Page 53 of Brock’s Mate

He picked up his cargo pants—what was left of them—and jammed his legs into them one after the other. “DB!” he bellowed. After a minute, Dragon Boy came out of the forest, followed by the seven-foot serial killer bouncer.

Naked. Sheesh.

DB looked around the clearing, eyebrows raised, clearly taking in the emotional tone. “Um, yeah?”

“Make me a doorway,” Brandon demanded. Then he took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly. “Please,” he added. “I need to take these idiots home. Or maybe dump them on a desert island.”

“Which one?” DB asked.

“Either one,” Brandon snarled. “Surprise me.”

Wait, he thought he was just dragging her off to places unknown? Desi had had enough of that. “Hello? What if I don’t want to get taken to your evil lair?”

Brandon gave her a look that could melt iron. “I give exactly zero fucks what you want.”

Brock said, “Hey, don’t—”

Brandon turned the look on him. “Shut up, or I really will suffocate you.”

Dragon Boy murmured, “Oooookay, then.” He made a downward slashing gesture with his hand, and a sparkling rift appeared in middle of the yard. Like—well, like a doorway. In mid-air.

Brandon said, “Let’s go.”

Desi said, “Do I at least get to bring my clothes?”

“Titan and Damien will bring them.”

She looked at Brock. “We might as well,” he said. “There are bandages there. Somebody please grab my laptop and my notes along with Desi’s stuff?”

Desi grabbed his forearm and hauled him to his feet, and they went.

The evil lair turned out to be a four-story mansion with warm, welcoming lights in the windows, a wraparound porch, and vehicles parked haphazardly in the gravel parking area and spilling over onto the lawn.

They went in through the back, into a big mudroom full of coats and tools, with a couple of benches and a table of craft supplies. Also a full cabinet of medical supplies—bandages, sutures, the whole nine yards.

So apparently this fight-to-the-near-death thing was a common occurrence. That was just great.

To Desi’s surprise, Brandon himself took charge of fixing up Brock’s wounds, despite his glares and mutterings. Something about Bali, so apparently he was still considering the island thing.

Brandon pulled Brock into a small bathroom off the mudroom, even going into the shower with him to hold him up while the water sluiced off the blood and mud that coated them both.

Desi sank down on one of the benches, not knowing where else to go, or if this was a hostile environment or not.

In a few minutes the gunwoman—Kitty—brought Desi a cup of hot tea with sugar through an opening that clearly led to the kitchen. She was also the voluptuous blond waitress from the bar, Desi realized. The rest of the crew seemed to be gathering back in the other room.

“Here,” Kitty said, sitting down next to her. “This will make you feel better.”

It was warm and comforting, but it didn’t really make her feel better—except it showed that the environment wasn’t totally hostile.

Kitty stayed next to her, not talking, but sitting so her leg was lightly touching Desi’s. Oddly, that was more comforting than the tea. Kitty was another wolf, she realized. She could tell by the scent.

When Brandon and Brock were clean and dry, Brandon stitched and butterfly-bandaged the worst of the wounds, and then strapped up Brock’s ribs. He was surprisingly gentle, especially considering how angry he’d been.

They didn’t talk, though. Brock looked exhausted and sick, and at one point his face went green and Desi thought he was going to throw up. Which would have been super-painful with those ribs, and might even have done more damage.

Brandon called her over with a peremptory gesture. “Touch him,” he said. He gave her a sharp look. “Without the shock treatment thing.”

Desi let her wolf give him a little snarl, but she sat down and put her hand on Brock’s leg. It seemed to help, just like Kitty’s presence had helped Desi. After a minute Brock’s color returned and he took a breath and relaxed a bit, covering Desi’s hand with his.