Mine. Hurt. Kill.
The instinct slammed into Sloane so hard his vision pulsed red at the edges. He shoved his wolf down into the pit of his stomach, locking it behind bars of iron will, but the rage remained. Images of Jamie, frightened and hurt, flashed through Sloane’s mind. The guy who’d done this had no idea what he’d just unleashed.
Halting at the door, Sloane took a deep, controlled breath. Jamie didn’t need to see him enraged. Right now the only priority was making his mate feel safe.
Pushing through the door, smells hit him instantly—kibble, cedar shavings, that faint musk of caged animals. But underneath, sharper and metallic, adrenaline. Fear. Jamie’s fear. The scent twisted in his gut like broken glass.
His gaze swept the interior, taking in every detail with predatory focus. Overturned dog treat display near the back. Bags scattered across the linoleum. A small woman with curly hair stood near the counter, arms wrapped around herself. And there, slumped in a chair behind the register, was Jamie.
Alive. Breathing. Trembling.
Relief and rage collided so violently Sloane’s jaw locked to keep from making a sound. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, ready to spring, to hunt, to tear apart whoever had done this. His wolf clawed at the restraints he’d built, demanding blood, demanding justice, demanding he protect what belonged to him.
Not now. Not here. Not in front of Jamie.
Movement to his left caught his attention. A uniformed officer stood near the fish tanks, notepad in hand. Large frame, broad shoulders, the kind of build that came from years of physical work. Or genetics. Sheriff Owen. Lion shifter. Decent guy. A shifter in law enforcement who understood how to work with the pack without stepping on territory lines.
Owen’s eyes flicked to Sloane, recognition sparking instantly. One eyebrow lifted slightly, a silent question.
Crossing the floor felt like wading through quicksand. Each step required focus, control, measured movement when every instinct screamed at him to rush forward. Jamie’s hazel eyes tracked him, widening slightly as Sloane approached.
Bruising had already started along Jamie’s temple, a dark shadow spreading across pale skin. His hands shook where they gripped the water bottle. The trembling wouldn’t stop, fingers twitching against the plastic.
Sloane crushed the thoughts down, buried them where Jamie couldn’t see. Right now his mate needed calm, needed safety, needed someone who wouldn’t add to the chaos already tearing through him.
“Hey.” The word came out rough around the edges. He stopped a few feet away, giving Jamie space. “You okay?”
Stupid question. His mate was clearly not okay.
But Jamie’s shoulders dropped anyway, tension bleeding out like someone had cut the strings holding him upright. His eyes went glassy for a second, his relief so profound it made Sloane’s throat tight.
“You came,” Jamie whispered.
“Yeah.” Always. Forever. Until the universe imploded. “Can I see?”
Jamie tilted his head slightly, exposing the bruise. Not bad. It could’ve been worse, but the fact that someone had touched him at all, had gotten close enough to land a blow, made Sloane’s vision pulse red again.
Owen approached, moving with the careful confidence of someone who’d spent decades reading dangerous situations. Up close, his presence filled space—six-four, maybe two-forty, all muscle and authority. But his voice came out gentle when he addressed Jamie and Emma.
“I know this is hard,” Owen said. “But I need you to walk me through what happened. Start from when the customer came in.”
Emma jumped in first, words tumbling over each other as she described the guy’s entrance, his demand to handle the snakes, his escalating aggression. Her hands gestured wildly, punctuating each point.
Sloane turned to her, studying her for injuries. No visible marks, but she held herself stiffly, favoring her right side where she’d been shoved.
“You hurt?” he asked.
Emma blinked, clearly startled he’d addressed her. “Just bruised, I think. Nothing serious.”
Jamie’s head swiveled toward Sloane, surprise flickering across his features. Like he hadn’t expected Sloane to care about anyone besides him.
“Good.” Sloane’s attention shifted back to Jamie, taking in every detail. The way he hunched slightly, protecting himself. The rapid rise and fall of his ribs. The white-knuckled grip on the water bottle.
“Do you have security cameras? Any footage we could pull?” Owen asked.
“They’re just for show,” Emma admitted, voice small. “We can’t afford a real system. The owner keeps saying he’ll upgrade, but...”
She trailed off with a helpless shrug.
