Page 8 of Midnight Mate
The cat appeared then, cautiously stalking toward Bayne. Her whiskers twitched as she sniffed him, before her tail puffed to three times its normal size, a furry exclamation point announcing her indignation at this invasion of her territory.
“That’s Mabel,” Clint said. “She owns the place. I just pay the mortgage.”
Bayne extended one hand slowly, letting the cat conduct her investigation. After a long moment, Mabel deigned to rub her head against his fingers, purring like a small engine.
Traitor.
“She likes you,” Clint observed, trying not to feel betrayed by his own cat. “She usually hates everyone.”
“Cats recognize good people,” Bayne said, which was patently false, but his slight smile made arguing seem pointless. “Hey, beautiful.”
“So.” Clint peeled a blood-streaked towel off the armchair. “Care to tell me who or what did this to you?”
Bayne opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. “I honestly don’t remember.”
That wasn’t the answer Clint expected. “You don’t remember…anything?”
A shake of his head. “I remember running… Trees, the ground, pain in my leg. After that, it’s a blank until I woke up here.”
“Someone did that to you,” Clint said. Not a question. Those wounds hadn’t been accidental. “The marks on your side looked like electrical burns.”
Bayne’s hand moved unconsciously to his ribs, fingers finding the spot where those strange marks had been. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Which raised about twelve more questions Clint probably shouldn’t ask. Getting involved with Bayne’s drama would be spectacularly stupid.
Then again, he’d already crossed that line when he’d dragged the injured wolf inside.
“Whatever you did to get in that state,” Clint observed, “maybe not do it again.”
The man actually smiled. Briefly, then it was gone as fast as it arrived.
“You need water,” Clint said instead of asking any of the dozen or so questions crowding his throat. “And food. And probably clothes.”
“Clothes would be good.” A hint of humor crept into Bayne’s voice despite everything. “Unless you want to keep staring.”
Heat crawled up Clint’s neck. “I wasn’t staring. It was a medical assessment.”
“If you say so, Doc.”
Turned abruptly toward the stairs, Clint mumbled, “I’ll dig something up,” as the heat crawling up his neck threatened to catch his face on fire.
His bedroom closet yielded sweatpants, which would probably be too damn small. He yanked a T-shirt from his drawer and inspected it. “He wears this and your concentration will be obliterated.”
Clint tossed the shirt over his shoulder, because he clearly loved torturing himself.
Christ, he needed coffee. And therapy. And possibly a new career that didn’t involve naked shifters in his living room.
When he returned, Bayne had managed to stand, the blanket wrapped around his waist like a toga. He accepted the clothes with a nod that might’ve been gratitude or just acknowledgment that walking around naked wasn’t sustainable.
“Bathroom's down the hall,” Clint offered then realized Bayne probably needed more than just clothes. “There are clean towels if you want to shower. And I’ll make coffee.”
“Coffee sounds perfect.” He bunched the clothes in his hand. “And, Doc? Really. Thank you. Most humans would’ve called the cops. Or animal control.”
“Yeah, well…” Clint shrugged, feeling guilty that he’d almost done just that. “I’ve always been bad at making sensible choices.”
Something shifted in Bayne’s expression.
“Guess that makes two of us,” he said then headed for the bathroom with movements that were almost steady.
