There was a trace of him—earth and pine and that unique something that had called to my bear—but it was fading already. He'd passed through, but he hadn't stopped.
"Liam, please," I called, desperation creeping into my voice. "I don't know what I said that scared you, but we can talk. I swear I won't do anything without your permission."
Silence answered me, broken only by the distant rumble of a motorcycle on the main road.
I rose to my feet, turning in a slow circle as I searched the darkness. "You don't have to hide from me, baby boy," I called, using the endearment that had slipped out earlier. "I would never hurt you."
But I had hurt him, somehow. Something I'd said had triggered a fear so profound he'd bolted like a startled deer.
The bite. It had to be. The moment I'd mentioned biting him during intimacy, he'd panicked. Given his life on the streets, God only knew what horrors he might have experienced or witnessed. What associations that word—bite—might have for him.
"I'm such an idiot," I muttered, rubbing my hand over my face.
I continued calling for him, moving from one hiding spot to another around the compound. Each empty space felt like a knife twisting in my gut. I'd found my mate after decades of waiting, only to lose him in minutes because of my clumsy explanation.
"Liam!" I shouted into the darkness, no longer caring who heard the desperation in my voice. "Please come back. We don't have to talk about claiming or biting or any of it. Just please come back."
But as the minutes stretched into an hour, then two, the terrible truth settled over me like a shroud.
He was gone.
I searched until my voice grew hoarse and my legs threatened to buckle beneath me. Every bush, every tree, every shadow on the compound got a thorough inspection.
By three in the morning, I'd covered every inch of our property twice, calling Liam's name until the other club members started poking their heads out of windows with concerned expressions. I waved them off. This was my mess to fix, my mate to find.
Butch had offered to organize a search party, but I'd declined. A group of leather-clad bikers crashing through the woods would only drive Liam deeper into hiding.
"Come on, kid," I muttered, shining my flashlight into yet another cluster of bushes. "Where are you?"
The beam of light revealed nothing but empty space where Liam should have been. The forest beyond our property line loomed dark and imposing, a thousand perfect hiding spots for a lynx shifter who didn't want to be found.
My head pounded relentlessly, the concussion making itself known with every beat of my heart. The painkillers had worn off hours ago, but I couldn't bring myself to go back inside for more. What if Liam returned while I was gone? What if I missed him?
"I'm sorry," I called into the darkness, my voice cracking. "Whatever scared you, we can work through it. Just come back."
Only the wind answered, rustling through the trees with cold indifference.
By the time the eastern sky began to lighten with the first hint of dawn, my desperation had curdled into something darker. Self-loathing settled in my gut like a bad batch of dough—heavy and sour.
I'd had one chance with my mate and I'd blown it with my clumsy words. Fifteen years alone had taught Liam to run from danger, and somehow, I'd made myself the danger.
I leaned against a tree, closing my eyes briefly as fatigue washed over me. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept. Before the attack on the clubhouse, surely. Twenty-four hours ago? More?
"Just a little longer," I promised myself, pushing away from the tree. "He can't have gone far."
But he could have. Lynx shifters were built for speed and stealth. Liam could be counties away by now if he'd shifted and run through the night.
My search pattern widened, taking me beyond our property and into the surrounding woods. I followed game trails and old logging roads, calling Liam's name until my throat felt raw. The morning mist curled around my ankles as I stumbled through the underbrush, my movements growing clumsier with each passing hour.
I emerged from the trees onto the edge of town, the quiet streets just beginning to stir with early morning activity. A newspaper delivery van rumbled past, and somewhere a dog barked at the disturbance. I checked my phone—5:47 AM.
I'd been searching all night.
Without conscious direction, my feet carried me through the waking town. Each alley got a cursory glance, each dumpster amoment's consideration. Where would a frightened, homeless shifter hide in an unfamiliar town?
I was so focused on my search that I didn't notice the subtle changes in my surroundings—the increased graffiti on the walls, the broken bottles littering the gutters, the lingering scent of marijuana and cheap beer. It wasn't until I spotted a tag spray-painted across a boarded-up storefront—a stylized "DB" surrounded by dollar signs—that reality came crashing down.
Dough Boys territory.
