Page 14 of Midnight Mate
“We wait until nightfall,” Zeppelin said finally. “If he’s not back by then, we go after him.” He turned to eye his beta. “Only we’re taking the pack. Have them ready by midnight. Chase and Quinn stay behind to watch over the mates.”
Vaughn nodded, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Like a field trip. I’ll remember to pack a lunch.”
“I’m not going to assume Bayne’s using,” Zeppelin said, voice firm. “Right now, as far as we know, he’s trapped, not relapsed. Got that?”
“Got it.” Vaughn ducked out, more than likely already planning.
Zeppelin stayed by the window, watching the play of sunlight across the yard, taking in every shadow and flicker of movement. Even the squirrels paused to eye the world, as if they knew something bad was brewing over on the far side of town.
His phone buzzed again. Nothing from Bayne. Just another spam text about switching car insurance. Zeppelin deleted it then ran a hand through his beard, wishing he could shake off the feeling of helplessness.
A feeling he despised.
Muscle memory brought him back to the map spread across his bed. He smoothed the paper, tracing the drug-house street with the edge of his finger. Bayne’s last known location sat in a rough rectangle near the edge of the old mill district. All the horror stories about that neighborhood came back, stories of adults who didn’t make it through the winter because they couldn’t drop their habits.
He hated this. Hated waiting. Hated picturing Bayne lying somewhere on a dirty floor, strung out or worse, eyes empty again. If so much as a scratch showed on his pack member’s skin, Zeppelin would break every bone in the dealer’s body.
Pouring himself another mug of coffee, he let the bitter heat burn a path down his throat. His hands didn’t shake. He’d had years to practice patience, but right now? Patience felt like poison.
Out in the hallway, someone dropped a toolbox. The clang echoed through the house, followed by muffled curses and a faint thud as the guy tried to catch it before it bounced down the stairs. Zeppelin cracked a smile then checked the clock for the hundredth time.
Still no word.
He dialed Bayne again, but the call went straight to voicemail. Either the drug house had a cell blocker or Bayne’s phone was busted. An even worse thought? He was knocked out cold.
None of the options eased the twisted ache in Zeppelin’s gut.
* * * *
Bayne stood outside, drawing in a deep breath, the scents of pine and motor oil tangling thick in the morning air. He moved restlessly, flexing his fingers at his sides, muscles keyed up with a jittery energy that wouldn’t settle. Clint’s truck sat waiting in the driveway, and Clint himself was already strolling toward the driver’s side, keys swinging loosely from his hand. The easy way his mate moved made something flicker in Bayne’s chest, his wolf sitting up and watching with a low, attentive hum.
“I’ll drive.” Bayne held out his hand for the keys before his mate could reach the door.
“You don’t even know where you are.” Clint’s fingers curled around the key ring like Bayne would snatch them and bolt. “Or where the clinic is.”
“You’ll guide me.” Bayne didn’t budge, not an inch. If whoever had chased him through the woods last night was still pursuing him, he had to be behind the wheel. It would be the only way to get his mate out fast if things went sideways.
Clint could handle a truck just fine, but Bayne’s reflexes gave him the edge they might need. He’d swerve into oncoming traffic or drive straight through a fence if that's what kept them alive. Clint would hesitate, follow rules, probably wave for their pursuer to pass them so his mate wouldn’t exceed the speed limit.
Besides, sitting passenger while his mate drove felt backward, like wearing shoes on the wrong feet.
Clint’s mouth opened, probably to argue about insurance or liability or some other human concern that didn’t matter when survival was on the line.
Then he seemed to reconsider, studying Bayne with those brown eyes that saw too much. After a long moment, he dropped the keys into Bayne’s palm.
“Fine, but if you scratch my paint job, you’re paying for it.”
Bayne folded himself into the driver’s seat, adjusting mirrors and finding the pedals while his mate climbed in beside him. The cab smelled like coffee grounds and dog treats, with an undertone of cleaner that probably never came out.
“Left at the stop sign,” Clint said, buckling in.
Bayne turned left before his mate finished the sentence, already seeing the route in his mind. Tree-lined street leading to Main then straight through downtown to the converted Victorian that housed the clinic. How did he know that?
“Lucky guess?” Clint’s voice carried an edge of suspicion.
“Must be.” Bayne kept his focus on the road, noting every car they passed, every pedestrian who might be watching. Nobody followed. Nobody paid them any attention at all.
Morning light slanted through the windshield, warming the cab. Clint had his window cracked, fresh air ruffling his hair. Made him look younger, less exhausted. Bayne’s fingers itched to reach over, smooth down that wayward piece sticking up at the back.
