Page 22 of Preacher

Nothing.

That was the part that crawled up my spine. Not nothing as in empty. Nothing as in scrubbed. Whoever else had been out here had pulled back fast and clean, and the breeze was already starting to pull what was left of their scent west, toward the road.

A vehicle door slammed somewhere out past the property line. An engine turned over. Tires on gravel, then on asphalt, and then the sound was fading. The entire pack turned their heads, coming to the same conclusion as I had. Whoever the second man had been, he was gone.

I dropped my muzzle back to Moe’s face, breath fogging across his cheek, and watched him try very hard not to move.

“Want me to drag him in, Prez?” Drift asked.

I stepped off Moe’s chest, my wolf reluctant to give up the kill. Crowbar already had the man’s wrists wrenched behind his back, zip tie biting into the skin. Drift hauled him to his feet by the collar, and Moe’s good leg gave halfway up. He hung there, half off the ground, head lolling, and I could smell the fear coming off him.

My wolf turned toward the house.

The trees thinned. Through the gaps I could see the back deck, the string lights still burning above the empty chairs, the fire pit untended, Drift’s last log smoking unattended. The steel shutters were down over every window on the rear of the building, dark slabs where panes of glass had been ten minutes ago.

Trent was inside the fortress.

I picked up the pace into a lope then a run. Behind me I could hear Crowbar barking something at Moe, the sound of a body hitting the ground when a leg refused to cooperate, the scrape of being dragged.

I broke the tree line and didn’t slow down.

Riot was at the back door, shotgun ready, the heavy steel reinforced door braced open with his shoulder. He saw me coming and stepped aside, let me clear the threshold at a run.

The shutters had turned the common room into a bunker. Low light. Pool table cleared. My pack entered then had every visible exit covered, not a stitch of clothes on their bodies. And in the center of it, sitting on the leather couch, with my leather draped over his shoulders, was Trent.

He was holding the jacket closed at his throat with both hands, eyes huge.

Looking directly at me.

At my wolf.

For one suspended second the room held its breath as my wolf, traitorous bastard, padded forward two more steps before my brain caught up with my paws.

Trent’s jaw dropped.

“That—” His voice came out cracked. “That is a really, really big dog!”

Riot, behind me, made a sound like he was choking on his own tongue.

Right there in the middle of the common room, I lowered my body, trying to make myself smaller so Trent wouldn’t freak out. Pain shot through me, my ribs, my shoulder. Still, I didn’t move, because keeping Trent calm was my only priority right now, even if I knew that was a pipe dream.

Chapter Seven

Trent

“Why is the dog bleeding, and why is everyone naked?” Too many thoughts were ping-ponging around in my head. What kind of biker club was this? Had I been somehow indoctrinated into some freaky brotherhood? If this was their idea of protection, I was tapping out. Nope. Not happening. My brain would explode if I had to watch over a dozen swinging freely around me.

And where in the hell was Preacher? The prick could’ve warned me he was part of a nudist biker club.

“Get dressed,” Crowbar said as he stepped through the door. Some of the naked men filed passed me. I covered my eyes with both hands, praying I’d fallen into a food coma and this was just some carb-fueled fever dream.

“Tell me I’m still unconscious.” I peeked through my fingers, making sure all the swinging dongs were gone, then lowered my hands.

The dog was still there, staring right at me.

“You’re still unconscious,” Crowbar said, setting his weapons aside. “Now do you want the truth, or should I leave you clinging to the lie?”

“That was supposed to be the truth!” I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the animal. My brain was trying to tell me something, but the pieces wouldn’t snap into place.