Chapter Seven
Miguel’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking as he stuffed clothes into a duffel bag. The adrenaline crash hit hard, leaving his muscles twitchy and unreliable. His bedroom smelled wrong—blood and hyena stink contaminating the space where he slept. Where he’d planned to bring Jared later.
“You got a shirt I can borrow?”
Jared asked from the doorway, rubbing at a darkening bruise on his jaw. “Mine’s a little... bloody.”
Miguel handed him a faded black T-shirt, watching as Jared pulled it over his head. The fabric hung loose on his frame, collar dipping to reveal the red marks where the hyena’s fingers had pressed into his throat.
“Toss me that bag,”
Miguel said, nodding toward a smaller one tucked beside the dresser. His voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Grab your phone charger too.”
Jared did as asked, movements careful, as if his body had only just realized it was injured.
“What about your cat?” he asked.
“She’ll be fine.”
Miguel locked the bedroom door behind them. “She’s survived worse than this.”
Even if he could find her, she’d probably claw him to death after what happened. Giving her comfort right now would be like trying to pet Satan.
They headed into the living room, where Miguel paused.
His fingers clenched around his bike keys, metal edges biting into his palm as he watched Diablo and Santiago load the hyenas’ bodies into Santiago’s truck. Blood stained the hardwood where they’d dragged the corpses, leaving dark smears across his kitchen floor.
Blood still crusted under Miguel’s fingernails despite scrubbing them raw in the kitchen sink before they’d left.
“Ready?”
he asked Jared, who stood by the shattered remains of the coffee table, arms wrapped around himself.
Moonlight caught in his mate’s hair, silvering the edges, making him look simultaneously fragile and fierce. Dried blood crusted along his chin where it had split against the floor. More blood speckled his forearms like rust-colored freckles.
“Yeah.”
Jared’s voice came out steadier than Miguel expected. “Let me grab my phone.”
While Jared retrieved it from the couch cushions, Miguel surveyed what remained of his living room. Overturned furniture, scattered books, a lamp with its shade crushed beyond recognition.
“We’ll need a tarp,”
Santiago called from the kitchen doorway. “Blood’s gonna soak through the floorboards.”
Miguel nodded. His wolf paced restlessly inside him, hackles raised at the lingering scent of hyena. The knowledge that these bastards had invaded his home, threatened his mate, made something primal twist in his gut.
Jared returned, phone clutched in his hand. “It’s dead.”
“You can charge it at the tavern.”
Miguel placed his hand at the small of Jared’s back, guiding him toward the door. “Santiago, lock up when you’re done. I’m taking Jared to Sin.”
Santiago's eyes flicked between them, then settled on the protective way Miguel’s hand rested against Jared. “We’ll handle this. Go.”
Outside, stars glittered overhead, indifferent to the violence that had unfolded beneath them. His bike waited in the driveway, chrome gleaming under the streetlamp.
“Here.”
Miguel shrugged out of his leather jacket, draping it over his mate’s shoulders. The garment swallowed him, sleeves dangling past his fingertips. “It’s not as warm as earlier.”
Jared’s fingers curled into the leather, pulling it tighter around himself. “Thanks.”
Miguel swung his leg over the bike, metal cool against his skin as he settled onto the seat. “Climb on, elegido .”
His mate hesitated, eyes darting back toward the house where Santiago and Diablo were still dealing with the aftermath. He gazed for a moment longer before climbing on behind Miguel.
When they arrived, Miguel pushed the back door open, holding it for Jared. Inside, they were enveloped with the familiar smells of beer, fried food, and too many bodies in too small a space.
Jared hesitated at the threshold, exhaustion evident in the slope of his shoulders. “I need a drink.”
“You and me both, solecito .”
Miguel guided him through the narrow hallway with a hand at the small of his back. “I need an entire fifth after tonight.”
He pressed his lips close to Jared’s ear. “But you were fucking amazing underneath me.”
He chuckled when his mate’s pale skin blossomed with fire. His little sun.
“You guys cool?”
Cesar’s gaze swept over Jared’s borrowed clothes. “No darts or injuries?”
“We’re good.”
Miguel felt like he was saying that a little too often. He still couldn’t believe those bastards had broken into his home. It made him wonder if they’d followed him and Jared from Bishop Road where his mate’s car had broken down.
What were the odds they would show up not even an hour after he and Jared had gotten to his place?
“You two hungry?”
Cesar frowned, nodding toward Jared’s bruised face. “You look like you took a baseball bat to the jaw.”
“You should see the other guy.”
Jared’s voice carried a lightness his posture couldn’t match.
“Dead,”
Miguel added, enjoying the satisfied look that flickered across Cesar’s face.
“Hyenas?”
Miguel nodded. “Two of them. At my place.”
“Shit.”
The bottles clinked together as Cesar shifted his grip. “They’re getting bolder.”
“Getting dead is what they’re getting,”
Miguel said. “Pour us something strong.”
Cesar slid two shot glasses across the bar top. The tavern hummed with activity around them—pool balls clacking, conversations floating in fragments, music pulsing beneath it all. Normal. Safe. Everything Miguel’s house no longer felt like.
Their fingers brushed as they both reached for their drinks. “You holding up okay?”
he asked, voice low enough that only his mate could hear.
Jared drank the whiskey in one gulp, grimacing before he coughed. “Better now.”
Miguel knocked his back in one fluid motion, savoring the burn that chased away the taste of fear, wincing as the alcohol hit his split lip. He studied his mate through the amber glow of the overhead lights. Blood still crusted at the corner of Jared’s mouth. A bruise darkened his jaw where it had cracked against the floor.
“You handled yourself pretty damn well back there,”
Miguel said, voice low enough that only Jared could hear. “Most people would’ve frozen.”
A hint of pride flickered across Jared’s face. “Turns out I don’t like being hunted.”
He traced the rim of his empty glass. “Though I could've done without the part where he tried to choke me out.”
Miguel’s jaw tightened as he gazed at the red marks on Jared’s throat. His fingers itched to touch them, to soothe away the evidence of danger that had come too close.
“Need another?”
he asked instead.
“Definitely.”
Jared’s knuckles whitened around his empty glass.
“Another round,”
Miguel said to Cesar, who obliged with a generous pour.
When Cesar brought fresh drinks, Miguel nursed his this time, watching Jared over the rim of his glass. The borrowed shirt hung loose on his frame, collar dipping to reveal the edge of a bruise forming on his collarbone. A surge of protectiveness swelled in Miguel’s chest.
“Come on,”
he said suddenly, sliding off his stool. “Let’s play pool.”
Jared blinked, caught off-guard by the abrupt suggestion. “Pool? Now?”
“Why not?”
Miguel cocked his head toward the back room. “Better than sitting here thinking about those bastards.”
He held out his hand. “Ever played before?”
Miguel guided Jared away from the bar with a light touch at his elbow. Miguel led them toward the back of the tavern where the pool tables stood. The green felt glowed under recessed lighting, smooth and inviting.
Miguel selected two cues from the rack, testing the weight of each before handing one to Jared.
“Once.”
Jared ran his fingers over the smooth wood of the cue stick. “I may have accidentally launched the cue ball across the room and nearly blinded someone.”
Miguel laughed, the sound genuine for the first time since the attack. “That's a hell of a first impression.”
“I’m full of surprises.”
Jared tested the weight of the stick in his hands, holding it awkwardly like a sword. “Fair warning. I’ll probably be terrible.”
“Everyone is at first.”
Miguel racked the balls, the click-clack of resin against resin oddly soothing. “It’s all about angles and patience.”
“Two things I definitely don’t have right now.”
Jared attempted to mimic Miguel’s stance, bending awkwardly over the table. The cue wobbled in his grip.
A soft laugh escaped Miguel’s throat. “Not quite.”
He moved behind Jared, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “May I?”
At Jared’s nod, Miguel pressed against him, chest to back, one hand settling on his hip. “Loosen up here,”
he murmured, breath tickling the shell of Jared’s ear. “You’re too stiff.”
“Can’t imagine why,”
Jared muttered, but Miguel felt some of the tension drain from his shoulders.
“You’ve got to bridge your fingers, like this.”
Miguel demonstrated the proper form, his calloused hand sliding over Jared’s to adjust his grip. The feeling of his mate’s skin beneath his fingertips sent a flutter of desire through his core. “That’s it.”
Miguel pressed closer, seemingly to guide Jared’s stance, but really just to feel the lean muscles of his back against his chest. His mate’s breath hitched as Miguel’s thumb traced circles on his hip.
“Now keep your eye on the cue ball,”
he murmured. “Now breathe and stroke.”
His mate snorted. “That’s what he said.”
Miguel chuckled, the vibration traveling between their bodies. “Focus, kitty.”
Jared bit his lip in concentration, pulled back the stick, and promptly sent the cue ball sailing. It bounced across the floor with a hollow clack, rolling under a nearby table.
“Told you I was terrible.”
Jared straightened, blowing hair from his eyes.
Miguel retrieved the cue ball then circled the table, studying angles with practiced ease. Bending over the felt, he lined up his shot, aware of Jared’s eyes on him. The striped balls scattered perfectly across the table, two dropping into pockets.
“Show-off,”
Jared muttered, but his gaze lingered on Miguel’s arms, the way his muscles flexed beneath his T-shirt.
“Years of practice,”
he replied, straightening. “Nothing special.”
“Disagree.”
Jared’s voice carried a hint of admiration. “Everything you do looks... coordinated.”
Miguel raised an eyebrow. “Coordinated?”
“Yeah, like your body just knows what to do.”
Jared waved vaguely at him. “Mine’s still figuring out basic tasks, apparently.”
“Your body does plenty of things right,”
Miguel countered, voice dropping an octave.
Jared’s face was doused in flames, the borrowed shirt slipping off one shoulder, revealing freckles Miguel wanted to trace with his tongue.
“Your shot, solecito .”
They weren’t playing by the rules, but Miguel couldn’t give a shit less. He was admiring the view as Jared bent over the table. Even in borrowed clothes—or maybe especially in them—he looked like everything Miguel had never known he wanted. The way his jeans hugged his ass, the sliver of skin visible where his shirt rode up, the elegant line of his neck as he concentrated on the layout of balls as if deciphering ancient hieroglyphs.
Jared pulled back the cue, aimed, and struck the white ball with surprising force. It shot wildly across the felt, missing every target before bouncing off the rail and rolling pathetically to a stop.
“Nailed it again,”
Jared said with a deadpan expression.
“That was... something,”
Miguel said, lips twitching. “Try again.”
Two shots later, Jared finally hit a striped ball, sending it ricocheting across the table and straight into a corner pocket.
“Did you see that?”
Jared spun around, eyes bright with triumph. “I’m basically a pool shark now.”
“Terrifying,”
Miguel agreed, unable to suppress his smile. “The world of competitive billiards should be quaking.”
Jared’s responding grin made something warm unfurl in Miguel’s chest. For a moment, they weren’t two men who’d just killed intruders in self-defense. They were just... them. Miguel and Jared, playing pool badly, flirting in the low light of a bar.
“Your turn,”
Jared said, offering the cue.
Miguel lined up his shot, sinking two solid balls in quick succession. When he glanced up, he caught Jared staring at his arms, at the way his muscles flexed beneath his skin.
“See something you like?”
he asked, voice dropping lower.
A blush crept up Jared’s neck. “Just studying your technique.”
That’s what you’re going with?”
Miguel circled the table, deliberately brushing against Jared as he passed. “Your shot,”
he said, their fingers brushing as he handed it over.
Jared managed to hit the cue ball, which struck the racked balls with a satisfying crack. His triumphant smile faded as the white ball followed the others into a corner pocket.
“That’s not supposed to happen, is it?”
“Not technically, no.”
Miguel couldn’t help but chuckle at Jared’s crestfallen expression.
They finished their game, then decided to head to their room, Miguel’s gaze never leaving his mate.