owner.”
“She senses my wolf.” Bayne kept scratching, finding the spot that made Princess Butterscotch’s back leg kick. “You like that, girl?”
Room two housed a rabbit the size of a throw pillow, gray and white with eyes like black marbles. Its owner, Mrs. Chen, clutched the carrier like it held nuclear codes while explaining in rapid Mandarin-accented English about sneezing and appetite loss.
“Let me take a look.” Clint’s hands were gentle as he lifted the rabbit, checking eyes and nose with practiced efficiency.
Bayne stood back, trying not to take up too much space in the cramped room. Easy enough until the rabbit caught his scent. Its whole body went rigid, nose twitching so fast it blurred.
“It’s okay, Mochi.” Mrs. Chen reached for her pet, but the rabbit was already scrambling, claws scrabbling against Clint’s arms. “What’s wrong with him?”
“He smells my wolf,” Bayne said without thinking then glanced at Mrs. Chen. “My pet wolf…at home. He stays in the backyard…in a huge doghouse.”
Clint shot him a look that could’ve meant anything from
“stop talking” to “what the hell,” but his hands never stopped soothing the rabbit. “Some animals are more sensitive than others. Bayne, maybe wait outside? It seems your backyard wolf is scaring Mochi.”
Right. Normal people didn’t announce they were shifters to random pet owners. Bayne stepped into the hallway, catching Mrs. Chen’s suspicious look as he left. Great. Now she probably thought he’d rolled in roadkill or something.
Through the door, he heard Clint’s voice, calm and reassuring, explaining about respiratory infections and antibiotics. The man had good hands. Steady. The kind that could stitch up a wolf in the middle of the night without shaking.
Three more patients came through. A cat with a urinary infection, who hissed at Bayne from across the room, a golden retriever who tried to climb into his lap despite weighing ninety pounds, and a hamster that Clint warned him not to handle.
“Why?” Bayne peered into the small carrier where a ball of brown fur huddled in cedar shavings.
“Because Mr. Whiskers is Satan incarnate.” Clint pulled on thick gloves that went up to his elbows. “Last time, he bit through Janet’s thumbnail.”
Bayne rolled his eyes. “It’s just a hamster.”
“Famous last words.”
Clint reached into the carrier. The hamster launched itself at his hand like a furry missile, teeth bared. Even through the gloves, Clint winced. “See? Satan.”
“Let me try.” Before Clint could protest, Bayne stuck his unprotected hand into the carrier.
Mr. Whiskers froze, tiny nose twitching. Then, instead of attacking, he sniffed Bayne’s finger with interest. The hamster’s whiskers tickled against his skin, tiny feet padding across his palm as it explored.
“Are you kidding me?” Clint stared as Mr. Whiskers settled into Bayne’s cupped hands like they were old friends. “That thing has drawn blood from every employee in this building.”
“Guess he likes me.” Bayne lifted the hamster to eye level. Tiny black eyes stared back, oddly intelligent for something that looked like a dust bunny with feet. “Or he recognizes an apex predator and knows better than to—”
Teeth sank into his index finger. Not a nibble. A full commitment to violence that had Bayne jerking his hand back while the hamster dangled by its jaws like a fuzzy piranha.
“Shit!” He shook his hand. Mr. Whiskers held on, presumably out of spite.
Clint’s laugh started as a snort and evolved into something that shook his whole body. “Apex predator, huh?”
“Get it off!” Blood welled around the hamster’s teeth. His wolf took notice but went back to salivating over Clint. The bite hurt like hell. Who knew hamsters were so vicious?
Still laughing, Clint grabbed the hamster’s scruff, gently working its jaws open. “An apex predator should’ve known better than to trust anything that stores food in its cheeks.”
Mr. Whiskers released Bayne’s finger with obvious reluctance, leaving two perfect puncture marks. The hamster looked smug as Clint placed it back in the carrier, as if it had proven some important point about the food chain.
“You need a bandage.” Clint was trying to look serious, but his mouth kept twitching. “Can’t have you bleeding all over my exam room.”
“I’m fine.” Bayne sucked on his finger, tasting copper. Hell if he was admitting he got punked by a hamster. “It’s not even bleeding.”
“Humor me.” Clint pulled him to the sink, running warm water over the bite. His thumb pressed against Bayne’s palm, steadying his hand, and that simple touch sent heat racing up Bayne’s arm.
Standing this close, Bayne could smell everything.
Coffee on his mate’s breath, the lavender detergent from his shirt, and, underneath it all, something warm and purely him.
Like cedar and rain and home all mixed together.
His wolf wanted to lean in, to bury his nose in the curve of Clint’s neck, and just breathe.
“There.” Clint wrapped a bandage around his finger with unnecessary care. “Try not to stick your hand in any more cages, Dr. Dolittle.”
Lightning. White-hot and blinding, branching across darkness like cracks in black glass. Someone screaming. No, growling. A distorted voice, like it was coming through water. Eyes that burned without glowing, full of rage and—
“Bayne?”
He blinked. Clint was looking at him with concern.
Bayne cleared his throat and smiled. “Next patient?”
Clint didn’t seem convinced that he was okay.
Neither was Bayne.
Whatever had hunted him last night wasn’t finished. He could feel it in his bones, that creeping certainty that comes from prey instinct. But here, in this too-bright clinic with Clint making jokes about hamster-induced warfare, he could pretend otherwise.
“Next room’s a bearded dragon,” Clint said, already moving. “Fair warning, he likes to pee on people.”
“Fantastic.” Bayne followed, keeping his voice light. “Living the dream.”
“Could be worse. Last week someone brought in a python that had eaten their neighbor’s chicken. Still had feathers sticking out of its mouth.”
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of fur and scales and Clint’s running commentary about each patient.
Bayne found himself relaxing in spite of the lingering unease, drawn into the rhythm of the work.
Clint moved with confidence here, hands sure and gentle, voice soothing even the most anxious animals.
And every time their fingers brushed—passing instruments, handling carriers, reaching for the same supplies—heat flared between them.
Clint would flush, just slightly, and look away.
Bayne would pretend not to notice, even as his wolf pushed closer to the surface, wanting more contact, more of his mate’s scent.
By noon, they’d seen fifteen patients. Bayne had been peed on twice, scratched by a parrot, and somehow ended up covered in what he hoped was just drool from a very enthusiastic Saint Bernard.
“Lunch?” Clint asked, pulling off his lab coat. Underneath, his scrubs were rumpled and stained with various substances Bayne didn’t want to identify.
“You buying?”
“After all the free labor? Absolutely.” Clint grabbed his keys from the desk, waving to Janet as they passed. “Back in an hour.”
Outside, the afternoon had grown warm, heat radiating off the asphalt. Bayne automatically scanned the parking lot, checking shadows and sightlines, before following Clint to the truck.
“You do that a lot,” Clint observed. “The scanning thing.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation would that be, exactly?”
Bayne wanted to answer. Wanted to give his mate something real, something that would explain why he knew these streets and why danger felt like it was breathing down his neck.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Just empty space where memories should be.
“I’ll let you know when I remember,” he finally said, wondering if it would ever happen or if he was stuck like this.
Clint studied him for a long moment then nodded. “Fair enough. But wherever we’re going for lunch, you’re not allowed to turn so many heads. I’ve had enough excitement for one week.”
“I make no such promises.” Bayne climbed into the passenger seat this time, letting Clint take the wheel. “Hopefully they have decent food. I’m starving.”
“Hash it Out has some pretty amazing food,” Clint replied.
Bayne was only half listening, too focused on his mate again. If the guy kept walking in front of him when they were in the clinic, the rest of Bayne’s day was going to be pure torture.