Page 27 of Midnight Mate
“You said bones,” Clint pointed out. “Not spine, not chest, definitely not soul. So, at least it’s not a full-blown romance novel in here.”
Bayne’s mouth actually twitched, as if this was all hilarious, but the joke didn’t travel to his honey-colored eyes.
Outside, pine trees flashed past, blurring into gray-green streaks. Sun made weird patterns through the windshield. At every stop sign, Clint expected a wolf to come barreling out of nowhere, maybe with questionnaire forms or a bouquet of roses.
Nothing did. The rest of the drive happened without incident. Clint was glad, but he had to admit, a little disappointed, too. The adrenaline left behind a weird emptiness, like the panic needed somewhere to go and, finding itself jobless, just moved into his sinuses and took root.
“I don’t get it,” Clint said as Bayne pulled into the driveway. “If this Zeppelin guy is real, and so is the pack, why not at least listen to what Vaughn had to say?”
Bayne cut the engine, staring at the steering wheel like it might provide an answer if he just glared hard enough. “If he’s real, he’ll find me. I’ll find him. Not through some random wolf staking out the parking lot. That’s what enemies do. They use stories and hope you’re dumb enough to buy in.”
“Seemed like he cared,” Clint said, and it sounded wobbly even to his own ears.
Bayne’s head shook once, denying all of it. “He’ll care less if I tear out his throat for getting too close to you.” With that, he climbed out without ceremony, marching for the front door in a way that said he didn’t want follow-up questions. Or questions in general.
Right. Clint followed, mind still spinning on that word. Mate.
Not boyfriend. Not fiancé. Mate. Which, by Bayne’s definition, meant “center of gravity for the rest of your existence, no returns allowed.”
A guy could get a complex over that.
Inside, the house felt too still. Mabel ghosted around the kitchen, tail in the air, demanding food with a meow that sounded deeply disappointed in how things had turned out for everyone involved.
“Yeah, yeah, you and me both, princess,” Clint muttered, dumping kibble into her bowl.
What did it even mean, being “mate” to a wolf shifter? Was he supposed to take up hunting? Develop a taste for liver? Pick out a matching set of collars and a spot in the backyard to mark as their own?
The part that got him wasn’t even the threat outside the clinic or the implication that someone had it out for Bayne and, by extension, the idiot who’d dragged him inside and patched him up.
No, the part that stuck with him was that flash in Vaughn’s eyes. Not the threat, not the aggression, but that split second of real loss. Like Bayne had meant something to him.
* * * *
Vaughn just stood there in the parking lot for a second, head nearly spinning. The cars on the street kept rolling by like nothing strange had happened, but his whole perspective had gone belly up. He dug his phone from his pocket, thumbed Zeppelin’s contact, and waited. Bright sun glinted off his bike a few spaces down the line.
“Find anything?” Zeppelin’s voice said, easy as could be.
“Oh, you could say that.” Vaughn leaned against the seat of his motorcycle and ran through the whole thing for his alpha, words tumbling out faster the more he thought about it. “Not even a glimmer. He looked me dead in the eye, and nothing clicked. Shifters are supposed to heal in animal form, right? Something is off, way off.”
“He’s with the vet?”
“Yeah.” Vaughn glanced back at the clinic window. He caught the receptionist peeking, hair falling in her face as she ducked away the moment their eyes met. Like he was the threat. Maybe he was, to her. He shrugged it off.
“Clint Sullivan,” Zeppelin said, voice going low, like he was rolling the name over his tongue. “I know that one. Know where they live, too. Once Bayne calms down, I’ll stop by. Get a look at the situation myself.”
“I don’t know,” Vaughn said, scrubbing a hand over his neck, skin prickling with leftover nerves. “Bayne looked spooked to the bone. Think they’ll stick around after the scare I just gave them?”
“Clint’s too practical.” Zeppelin sounded so certain Vaughn almost believed it. “He’s got a business to run. He isn’t going to pull up stakes and vanish, not even for Bayne.”
“One other thing,” Vaughn said, almost as an afterthought, even though it pounded at the back of his head. “Clint’s his mate.”
For a heartbeat, the phone was pure silence. Vaughn could almost picture Zeppelin piecing it together, gears turning. “Then we make damn sure they’re protected. We don’t know how Bayne’s memory got wiped. If someone is hunting him, he needs his pack at his back, whether he remembers us or not. Whether he even wants us there.”
Well, hell. Bayne had been clear as glass about not wanting anyone near his mate, especially Vaughn—and now here they were, about to babysit the pair of them like precious cargo. Vaughn almost had to laugh.
This was going to be a show. Fireworks were a guarantee.
Chapter Eight
