Page 21 of Moon Destiny

Hugh seemed to rouse himself. Like the flip of a switch, his demeanor went from soft and concerned back to hard and commanding. He turned toward the men holding Dylan. “Take him to the triage room,” he barked.

They moved past us. The giant fell into step behind them.

Hugh watched them go, his expression shuttered. “Come,” he said without looking at me.

And he didn’t wait to see if I followed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

HUGH

The triage room was tucked in a corner of the basement that used to be a wine cellar. “It’s a must for a home this size,” the Realtor had told me. Maybe, but stopping my wolves from bleeding out was more important than storing cabernet at the right temperature. So triage room it was.

The guys put Dylan on the table and then Malcolm went to work on Dylan’s clothes, cutting away his T-shirt with a pair of trauma shears. No one mentioned my reaction to the possibility of Brooke being hurt.

But they’d noticed.

I shoved all that out of my mind as I moved to Dylan’s side. “How you doing?”

“I’ve been better.” He hissed as Malcolm probed the bullet wound in his shoulder. “Take it easy, you oaf.”

“Went clean through,” Malcolm pronounced cheerfully. He winked at Dylan. “Yer lucky it didnae hit that pretty face o’ yours, Corbett. I would’ve missed it.”

“You sweet talk all your patients this way, Malcolm?”

The Highlander chuckled as he snapped on a pair of purple latex gloves. “Nah. I save it all for you.” He pointed at one of the hovering enforcers. “Get me an irrigation syringe and a shitload of gauze.”

My anxiety eased. Dylan would be okay. Malcolm probably didn’t even need to clean the wound, since Dylan’s body would push any bullet fragments out with his first shift. But it wasn’t the best feeling in the world. Some old school wolves turned up their noses at modern medicine, choosing to tough it out like our forefathers had. They were fools.

“I liked those jeans,” Dylan grumbled as one of the enforcers moved the scissors up his ankle.

I patted his forearm. “We’ll make them into jean shorts for you.”

“God, no. Wearing jorts is worse than getting shot.”

Tanner entered the room wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants. He’d been on patrol when I alerted the pack, and he’d obviously raced to the house as quickly as he could. His hair was windblown, his chest sheened with sweat. “Alpha,” he said, his gaze flicking between Brooke and me. “Could I speak to you for a moment? Both of you.”

I motioned to Brooke, and I closed the triage room door as the three of us stepped outside.

Tanner got right to the point. “We scented at least two rogues near the forest next to the ice cream shop. One trail led away from town but another headed toward the house.”

Brooke put a hand over her mouth.

“How close?” I asked.

“About half a mile. Then the trail went dead. I’ve got every available enforcer scouring Bosford inch by inch right now.” He glanced at Brooke. “And I’d feel a whole lot better if you two left town while we clear it.”

Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to shut him down, to tell him there was no way I was abandoning the pack with rogues on the hunt.

But this was the second time rogues had targeted Brooke. They were either hunting Pacific Pack leadership—or they were hunting her. Keeping her in the house might sound safe on the surface, but there was a better option.

I nodded. “You’re in charge while Dylan is down. I want Malcolm and Shepherd to guard the house. All enforcers should be shifted and on patrol. Everyone else stays in their homes.” I swept my gaze over his disheveled hair and the dark circles under his eyes. “How tapped are you?”

“I’ve got one shift, maybe two, left in me.”

“Don’t push it. Text me with updates. I have my phone.”

“You got it, Alpha.” His expression hardened. “We’ll find them.”

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