Page 23 of Midnight Mate
But as the house collapsed in on itself, sending sparks spiraling into the dark sky, Zeppelin couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Bayne should’ve found a way to contact them by now. Should’ve made it back or at least sent word that he was okay.
Unless he couldn’t.
Unless something else had found him in those woods, something worse than drug dealers with delusions of grandeur.
The fire crackled and roared, eating through wood and plaster with mindless hunger. Around him, his pack stood silent, waiting for orders. Good men, loyal men.
“Spread out,” Zeppelin finally said, voice rough from smoke and emotion. “Search the forest. Check the roads, the ditches, anywhere someone injured might hole up. And check the hospitals, the clinics, even the veterinary office. If Bayne’s hurt, he might’ve gone for help.”
They dispersed without question, shifting and disappearing into the darkness beyond the fire’s light. Only Vaughn remained, studying Zeppelin with those too-knowing eyes.
“You think he’s still alive?”
“He has to be.” The alternative was unacceptable. Zeppelin had already lost too much, sacrificed too much building this pack and keeping it safe. Losing Bayne now, like this, would break something inside him that might never heal.
Vaughn’s hand landed on his shoulder, brief but solid. “Then we’ll find him.”
As his beta took off into the darkness, Zeppelin remained by the burning house, watching flames devour the drugs and feeling the weight of leadership crushing his shoulders.
Somewhere out there, Bayne was either running, hiding, or dying. And Zeppelin had sent him into this mess, had approved the mission that might’ve gotten him killed.
The guilt tasted like ash in his mouth.
* * * *
The morning grew warm through the exam room windows as Bayne worked alongside Clint, handing over instruments before his mate had to ask. A diabetic dachshund whined on the table while Clint drew blood, and Bayne found himself leaning closer than necessary, breathing in that mix of coffee and lavender that clung to Clint’s scrubs
“Can you hold her head?” his mate asked, not looking up from the syringe.
Instead of moving to the dog’s head, Bayne reached around Clint from behind, caging him against the table while steadying the dachshund. His mate’s breath hitched, shoulders tensing under the proximity.
“Like this?” Bayne murmured near Clint’s ear, enjoying the way color crept up his mate’s neck.
“That’s…yeah. Fine.” Clint’s hands stayed remarkably steady as he finished drawing blood, but Bayne caught the way his pulse jumped in his throat.
After the dachshund’s owner collected her dog with profuse thanks, they moved on to a guinea pig with overgrown teeth. Bayne watched Clint’s fingers work with the tiny clippers, precise and careful. Every movement drew his attention—the way Clint’s forearms flexed, how he bit his lower lip in concentration.
“You’re staring,” Clint said without looking up.
“Just learning.” Bayne shifted closer, his thigh pressing against Clint’s hip. “Very educational.”
Red bloomed across Clint’s cheeks, but he kept trimming the guinea pig’s teeth with methodical precision. “There’s nothing educational about watching me clip rodent teeth.”
“Depends on your perspective.” Bayne let his hand brush Clint’s lower back as he reached for gauze, feeling the way his mate’s breath caught.
Next came a parrot with a respiratory infection, squawking loud enough to make Bayne’s ears ring. While Clint listened to its breathing with a tiny stethoscope, Bayne found himself studying the curve of his mate’s neck, the way morning light caught in his hair. His wolf pushed closer to the surface, wanting to mark, to claim, to make it clear to everyone that this human belonged to him.
Not yet. Too soon. But god, the urge pulled at him like gravity.
Between patients, they cleaned the exam room together. Bayne made sure their hands touched when passing supplies, stood close enough that Clint had to squeeze past him to reach the sink. Each contact sent heat through him, and judging by the way Clint’s breathing kept going uneven, his mate felt it too.
“Next one’s a mastiff,” Clint said, checking his schedule. “Possible hip dysplasia.”
Working with the massive dog required both of them to position it for x-rays. Bayne ended up pressed against Clint’s back, arms around him to hold the dog steady. His mate’s scent filled his lungs, soap and sweat and something uniquely him that made Bayne’s wolf pace restlessly.
“Stop that,” Clint muttered, but his voice had gone rough.
“Stop what?”
