Page 35 of Hunted

That wasn’t true; some of the men went into town and hooked up with girls. The ones who were house trained, at least. But some of them—like the Sanchez boys—were a little too wild for most of the locals.

Sanchez added, “And it makes the leader soft in the head. You know what happens when leaders go soft in the head?” His eyes flashed gold. “Divided loyalties. Bad decisions.”

For a moment, through the alpha bond, Gunn got a flash of what Sanchez was feeling. His wolf needed someone to look up to, someone to trust to keep him steady. Like he’d trusted Gregor.

Thanatos was single-mindedly behind the pack, and Sanchez the man trusted that. But his wolf needed an alpha he could count on, and Thanatos wasn’t a wolf.

All he had was Gunn, and from where Sanchez was sitting, Gunn couldn’t be trusted to put the pack first. Brute force dominance could keep him under control, but it would never work in the long-term.

But it was all he had in the moment. He couldn’t let them hurt Mikey. Gunn growled back at Sanchez, ramping up his alpha mojo and shoving it through the bond, and hating every minute of it.

He said to Sanchez, “I’m doing everything I can. But until Thanatos gives you my job, I still make the decisions. Are you going to let me go help Dobe, or make me waste time bleeding you first?”

They locked eyes, and finally Sanchez moved aside, still growling.

Gunn walked right between them, still radiating alpha mojo, and headed back to the infirmary, trying not to show how fucking tired he was. Or how guilty he felt. Everyone needed more from him, and he had less and less to give them.

Hopefully Mikey had good news.

Chapter 16

Trying to shut out the hostility coming from Rex, Michelangela took several deep breaths to focus herself. Mind work wasn’t her specialty, and it had been a long time since she’d done any.

But she’d had good teachers—her uncle Tristan was the best in the business. Well, second-best. Her childhood friend Brock Reilly was the best.

Just like they’d taught her, she laid her hand on Dobe’s forehead and closed her eyes. She already had a tenuous connection with him—the connection of predator and prey.

Slowly, carefully, she built on that, transformed it. I’m here to help you. You’re among friends. You’re safe now. Tell us what you know.

She could feel his confusion, see the swirling, conflicting images in his mind.

Don’t talk, he was repeating to himself. Don’t give up the intel. Five times five is twenty-five. Five times six is thirty. This is a trick. Five times seven is thirty-five.

She could see his own vision of himself in his mind, sitting in a dimly lit cell, knees drawn up, back against the wall. Alone.

She said out loud, “Rex. Come over here and touch him. Talk to him. Tell him it’s okay. He’s home.”

“What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing?”

She sharpened her tone to one of command. “Do it again.”

She didn’t open her eyes, but she heard Rex sit down in the chair on the other side of the bed, and immediately felt his reassuring touch on Dobe’s mind.

Ever so delicately, she prized open a tiny crack in Dobe’s mental defenses. Just enough for Rex’s voice and touch to get through.

“Talk softly,” she said. “Tell him he’s home. Remind him about… good times.” Did these guys have good times? “Camaraderie. Whatever trust he has in you and the team, he has to feel it.”

She held the channel open, and Rex began to talk.

The mission in Mexico where they’d liberated a village from drug lords, and how drunk they’d gotten on mezcal afterwards.

Running a con during Fashion Week by pretending to be a gay couple with a clothing design business, to break up a human trafficking ring that preyed on aspiring models. It seemed there had been lots of scarves and guyliner involved in that one.

Christmases with Charlie Brown trees decorated with beer cans.

Bourbon and barbecues. Gunn was there, too.

As the memories of the bonds of trust and loyalty spread through Dobe, Michelangela found herself sinking into them too, like a warm bed on a cold night.