By the time they’d cleared the first stop sign, Nick was doubled over, his forehead pressed to the dash.
“Talk to me, Nick,” Logan barked, concern overruling everything else. “Where does it hurt?”
“My gut. Worse than before.”
Logan jerked the truck to the side of the road so fast Nick thought they’d flip.
His mate crowded over, his big hands bracketing Nick’s face. “Look at me. Stay with me, okay?”
Nick tried, but it was like his body was being torn in two. Heat burst under his ribs, sweat running down his spine, too much, too fast.
He’d never hurt like this, not during the worst episodes, not even as a kid.
“Gonna get you home. Just breathe.”
Logan peeled out, tires squealing. The next few minutes vanished in a blur of pain and sunlight. Nick’s senses overloaded, every sound too loud, every color too bright.
After a few blocks, Logan glanced over. “You good?”
“Not really.” Nick tried to laugh, but it sounded like a yelp. “I thought if I took in enough blood, this would stop.”
Logan reached for his hand. His palm was warm but rough, grounding when the world went sideways for a moment. He squeezed Nick’s fingers, but his expression was all business, his eyes locked on the road.
“Tell me what’s going on.” For a guy who could probably flatten moose with his bare hands, Logan was soft when it came to Nick.
“It’s starting again. Cramps.” Nick sucked in a breath, trying to keep the world from spinning out.
Logan jerked the wheel, pulling onto the side of the road so fast Nick’s nose nearly met the glove compartment.
He turned, grabbed Nick’s chin, and forced him to look up. “Talk to me. Where does it hurt?”
“My stomach,” Nick managed. “Feels like my insides are trying to rearrange the furniture.”
Panic flared for a split second in Logan’s face then vanishing behind something more dangerous. “It shouldn’t be happening. You’re supposed to be fine.”
Nick pressed his palms to his stomach, doubled over. “Well, someone forgot to tell my body.”
Logan’s hand landed heavy on Nick’s back, massaging circles through the fabric. “You need more blood?” He sounded ready to open a vein right there on the road.
“No. Not now.” The thought of drinking more made his stomach churn. “I just want it to stop.”
He felt every bump in the road as Logan floored it, heading for the pack house. The world blurred past the window. Air thinned in his lungs. Maybe this was how he died. Not in a blaze of glory but in a truck with a wolf mate and a never-ending stomachache.
He tried to get his shit together. Deep breaths, eyes forward, pretend you’re not fighting to keep your insides on the inside.
Logan didn’t say anything else. He just gripped the wheel, staring holes through the windshield, his hand never leaving Nick’s thigh.
When they rounded a curve, Nick’s brows shot up.
The pack house stood proud against the backdrop of mountains, three stories of stone and timber that seemed to rise organically from the landscape. Wide windows reflected the late afternoon sun, and a sprawling porch wrapped around the entire first floor. Smoke curled lazily from one of three massive stone chimneys.
That wasn’t a house. It was a freaking resort.”
Logan parked right at the front door, helped Nick out of the truck, and wrapped his arm around Nick’s waist.
Nick caught flashes as they moved through the entry—polished wood floors, the sweet smell of baking, and something musky that tasted like pack. Warmth settled everywhere, like the house itself was alive.
The cramps hit again, harder than before, and Nick almost folded in half. Logan scooped him up bridal style, striding up a set of stairs. Nick closed his eyes, focusing on the steady bob of Logan’s gait, trying not to puke.
