Page 8 of Targeted By Fate

That was all the invitation I needed. I ran over and jumped up, glad when he caught me, even if it meant dropping his bag. He carried me straight to the car, and placed me in the seat beside him and went back for his bag.

On the way there, he told me about the doctor—how he could be trusted, how he’d used him for a good chunk of his life. Not just for his family, but for the people he worked with. He refrained from saying who those people were, but we both knew. We’d been in that alley together. It was no secret.

We pulled into a neighborhood, parked the car, and went into a non-descript office. He tucked me into his button-down, pressed against his chest, nestled in his warmth… exactly where I wanted to be. At least until he reached the doctor. That wasn’t where I wanted to be at all, but that didn’t make it unnecessary.

He explained to the doctor everything that had happened, minus the murdering part, and set me down on the exam table.

“I’m here. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

And that was when the embarrassment hit.

The doctor poked and prodded at me, pulled back my gums to look at my teeth, inserted a thermometer in a place that really didn’t need to be witnessed by my mate, and eventually drew some blood.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” the doctor said. “But something must have triggered this. It’s not meeting his mate, though. That I’m sure of. If anything, that should have pulled him out. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He walked out, and I hopped onto my mate’s lap, where he assured me everything would be okay. He also made a point of letting me know that he hadn’t watched the exam. I didn’t know how true that was—but I held onto it, because the alternative was far worse.

The doctor came back only minutes later. His face was not reassuring.

“So, I hate to bring this news to you… but there are drugs in his system. That’s why he can’t shift.”

“Drugs? You mean like… he was toking up?”

“No.” The doctor’s face was grim. “He’s lucky he’s still alive with the kind he has flowing through him.”

I hadn’t taken drugs. Ever. Under any circumstances. I didn’t even like to drink. I had no idea what was happening. I replayed the evening before—I’d had a few drinks of water at a couple bars while waiting to talk to the manager. Could that have been it? Could it have been something I inhaled during the altercation with those drunks? Were they not drunk at all, but high?

I had no idea.

But the way my mate sucked in a breath and looked down at me, eyes wide with shock—and maybe a little fear?—

I knew.

He thought I did drugs.

And it disgusted him.

I disgusted him.

Fuck.

5

BOAZ

“So what do we do?” I spoke through gritted teeth because I was pissed that my mate took a drug, not because he was sick but for recreational purposes.

He was a shifter, so why did he need to get high? He just had to shift, that was better than any manufactured drug. But no one should ask me how I knew that! Lips were sealed.

“He's not dead.”

“Ya think?” The doc raised a brow at my shouting, but he’d stated the obvious. I was expecting some long-winded medical explanation with big words that he’d need to interpret.

But I was taking the anger out on him instead of my mate because my mate couldn’t or wouldn’t shift.

This was so fucked up.

“Best guess is wait it out.”

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