Whatever had brought Mack to town, it wouldn’t touch Jamie. Sloane would make damn sure of it.
Chapter Four
Logan set his phone on the coffee table, the thud echoing loudly in the quiet room. He could still hear Sloane’s voice, an edge he recognized instantly.
Trouble.
The wrong kind.
His body remembered the last time—knuckles split, ribs aching, three packmates hauling him backward while Mack’s smirk burned itself into Logan’s skull.
The real betrayal had come after. Logan still tasted the bitterness of it, metallic as old blood. He braced his forearms against his thighs and breathed through the urge to punch something, anything, just to keep from drowning in the memory.
The apartment creaked as the refrigerator kicked on, a low hum under the silence, and it only made the emptiness louder. His shoulders stayed tight, muscles pulled like a bowstring.
He wasn’t paranoid.
Mack didn’t show up without a reason, and men like him didn’t circle without intention. Logan’s jaw locked, the old fury simmering in his gut, hotter with every breath. If Mack was in town, it wasn’t by accident. And Logan knew exactly what that meant.
Nothing good was coming.
He dragged both hands through his hair, a pulse of heat rolling through him, sharp enough to make his fingers curl.
Every few minutes, he found himself glancing down the hallway where Nick slept. Each time, he strained to hear the sound of breathing, the rustle of sheets, any sign that Nick was resting peacefully. Twice he’d gotten up to check, hovering in the doorway, watching the rise and fall of his mate’s chest.
The doctor’s dismissal kept replaying in his mind. Blood work came back normal aside from the anemia.
Yet Logan had held Nick’s trembling body, had seen the color drain from his face at the bar. The memory of Nick’s collapse made his stomach twist into knots. Human medicine had failed him. Maybe it was time to take his mate to a preternatural doctor.
The sound of a door quietly opening made Logan’s head snap up. Nick appeared in the hallway, moving unsteadily toward him.
“You need water? Something to eat?” Logan was already on his feet, noticing Nick’s pallor, the slight tremor in his hands, and the dampness in his hair. “You should be resting.”
His mate didn’t answer, just kept coming closer with an unexpected sway to his hips. Logan’s brow furrowed.
“Nick? Something wrong?”
Nick’s palms pressed flat against Logan’s chest, fingers splaying across the fabric of his shirt. The touch sent heat racing through his veins, unexpected and electric. His mate’s hands traveled upward, mapping the contours of muscle with a boldness Nick had never shown before.
Every protective instinct Logan possessed melted under that touch. His breathing deepened as Nick’s fingers traced along his collarbone then back down to rest over his heartbeat. The apartment felt too warm suddenly, the air thick with something that made Logan’s wolf pace restlessly.
This is what he needs. Logan leaned into the touch. After everything tonight, he just needs—
But something felt wrong. Off. Nick’s movements were too fluid, too practiced, his eyes glassy. Logan studied his mate’s face, and his gut clenched. His mate stared through him rather than at him. Nick’s pupils were blown wide but not with desire. His eyes were empty, like nobody was home behind them.
“Nick?” Logan kept his voice soft, testing, and he received no response. Just those wandering hands, now sliding around to Logan’s back, nails dragging lightly through the shirt. The touch should have felt amazing, but dread coiled in Logan’s gut instead.
He caught his mate’s wrists gently, his fingers circling the delicate bones, and carefully pulled those exploring hands away from his body.
Nick’s entire demeanor shifted. A snarl ripped from his throat—not human, not wolf, something else entirely. He yanked against Logan’s grip, twisting his wrists with surprising force. His lips pulled back, his face contorting into something feral.
“Wake up,” Logan said firmly, maintaining his hold despite his mate’s struggles. “Nick, wake up.”
His mate’s response was pure aggression. Nick thrashed, using his whole body to try breaking free. His knee came up, nearly catching Logan in the groin. When that failed, he dropped his weight, trying to slip the grip through momentum alone.
Logan held firm, alarm bells screaming in his head. Nick’s strength had doubled, maybe tripled. The tendons in his wrists stood out like cables as he fought, muscles bunching with effort that shouldn’t have been possible for his slight frame.
A hiss escaped Nick’s lips, and Logan’s blood turned to ice. Fangs. Actual fucking fangs extended from Nick’s gums, needle-sharp and gleaming.
