Chapter Seven
Clint kept his head down, heart thundering in his throat as Bayne hustled him out the back of the clinic. Every instinct screamed that danger might be lurking around any corner, and the urge to look over his shoulder didn’t let up until he caught the first hint of light from the parking lot.
They weren’t running, exactly, but the pace was closer to a fast march than anything casual. Bayne’s hand hovered near Clint’s lower back, guiding and blocking at the same time.
Distant traffic rumbled on Main. Some bird was hollering insults from the power lines beside the parking lot, and the sun glared off his windshield like it wanted to fry his retinas.
They were two steps from the truck when a shadow peeled off from the front of the building. A guy rounded the corner like he’d been waiting to ambush them but was pretty damn casual about it.
Bayne set himself right in front of Clint, practically blocking out the sun. The move was so smooth it must’ve been muscle memory, because Bayne didn’t take his eyes off the stranger.
A sound ripped from Bayne’s throat, low and even, a warning meant to stop you dead in your tracks. He widened his stance, forcing Clint back against the side of the truck.
The stranger raised his hands, all non-threatening, which was a hell of a trick considering his size and the fact that he was blocking their only exit like some bouncer or the final boss in a video game.
Tall, built like he’d been carved out of wood and protein shakes, the guy wore jeans and a leather jacket that looked too small for his biceps.
Sun beat down, making sweat pop along the back of Clint’s neck. The truck’s metal heated up so fast he half expected a sizzle if he touched the handle. Odd how those details stuck out, even with the threat standing twenty feet away.
Not what Clint expected, honestly. There was an intensity about the way he moved, like he could stop breathing and still keep going out of sheer willpower. Maybe that was typical for shifters. Clint wasn’t exactly an expert.
The stranger’s eyes flicked to Bayne before glancing at Clint. He held up both hands, palms out, voice smooth. “I don’t want trouble.”
Bayne bared his teeth. “Then keep walking.”
If the situation hadn’t been so loaded, Clint would’ve handed out awards for sheer balls. The guy didn’t even flinch.
Instead, he said, “Name’s Vaughn.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Bayne said.
“Look, I get it,” Vaughn said, hands still up, gaze fixed on Bayne. “You clearly don’t remember. But I’m not here to hurt you.”
Sure. That’s what all the best murderers say right before they start swinging.
“Could’ve fooled me.” Bayne shifted, blocking more of Clint with his body. “You keep following us, I’ll drop you in the parking lot and let the crows clean up.”
Something flickered in Vaughn’s eyes. A pinch of pain, real and raw. It vanished so fast Clint wondered if he’d imagined it. “Seventy years together and you threaten to let the crows have me. Nice.”
Bayne, undeterred, took a step forward. “You’re not my friend. You’re not my anything. Turn around and leave, or I won’t just threaten. I’m not interested in your little reunion speech, and you get any closer, your new name will be corpse.”
That did it. Got Vaughn to drop the mellow act, at least. For a heartbeat, air shimmered with some wild energy, the way it did right before a fight broke out between two angry tomcats in an alley.
Clint’s fingers tingled around the key fob. Definitely not scared. Just, you know, bracing for sudden cardiac arrest.
“You really don’t remember me,” Vaughn said, like he was talking to himself, or whatever deity managed the “are you kidding me” hotline for supernatural drama.
Bayne just glared at him. “Not gonna say it again.”
Vaughn’s smile went brittle. “All right. But I’m not walking away because you say so. I owe Zeppelin. And I owe you, brother, even if your brain’s scrambled eggs right now.”
“Not interested in your IOUs.” Bayne’s shoulders tensed. “My mate is standing behind me, which means you’re a threat. If you don’t back away, you’ll regret it.”
Oh, sure. Just drop that word at random. Mate. Clint blinked. Twice. Then decided to file a complaint with whoever was in charge of information sharing, because apparently “mate” was a big deal, and someone, namely Bayne, had decided not to bother mentioning that detail.
Vaughn actually looked…pained, for a second.
Like someone had cut him straight through the ribs.
“Three nights ago, Bayne. Zeppelin sent you to do recon on the drug house by the mill. You didn’t come back.
That’s why I’m here. You belong to Zeppelin Mafari’s pack, and your name is Bayne Farina. We’ve been packmates for decades.”
Clint looked at Bayne, who didn’t even twitch. For someone who’d allegedly shared seventy years with this guy, he didn’t have so much as a “hey, you seem familiar” to offer.
Whispers never worked in movies, but he tried anyway. “Bayne…maybe we should listen. He seems like he’s telling the truth.”
Bayne shook his head. “It’s possible to find out things, even if you’re an enemy. You just need enough motive. Step toward us and you die.”
Vaughn’s eyes narrowed. “Fine, but you’d better believe Zeppelin will keep looking. The pack will. They care about you, Bayne, even if you don’t remember it. You’re not alone. And your mate? Don’t worry, I’m not looking to start something with him. We’re just here to help.”
Mate. There it was again. Clint wanted to pause the scene and call for a time-out. Maybe grab the dictionary. “Mate,” as in…partner? Soulmate? Homicidal life partner?
Bayne didn’t give Vaughn another look. He motioned for Clint, who managed not to drop his keys from sweaty hands, and hustled him into the truck. The doors closed with a muted thud. Bayne’s hands choked the steering wheel like it owed him money.
No one said anything for a minute.
Out in the parking lot, Vaughn just stood there, hands at his sides, not moving.
Just watching with an expression on his face that no one in any veterinary medicine textbook had ever warned Clint about.
Hurt, resignation, hope, and a truckload of other feelings, all mashed together like someone had given his emotions a blender and no instructions.
Bayne didn’t look back. He slammed the truck into gear, a little harder than necessary, and had them peeling out of the lot before Clint could swipe his own sweat off his brow.
When normal humans had a bad day at work, it usually involved spilled coffee or a missing stapler. Not bare-knuckle threats in the parking lot with someone claiming to be your wolf’s long-lost brother-in-arms.
“So…” Clint ventured, picking words out of the horror show in his skull. “That, uh…that was intense.”
Bayne didn’t say anything at first. His jaw worked, like he was chewing tough steak and blaming the chef. Finally. “He was lying.”
“About all of it?”
Bayne’s fingers flexed on the wheel, tendons jumping. “Enemies will feed you any story if it gets them what they want. If there’s a real Zeppelin, he’ll come to me personally, not send one of his goons.”
It didn’t seem right. The scene outside—the way Vaughn’s face had registered Bayne’s refusal, the regret, the way his hands shook and then steadied—stuck with Clint. The guy hadn’t even postured, hadn’t lunged or barked orders. He’d just tried to be heard, and it didn’t land.
Clint remembered the way animals acted when you cut them too deep or left a bandage on too long. That look of betrayal and baffled pain. Vaughn had worn it, for a moment, before putting his mask back on.
“You ever get the feeling,” Clint said, staring out at the trees flying by, “that you’re missing something huge and everyone else already knows the rules?”
Bayne just grunted, which was an improvement over more threats of murder.
The drive settled into silence. Neither of them had much to say, and for once, Mabel wasn’t available to break the tension with a well-timed furball on the carpet.
“About this mate thing,” Clint tried, “is that, like, being married? Or is it just a shifter word for ‘dating’ and I’m reading too much into it?”
Bayne’s hands tensed on the steering wheel.
He looked as if he’d rather have the truck catch fire than have this conversation.
“It’s not like marriage. It’s more. Permanent.
If a shifter meets his mate, that’s it. It’s instinct, locked in.
His whole life changes, and it doesn’t matter what came before. ”
So, no pressure.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t leave,” Bayne added, his voice hoarse, “especially if it’s not what you want. It means you’re the only thing that matters. You feel it in your bones.”
“You said bones,” Clint pointed out. “Not spine, not chest, definitely not soul. So, at least it’s not a full-blown romance novel in here.”
Bayne’s mouth actually twitched, as if this was all hilarious, but the joke didn’t travel to his honey-colored eyes.
Outside, pine trees flashed past, blurring into gray-green streaks. Sun made weird patterns through the windshield. At every stop sign, Clint expected a wolf to come barreling out of nowhere, maybe with questionnaire forms or a bouquet of roses.
Nothing did. The rest of the drive happened without incident. Clint was glad, but he had to admit, a little disappointed, too. The adrenaline left behind a weird emptiness, like the panic needed somewhere to go and, finding itself jobless, just moved into his sinuses and took root.
“I don’t get it,” Clint said as Bayne pulled into the driveway. “If this Zeppelin guy is real, and so is the pack, why not at least listen to what Vaughn had to say?”
Bayne cut the engine, staring at the steering wheel like it might provide an answer if he just glared hard enough. “If he’s real, he’ll find me. I’ll find him. Not through some random wolf staking out the parking lot. That’s what enemies do. They use stories and hope you’re dumb enough to buy in.”
“Seemed like he cared,” Clint said, and it sounded wobbly even to his own ears.
Bayne’s head shook once, denying all of it. “He’ll care less if I tear out his throat for getting too close to you.” With that, he climbed out without ceremony, marching for the front door in a way that said he didn’t want follow-up questions. Or questions in general.
Right. Clint followed, mind still spinning on that word. Mate.
Not boyfriend. Not fiancé. Mate. Which, by Bayne’s definition, meant “center of gravity for the rest of your existence, no returns allowed.”
A guy could get a complex over that.
Inside, the house felt too still. Mabel ghosted around the kitchen, tail in the air, demanding food with a meow that sounded deeply disappointed in how things had turned out for everyone involved.
“Yeah, yeah, you and me both, princess,” Clint muttered, dumping kibble into her bowl.
What did it even mean, being “mate” to a wolf shifter? Was he supposed to take up hunting? Develop a taste for liver? Pick out a matching set of collars and a spot in the backyard to mark as their own?
The part that got him wasn’t even the threat outside the clinic or the implication that someone had it out for Bayne and, by extension, the idiot who’d dragged him inside and patched him up.
No, the part that stuck with him was that flash in Vaughn’s eyes. Not the threat, not the aggression, but that split second of real loss. Like Bayne had meant something to him.
* * * *
Vaughn just stood there in the parking lot for a second, head nearly spinning.
The cars on the street kept rolling by like nothing strange had happened, but his whole perspective had gone belly up.
He dug his phone from his pocket, thumbed Zeppelin’s contact, and waited.
Bright sun glinted off his bike a few spaces down the line.
“Find anything?” Zeppelin’s voice said, easy as could be.
“Oh, you could say that.” Vaughn leaned against the seat of his motorcycle and ran through the whole thing for his alpha, words tumbling out faster the more he thought about it.
“Not even a glimmer. He looked me dead in the eye, and nothing clicked. Shifters are supposed to heal in animal form, right? Something is off, way off.”
“He’s with the vet?”
“Yeah.” Vaughn glanced back at the clinic window. He caught the receptionist peeking, hair falling in her face as she ducked away the moment their eyes met. Like he was the threat. Maybe he was, to her. He shrugged it off.
“Clint Sullivan,” Zeppelin said, voice going low, like he was rolling the name over his tongue. “I know that one. Know where they live, too. Once Bayne calms down, I’ll stop by. Get a look at the situation myself.”
“I don’t know,” Vaughn said, scrubbing a hand over his neck, skin prickling with leftover nerves. “Bayne looked spooked to the bone. Think they’ll stick around after the scare I just gave them?”
“Clint’s too practical.” Zeppelin sounded so certain Vaughn almost believed it. “He’s got a business to run. He isn’t going to pull up stakes and vanish, not even for Bayne.”
“One other thing,” Vaughn said, almost as an afterthought, even though it pounded at the back of his head. “Clint’s his mate.”
For a heartbeat, the phone was pure silence.
Vaughn could almost picture Zeppelin piecing it together, gears turning.
“Then we make damn sure they’re protected.
We don’t know how Bayne’s memory got wiped.
If someone is hunting him, he needs his pack at his back, whether he remembers us or not. Whether he even wants us there.”
Well, hell. Bayne had been clear as glass about not wanting anyone near his mate, especially Vaughn—and now here they were, about to babysit the pair of them like precious cargo. Vaughn almost had to laugh.
This was going to be a show. Fireworks were a guarantee.