Chapter Six #2
But the coyote could’ve been lying. He could’ve sold the “hard stuff” to Bayne. Maybe that was the reason Bayne hadn’t reached out to Zeppelin.
“Burn it.”
His pack moved without question. Gasoline from the generator outside splashed across walls and furniture. The unconscious strangers were dragged out and left on the lawn. They’d wake up to find their operation in ashes and their boss dead.
Message delivered.
Sloane lit the match. Flames caught immediately, racing along gasoline trails, consuming cheap furniture and drug residue with equal hunger. Smoke billowed out through broken windows, black and acrid.
Outside, standing far enough back to avoid the heat, Zeppelin stared at the inferno and tried to piece together what had happened. Bayne had been here, had fought his way out, had run east toward the forest. Injured, probably. Scared, definitely.
But alive. He had to be alive.
“We’ll find him,” Vaughn said quietly beside him.
Zeppelin nodded, not trusting his voice. The forest stretched for miles in that direction, dense and dark. Bayne could be anywhere, could’ve shifted and kept running, could be lying hurt somewhere, waiting for help that might never come.
Or he could be dead, body hidden under leaves and fallen branches, another casualty of this town’s growing drug problem.
No. Zeppelin refused to consider that possibility. Bayne was tough, a survivor. He’d made it through addiction, through the hell that had driven him to their pack in the first place. A few drug dealers wouldn’t be enough to take him down.
But as the house collapsed in on itself, sending sparks spiraling into the dark sky, Zeppelin couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Bayne should’ve found a way to contact them by now. Should’ve made it back or at least sent word that he was okay.
Unless he couldn’t.
Unless something else had found him in those woods, something worse than drug dealers with delusions of grandeur.
The fire crackled and roared, eating through wood and plaster with mindless hunger. Around him, his pack stood silent, waiting for orders. Good men, loyal men.
“Spread out,” Zeppelin finally said, voice rough from smoke and emotion. “Search the forest. Check the roads, the ditches, anywhere someone injured might hole up. And check the hospitals, the clinics, even the veterinary office. If Bayne’s hurt, he might’ve gone for help.”
They dispersed without question, shifting and disappearing into the darkness beyond the fire’s light. Only Vaughn remained, studying Zeppelin with those too-knowing eyes.
“You think he’s still alive?”
“He has to be.” The alternative was unacceptable. Zeppelin had already lost too much, sacrificed too much building this pack and keeping it safe. Losing Bayne now, like this, would break something inside him that might never heal.
Vaughn’s hand landed on his shoulder, brief but solid. “Then we’ll find him.”
As his beta took off into the darkness, Zeppelin remained by the burning house, watching flames devour the drugs and feeling the weight of leadership crushing his shoulders.
Somewhere out there, Bayne was either running, hiding, or dying. And Zeppelin had sent him into this mess, had approved the mission that might’ve gotten him killed.
The guilt tasted like ash in his mouth.
* * * *
The morning grew warm through the exam room windows as Bayne worked alongside Clint, handing over instruments before his mate had to ask.
A diabetic dachshund whined on the table while Clint drew blood, and Bayne found himself leaning closer than necessary, breathing in that mix of coffee and lavender that clung to Clint’s scrubs
“Can you hold her head?” his mate asked, not looking up from the syringe.
Instead of moving to the dog’s head, Bayne reached around Clint from behind, caging him against the table while steadying the dachshund. His mate’s breath hitched, shoulders tensing under the proximity.
“Like this?” Bayne murmured near Clint’s ear, enjoying the way color crept up his mate’s neck.
“That’s…yeah. Fine.” Clint’s hands stayed remarkably steady as he finished drawing blood, but Bayne caught the way his pulse jumped in his throat.
After the dachshund’s owner collected her dog with profuse thanks, they moved on to a guinea pig with overgrown teeth.
Bayne watched Clint’s fingers work with the tiny clippers, precise and careful.
Every movement drew his attention—the way Clint’s forearms flexed, how he bit his lower lip in concentration.
“You’re staring,” Clint said without looking up.
“Just learning.” Bayne shifted closer, his thigh pressing against Clint’s hip. “Very educational.”
Red bloomed across Clint’s cheeks, but he kept trimming the guinea pig’s teeth with methodical precision. “There’s nothing educational about watching me clip rodent teeth.”
“Depends on your perspective.” Bayne let his hand brush Clint’s lower back as he reached for gauze, feeling the way his mate’s breath caught.
Next came a parrot with a respiratory infection, squawking loud enough to make Bayne’s ears ring.
While Clint listened to its breathing with a tiny stethoscope, Bayne found himself studying the curve of his mate’s neck, the way morning light caught in his hair.
His wolf pushed closer to the surface, wanting to mark, to claim, to make it clear to everyone that this human belonged to him.
Not yet. Too soon. But god, the urge pulled at him like gravity.
Between patients, they cleaned the exam room together.
Bayne made sure their hands touched when passing supplies, stood close enough that Clint had to squeeze past him to reach the sink.
Each contact sent heat through him, and judging by the way Clint’s breathing kept going uneven, his mate felt it too.
“Next one’s a mastiff,” Clint said, checking his schedule. “Possible hip dysplasia.”
Working with the massive dog required both of them to position it for x-rays. Bayne ended up pressed against Clint’s back, arms around him to hold the dog steady. His mate’s scent filled his lungs, soap and sweat and something uniquely him that made Bayne’s wolf pace restlessly.
“Stop that,” Clint muttered, but his voice had gone rough.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re doing. The breathing thing.”
Bayne chuckled. “I have to breathe, Doc.”
“Not like that. Not all…” Clint gestured vaguely behind him where Bayne’s body pressed against his.
Before Bayne could respond with something that would make his mate blush harder, his wolf went rigid. Every instinct screamed danger, hackles rising even in human form.
Something felt wrong. The air had changed, carrying a scent that made his muscles coil tight. He petted the dog’s head when the mastiff began to whine.
“What is it?” Clint asked, immediately picking up on his tension.
Bayne tilted his head, listening. Focusing. A wolf scent drifted from the front of the clinic. Not just any wolf. Shifter. The undernotes of pine and earth…
Every muscle in Bayne’s body locked tight. His wolf surged forward, not quite breaking through but close enough to make his vision sharpen and his hearing expand. Footsteps in the front reception area. Heavy. Male. Janet’s voice, confused and questioning.
Moving on silent feet, Bayne crept down the hallway toward the front desk, keeping to the wall. The new scent grew stronger with each step.
He pressed himself against the doorframe, angled so he could see the front desk without being spotted.
A man stood at Janet’s desk. Mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair cut short, shoulders that filled out his leather jacket. Everything about his posture screamed predator trying to look casual and failing.
Memory tried to surface but slipped away like water through his fingers.
“Like I said, I’m looking for my dog.” The stranger’s voice was all charm. “Got loose a couple nights ago during that storm.”
Janet’s fingers hovered over her keyboard. “We haven’t had any strays brought in this week. What breed did you say?”
“Didn’t say.” The man leaned forward, giving Janet a smile. “Big dog. Black fur. If he’s injured someone might’ve brought him in two nights ago.”
Two nights ago. When Bayne had shown up bleeding on Clint’s lawn.
His pulse hammered. This wolf knew something. Knew Bayne had been injured, knew approximately when, knew to check veterinary clinics. But was he a friend trying to find him? Or was he one of the ones who’d put those marks on Bayne’s body in the first place?
The blank spaces in his memory felt like missing teeth, painful gaps where answers should be.
“A dog that size would be hard to miss,” Janet said, fingers moving over her keyboard. “Let me check our overnight emergency logs. Though usually injured strays go to the animal hospital across town first.”
“Already checked there.” The stranger’s weight shifted, boots scraping linoleum. “Someone said this vet takes in strays sometimes. He lives outside town, right? Maybe someone brought my dog straight to his house.”
Ice flooded Bayne’s body. This wolf was fishing for information about Clint. About where he lived.
Janet’s expression shifted to something protective. “Dr. Sullivan doesn’t give out his home address. If your dog shows up, we’ll call you. Do you want to leave your number?”
Clint’s last name was Sullivan? Maybe Bayne should get to know his mate a little better.
“That’s fine.” The stranger’s attention shifted, head tilting slightly. Scenting the air.
Bayne pressed harder against the wall, controlling his breathing. If this wolf caught his scent, recognized him from that night…
“Actually,” the guy said slowly, “is the doctor in today? Maybe I could describe my dog to him directly. He might remember something.”
“He’s with patients.” Janet’s tone had gone from helpful to suspicious. “All booked up through the afternoon.”
The wolf’s nostrils flared. His head turned toward the hallway where Bayne hid. Recognition flickered across his features, there and gone in an instant but enough to confirm Bayne’s worst suspicion.
This was one of them. One of the ones who’d hunted him through the forest.
Bayne backed away slowly, every movement controlled. His mate stood in the exam room doorway, watching with obvious concern.
“We need to go,” Bayne said, voice low and urgent. “Get your tech to take care of the mastiff.”
“What? I have three more appointments—”
“Now, Clint.” Something in his tone must’ve conveyed the seriousness because Clint’s arguments died. “Back door. Quietly.”
After Clint asked Dillan to finish up with the patient, he grabbed his keys and wallet from the counter, shooting Bayne worried looks. “What’s going on?”
“There’s someone up front asking about a dog.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Clint asked.
Bayne glanced at his mate. “They described my wolf to a T.”
Understanding dawned in Clint’s brown eyes, followed quickly by the kind of fear that made Bayne’s wolf want to tear apart whoever had caused it. But his mate didn’t argue further.