When she climbs out of the van, I pull her wrists behind her back and tape them together with the duct tape. "I'm sorry, doctor, but I can't have you shooting me or running off again."
She fights the bonds as I lead her up to the door.
"Wait here," I order, and precede her into the safe house. The simple mobile home is bare but for my equipment. I walk through the place, checking to be sure it's empty before inviting her in.
Paranoid, yes. Anyone with nightmares like mine would be.
"What is this place?" She glances around the empty rooms.
"Safe." She turns in a circle in the middle of the tiny living room.
"Here." I open a bottle of water and bring it to her lips.
She swallows and chokes, dribbling liquid down her chin.
I'm consumed by the desire to lick it off her, to suck that pouty lower lip into my mouth and taste her.
She pulls away from me, scowling, and turns her back.
I ignore my wolf's distress at offending her and check my burner phone. Several messages. Got to be all from Kylie. She's the only one good enough to track me.
"Stay away from the windows," I bark when Layne drifts that way. Which is stupid. My wolf senses would hear anyone's approach and everything is quiet. Still, I have this itchy need to protect her and the memory of that asshole holding a gun on her is all too fresh.
She glares at me and plops down on the hard sofa. I leave her to power up my computer and insert the data drive. Instantly, it starts downloading, making several copies saved to my private servers. I debate sending a copy to Kylie. She'd help sift through the data, but bringing her in means putting her and Jackson in danger. I can't risk that. Especially with Jaylin, their newborn pup. Or kitten. We won't know until puberty.
Although maybe the good doctor Zhao here has some way of deciphering shifter genes now.
My arm's going numb, and I rub it absently.
"I-I think you need to get to a hospital or something." She's staring at my back.
I crane my neck around and realize the back of my shirt is also soaked with blood.
Fuck. Two bullets.
With a grunt, I head to the bathroom, stripping off my shirt to examine the wounds in the mirror. One bullet lodged itself deep in my shoulder. The other seems to be embedded in my scapula. Neither are too serious-my shifter blood would typically work it out, but knowing Data-X, the bullets are silver or some shit cooked up in a lab to prevent my normal healing. Smyth's men are used to subduing shifters.
A whimper makes me turn. Layne stands in the bathroom door, looking stricken.
"I'm all right," I tell her, even though now that I'm aware of the bullets, the wounds sting. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing," she says with the same passion that she defended her research. "You've been shot. Twice. You need medical attention."
I almost laugh. "No hospitals, sweetheart."
She presses her lips together, and I recognize the look. Her stubbornness is about to rear its head.
"Med kit," I say before she can start to rant. I whirl her around and bust apart the duct tape with shifter force. "On the coffee table in the living room. Bring the duct tape, too."
"Why, so you can tie me up again?" she huffs, but she's bee-lined it for the living room.
"Technically, it's not tying," I call after her. Fates, am I flirting? I think this might be my lame-ass way of conversing with the lovely scientist.
I had no idea I had so little game. My sex life up to this point has consisted of hookups from Eclipse, the nightclub where I bartend. I don't have to win the girls over there, they have this natural enchantment with my position. Yeah, standing behind the bar and slinging drinks automatically makes me special. In the tiny microcosm of popular nightclubs, the guy who controls the liquor has the power. As much power as the guy who controls the door. The girls bat their eyes and show their cleavage and I fuck them up against a wall. Or back at their place. I don't spend the night. I don't call the next day. End of story.
I never contemplated a relationship because I know the cold, hard truth: I'm damaged. Un-mateable.
Most days I barely keep the darkness away. My upbringing, if you can even call it that, coupled with the multiple traumas of my post-puberty lab testing and moon madness make me emotionally distant at best. Fucknuts crazy at worst.
Layne returns holding the med kit and, unbelievably, the duct tape.
Obedient thing. Maybe she thought I needed it for something other than her wrists.
She rolls her eyes. "Tape me up, then. That doesn't sound as good. You know, I really don't think this med kit is going to cut-"
"I'm not going to a hospital. Smyth's men might be looking for me there. If they find us, they'll want to finish the job."
Her mouth snaps shut. The fear is back in her, but she flips open the med kit and snaps on a pair of gloves. "Let me."
"Are you a medical doctor?"
"No," she huffs. "But I was pre-med. And I can figure it out."
I study her face as she concentrates on cleaning the blood away from the wound in my shoulder. Frowning with focus, she's still lovely, her features stunning and dainty at the same time. Her porcelain skin is smooth and perfect, cheekbones high.
"I think there's a bullet in there." She grimaces.
"I know." I keep my voice normal as pain radiates up and down my arm.
"Sit down." She lifts her chin toward the toilet.
I shrug and plop down on the lid. When she angles her body to stand between my knees, I stifle a groan. Her breasts are mouth-height, begging to be nipped. Her scent fills my nostrils and my wolf scrambles to the surface.
Down, boy.