Page 9 of Midnight Mate
Clint waited until he heard the shower running before letting himself collapse against the kitchen counter. His life had been simple yesterday. Predictable. Boring, maybe, but boring was safe.
Now he had a shifter in his shower and blood on his floors and absolutely no idea what happened next.
Mabel jumped onto the counter, fixing him with a look that suggested she had opinions about all of this.
“Don’t start,” he told her, reaching for the coffee maker. “I know it’s stupid. I know I should have called someone. I know this is going to end badly.”
She meowed, which sounded suspiciously like agreement.
Coffee helped, marginally. The familiar routine of measuring grounds and water gave his hands something to do while his brain tried to process the last twelve hours. By the time the machine finished brewing, he could almost pretend this was normal.
Just another day. With a werewolf in his shower.
Completely normal.
Chapter Three
Under the hot spray of the shower, steam eddied around Bayne’s head, clinging to his hair and curling in the hollows of his throat. He stood still, letting the heat pound into his muscles, every drop drumming out the remnants of last night’s agony. Cuts and breaks had healed as expected. Shifting always fixed the body but not the head. A strange emptiness lingered, like someone had stolen hours of his life and left sticky notes instead. Run, pain, trees, dark, then nothing until a human pulled him out of the darkness.
He braced a hand against the cold tile and exhaled slowly. Water sluiced over his shoulders, tracing lines down his arms, which had done things just hours ago that Bayne barely remembered. His wolf, always restless, settled under Clint’s scent. It helped. Not enough to fill the missing pieces but enough to let Bayne breathe.
Bright sunlight knifed through the window, lighting up the water until the stall seemed to glow. He ran fingers through his hair, chasing the ghosts of memory, and came up empty. No house. No keys. If he owned a wallet, it was nowhere to be found. Even his name felt borrowed, something raw and uncertain. Bayne. That was it.
Fuck.
He didn’t remember the attack. Didn’t remember a face, not even a scent, just the sense of being chased, threat overtaking him from something that wanted him gone. Had he been stupid enough to wander alone? Or had someone set him up?
He killed the water and stood dripping on tile, watching the puddle form at his feet. Blankness pressed in. The wolf didn’t like it. Bayne didn’t like it.
At least Clint had patched him up. The guy’s touch had been efficient, sure but careful, too. Not afraid, even when Bayne could’ve ended him in a heartbeat.
He dried off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Clint, again. Every thread in this place belonged to the vet. Wolf’s nose, human brain, it didn’t matter. The scent was an anchor.
Bayne pulled on the clothes Clint had left. The sweatpants cut tight around his thighs, knotting in at the waist like a bad joke, and the T-shirt hugged his biceps and left little to the imagination.
Still, it felt good. Solid. If he was going to drop half-dead on someone’s lawn, at least fate had sent him to a guy who knew how to set a bone.
The only thing that made sense? Clint. Not the rescue itself, not the risk or the patch-up job, but the way Clint looked at him. The impact of those brown eyes had landed like a punch. Bayne had recognized the bond instantly. It thrummed through him, a low drum that made every instinct want to lock Clint down and wrap him tight, keep him safe until the world made sense again. Mates were rare. This was it for him. No question.
Too bad Clint was blissfully ignorant of how these things worked.
His mate. A human, for fuck’s sake. Didn’t have a clue what shifters did when their instincts kicked in. Didn’t know what it meant to be claimed, to be kept, to be protected at all costs. Clint just wanted a normal day. Some peace, coffee, maybe a safe porch cat. Instead, now he had Bayne, who’d crashed into his life and bled all over the goddamn floor.
Padding quietly into the hallway, Bayne noticed the details. Cat hair on the rugs, light slanting on hardwood, the faint sound of someone in the kitchen. Clint, moving around like he’d been up for hours already.
The smell of coffee cut through everything. Dark roast, probably meant to keep a man upright after too many emergencies and not enough sleep.
Coffee. Sweet, merciful caffeine.
Bayne’s nose twitched, pulling in the dark roast with just a whiff of warm citrus from the dish soap. Overhead, a bulb hummed, and the clatter of a single mug on a counter gave the room a lived-in vibe. He folded his arms and leaned into the kitchen doorway, surveying the scene. He could get used to this. He might have already gotten used to it.
Clint stood at the counter, hunched over the coffee maker. For a moment, Bayne just watched. His mate’s hair stood up in the back, probably from sleep or a cat attack. The man’s posture screamed exhausted, shoulders loose and focus turned all the way down. Even the way he held the mug, both hands wrapped around the handle, said he hadn’t slept enough.
“Appreciate the clothes,” he said. The cotton clung like shrink wrap, fabric snug over his thighs and pulling at his biceps with every small movement.
Clint straightened so fast one elbow clipped the paper towel roll, sending it spinning across the counter. “Jesus,” he muttered, catching it on the rebound. “You’re quiet for a guy your size.” He eyed Bayne or maybe the fit of the borrowed T-shirt on Bayne’s arms. Color spread across Clint’s cheekbones, and Bayne felt the heat behind his own ribs notch up.
“I guess I should’ve left an instruction manual with the wardrobe. That shirt’s not threatening to strangle you, is it?”
