Page 17 of Midnight Mate
“There.” Clint wrapped a bandage around his finger with unnecessary care. “Try not to stick your hand in any more cages, Dr. Dolittle.”
Lightning. White-hot and blinding, branching across darkness like cracks in black glass. Someone screaming. No, growling. A distorted voice, like it was coming through water. Eyes that burned without glowing, full of rage and—
“Bayne?”
He blinked. Clint was looking at him with concern.
Bayne cleared his throat and smiled. “Next patient?”
Clint didn’t seem convinced that he was okay.
Neither was Bayne.
Whatever had hunted him last night wasn’t finished. He could feel it in his bones, that creeping certainty that comes from prey instinct. But here, in this too-bright clinic with Clint making jokes about hamster-induced warfare, he could pretend otherwise.
“Next room’s a bearded dragon,” Clint said, already moving. “Fair warning, he likes to pee on people.”
“Fantastic.” Bayne followed, keeping his voice light. “Living the dream.”
“Could be worse. Last week someone brought in a python that had eaten their neighbor’s chicken. Still had feathers sticking out of its mouth.”
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of fur and scales and Clint’s running commentary about each patient. Bayne found himself relaxing in spite of the lingering unease, drawn into the rhythm of the work. Clint moved with confidence here, hands sure and gentle, voice soothing even the most anxious animals.
And every time their fingers brushed—passing instruments, handling carriers, reaching for the same supplies—heat flared between them. Clint would flush, just slightly, and look away. Bayne would pretend not to notice, even as his wolf pushed closer to the surface, wanting more contact, more of his mate’s scent.
By noon, they’d seen fifteen patients. Bayne had been peed on twice, scratched by a parrot, and somehow ended up covered in what he hoped was just drool from a very enthusiastic Saint Bernard.
“Lunch?” Clint asked, pulling off his lab coat. Underneath, his scrubs were rumpled and stained with various substances Bayne didn’t want to identify.
“You buying?”
“After all the free labor? Absolutely.” Clint grabbed his keys from the desk, waving to Janet as they passed. “Back in an hour.”
Outside, the afternoon had grown warm, heat radiating off the asphalt. Bayne automatically scanned the parking lot, checking shadows and sightlines, before following Clint to the truck.
“You do that a lot,” Clint observed. “The scanning thing.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“What occupation would that be, exactly?”
Bayne wanted to answer. Wanted to give his mate something real, something that would explain why he knew these streets and why danger felt like it was breathing down his neck.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Just empty space where memories should be.
“I’ll let you know when I remember,” he finally said, wondering if it would ever happen or if he was stuck like this.
Clint studied him for a long moment then nodded. “Fair enough. But wherever we’re going for lunch, you’re not allowed to turn so many heads. I’ve had enough excitement for one week.”
“I make no such promises.” Bayne climbed into the passenger seat this time, letting Clint take the wheel. “Hopefully they have decent food. I’m starving.”
“Hash it Out has some pretty amazing food,” Clint replied.
Bayne was only half listening, too focused on his mate again. If the guy kept walking in front of him when they were in the clinic, the rest of Bayne’s day was going to be pure torture.
Chapter Five
